Chapter 10 #2
Lady Moreland sniffed. “Peace is well and good. Solitude, less so. You look pale, Beatrice.”
“I’m fine,” Beatrice said quickly, though warmth crept up her neck.
Cecily leaned in, wrapping an arm around her.
Beatrice’s throat tightened. “I’ve missed you,” she murmured against her shoulder.
Cecily smelled faintly of wind and rosewater. Of home.
She held her tighter. “And I you,” she said softly. “Though I can see you’ve done quite well without me. Not a single disastrous gown in sight. You could do better with that severe bun, though.”
That made Beatrice laugh. A shaky, surprised laugh that felt dangerously close to tears. She pulled back just enough to look at her sister. “You are utterly exasperating.”
“And yet, somehow, you still love me,” Cecily replied with mock solemnity, brushing a stray curl from Beatrice’s cheek.
“It feels like it,” Beatrice quipped. To her own surprise, her voice caught. She reached for her sister’s hands, squeezing them hard. “I’ve missed you.”
Cecily’s smile softened. “You wrote as though you’d been talking mostly to the walls.”
“I was not exaggerating,” Beatrice said, half laughing.
“Then it’s a good thing I’ve come armed,” Cecily replied. “I couldn’t arrive empty-handed, not when there’s a baby to spoil and a duchess in danger of turning into furniture.”
“Cecily,” Lady Moreland chided, though amusement laced her voice.
“Both,” Cecily admitted as she set the basket on the nearest chair with glee. “I bring gifts—for the child, of course. And perhaps one for the Duchess, if she behaves.”
Lady Moreland smiled faintly, unbuttoning her gloves. “If she behaves? My dear, I should think she’s earned a little leniency. Marriage can make saints of us all—or drive us to collect silver rattles.”
Cecily grinned. “Then we’re both safe, Mama.”
She began taking toys out of the basket like a magician pulling tricks. She pulled out a wooden horse that appeared far too delicate for play, followed by a stuffed lamb with a lopsided bow.
“And look, a silver rattle shaped like a duck! Isn’t it dreadful? I couldn’t resist.”
Beatrice bit back a smile. “She’s hardly old enough to tell one end of a rattle from the other. I doubt she knows what any of those are for.”
“Then she’ll grow into her treasures,” Cecily said cheerfully, handing the duck to Mrs. Hart, who accepted it with polite confusion and passed it to the maids.
“Mama…” Beatrice turned to her mother. “This is Mrs. Hart. She oversees the household.”
Lady Moreland nodded in acknowledgement, a trace of amusement in her eyes. “I’m very pleased to meet you. You keep a lovely nursery, Mrs. Hart.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Mrs. Hart replied, bobbing a deep curtsey. “Her Grace has made it easy to keep things in order.”
“That sounds dangerously diplomatic,” Cecily snorted.
Beatrice shot her a look that carried both affection and warning. “I see nothing has improved your manners.”
“You’d be disappointed if it had.” Cecily grinned and linked her arm with Beatrice’s. “You look well. A touch tired, perhaps. But then duchessing must be exhausting work.”
Beatrice smiled faintly. “That’s generous of you. It took me some time to adjust.”
“Mama said as much,” Cecily revealed. “She worried you’d buried yourself in duties and forgot how to breathe. And possibly how to eat.”
Beatrice huffed. “I’m perfectly capable of breathing… and eating, thank you very much. Though it seems everyone’s determined to remind me how.”
Cecily tilted her head, studying her. “You’ve grown rather serious. It’s not unflattering, but I don’t know that I like it.”
“Seriousness happens when one has a houseful of people asking questions before breakfast.”
“Ah, so that’s what power feels like.” Cecily smiled. “I think I prefer my freedom to sleep till noon.”
Before Beatrice could answer, Cecily’s attention had already shifted to the cradle.
“Oh, look at her,” she whispered, moving closer. “She’s grown since I last saw her.”
“You saw her when she was less than a week old,” Beatrice reminded her.
“Exactly! She’s practically a lady now.”
The baby gurgled in response, waving a small fist.
Cecily gasped as though it were a declaration. “She remembers me!”
“I doubt that.”
“Don’t be contrary. Babies are good judges of character.” Cecily bent low, her voice softening. “Isn’t that right, darling?”
“She remembers your noise, more likely,” Beatrice muttered.
“Noise builds character.”
“Some would call it a nuisance.”
Cecily gave her a side-long look. “And some would call it exactly what this house needs.”
The baby cooed, as if in agreement, and Mrs. Hart’s eyebrows rose approvingly.
Lady Moreland smiled faintly, watching them. “You’ve not named her yet, have you?”
Beatrice hesitated. “No.”
Cecily blinked. “Truly? You haven’t even discussed it?”
“There hasn’t been an opportunity,” Beatrice replied, though she wasn’t sure that was true.
Cecily’s eyes softened. “You’ll have to, Bea. A baby should be called something other than ‘the child.’”
“I’m aware.”
“Well,” Cecily said brightly, unwilling to linger in sentiment, “then I will help. She needs a name while she waits for yours and His Grace’s approval.”
Beatrice sighed. “Oh dear. Go on, then.”
Cecily leaned in, hands clasped behind her back, as she inspected the baby with the gravity of a general surveying his troops.
“Well…” Cecily brushed a fingertip over the infant’s soft cheek. “She might suit something gentle. Clara, perhaps.”
After a while, she changed her mind and made a face. “She is not a Clara.”
“No?” Beatrice pursed her lips in thought. “Emma?”
Cecily’s eyebrows rose. “Absolutely not. Far too sensible.”
Beatrice hid a smile. “What about Anne? Short, sweet—”
“Bea,” Cecily interrupted, squinting at the baby, “look at her.”
Beatrice did. The little girl’s brow was furrowed, her mouth set in a determined little pout, as if she were evaluating the world—and finding it lacking.
“She has an opinion already,” Cecily declared. “That rules out anything delicate.”
Beatrice laughed softly. “Very well, wise one. What does she look like?”
Cecily studied the baby’s face, which had taken on an expression of serious concentration. “She looks like a Pip,” she declared.
“A what?”
“A Pip. That’s the sound she makes, that little squeak. Listen.”
As if on cue, the baby made a small, high noise that landed somewhere between a sigh and a hiccup.
Beatrice blinked, then laughed despite herself. “You’re joking.”
“I’m inspired,” Cecily countered. “And you must admit, it suits her. Tell me, Mrs. Hart, doesn’t she look like a Pip to you?”
Mrs. Hart’s eyes warmed. “Pip, is it? Could be worse, Lady Cecily. I’ve heard babies named after seasons.”
“Then Pip it is,” Cecily said proudly, pressing a kiss to the baby’s brow. “Until His Grace objects, of course.”
Beatrice rolled her eyes, unable to hide her smile. “He won’t.”
Lady Moreland regarded her daughters fondly. “Well, if you must fill the house with nonsense, at least it’s charming nonsense.”
Cecily looked up, triumphant. “You see, Mama approves.”
“She said charming, not sensible,” Beatrice pointed out.
“Same thing,” Cecily said breezily, tucking an errant curl behind her ear. “Only better.”
She bent over the cradle, murmuring nonsense in that soft, coaxing tone only she could manage.
Mrs. Hart turned to Beatrice. “Do you need anything else, Your Grace?”
Beatrice shook her head. “No, thank you, Mrs. Hart. That will be all.”
Mrs. Hart curtsied and left with the maids in tow, the door closing behind them with a muted click.