Chapter 14
Beatrice had spent most of the morning in a comfortable rhythm with the servants, far more soothing than lingering in the drawing room, waiting to be entertained. Margaret and Sebastian were visiting, and she couldn’t contain her excitement.
A maid straightened from placing a fresh jug of water on the washstand and dipped into a curtsey. “Will this room suit, Your Grace?”
Beatrice glanced around once more. “Margaret will claim that it suits perfectly, and Sebastian will insist that he’s freezing to death within the hour.”
The maid’s lips twitched. “Shall I add another scuttle of coal, then?”
“Yes, please do,” Beatrice answered, amused. “It will save us the performance later.”
The maid hurried out, and Beatrice moved to the window, testing the latch to ensure no draft slipped through. Satisfied, she turned to the small writing desk in the corner. Margaret always wrote letters before breakfast, insisting that it helped clear her mind.
“She’ll ask why I put her in the blue chamber instead of the green one, and I shall say it’s because the blue one gets better light, and she’ll accuse me of fussing,” Beatrice murmured under her breath, a soft laugh escaping her. “And she’ll be right.”
She stepped back, surveying the room one last time, a small but warm anticipation tightening pleasantly beneath her ribs.
Very soon, this room would not feel so quiet.
From there, Beatrice visited the small adjoining nursery, making sure the cradles were in order and the linens were warm. The fire had been coaxed into a steady glow, and the room smelled faintly of lavender and clean linen.
Margaret’s son would arrive the following day with his nurse. The timing had been arranged with careful precision, as Margaret traveled more easily without him and slept better the night before visiting someone else’s house.
Beatrice brushed her fingertips along the edge of the cradle, smiling to herself as she remembered Margaret’s last letter.
I adore my son beyond reason, Margaret had written in a hand blotched in three separate places, but if I must endure another journey with him shrieking at the injustice of daylight, Sebastian will find me delivered to your doorstep in a trunk.
Beatrice huffed a soft laugh at the memory, murmuring aloud to the empty room, “Noon, then. And hopefully no trunks.”
She smoothed the small quilt one last time, imagining Margaret’s wry expression when she inspected the nursery.
She’ll say it’s lovely, and then immediately tell me everything she intends to rearrange.
It was a strangely comforting expectation.
By late morning, she was back in the morning room, sunlight spread like a polite visitor across the carpet.
Mrs. Hart had left her a stack of neat notes, each one detailing tasks already completed.
Beatrice reviewed them with her usual care, though her mind drifted toward Margaret more than once.
It had been too long since she had seen her cousin.
“Your Grace?”
One of the maids approached with a small porcelain vase in hand, the stems inside still wrapped in damp cloth.
“These for the blue chamber, Your Grace?”
Beatrice leaned forward, inspecting the arrangement. “The white roses won’t do; their scent is too strong for Margaret. Use the pale lavender ones instead. The quieter fragrance suits her.”
“Yes, Your Grace. I’ll see to it,” the maid said, bobbing a curtsey and hurrying off to replace them.
Beatrice allowed herself a small smile. Margaret always teased her for noticing details no one else cared about, but those were the very details that made a house comfortable, rather than merely presentable.
It was still a small wonder how easily they stood together now. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when Beatrice had kept Margaret at arm’s length, convinced her cousin carried misfortune with her like a trailing ribbon simply because trouble always found her, never the other way around.
But Margaret had dismantled that foolish belief with quiet persistence and kindness until Beatrice could no longer imagine a version of her life where Margaret was not firmly, affectionately tangled in it.
She was just turning back to Mrs. Hart’s notes when the faint, unmistakable groan of carriage wheels drifted through the open window. The sound threaded through the room like a drawn breath.
Beatrice stilled.
That would be them. Earlier than scheduled. Of course, they were. Sebastian prided himself on punctuality and best expressions for absolutely everything except his own wedding, which he had attended with an expression better suited to a man facing a duel. Margaret loved retelling that story.
Before Beatrice could fully process the familiar mix of anticipation and warmth rising in her chest, a second maid appeared in the doorway. “Your Grace, the Ravenscourts’ carriage has just passed the southern fountain. They’ll be at the steps shortly.”
A bright smile broke across Beatrice’s face without her permission; it was almost girlish.
“Already?” She shook her head with a quiet laugh. “Very well. Please have the footmen assemble in the hall. And tell Cook that the luncheon may be served earlier than usual. The Duke and Duchess will expect something substantial after such a long journey.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The maid bobbed another quick curtsey and disappeared down the corridor at a near run.
Beatrice smoothed her cuffs—an old habit she had never quite broken—before making her way out of the room.
There was no reason to rush, and yet she found herself walking a little faster than usual, intent on greeting them before anyone else could.
It would be really good to see Margaret again.
“Let them know I’ll receive them in the entrance hall,” she instructed the footman.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, the front doors were already opening wide. Footmen hurried into place. The coachman hopped down, calling instructions. The faintest chill drifted in the air.
The butler stepped forward with practiced dignity. Beside him, Edward had already taken his place. She hadn’t heard him approach, but there he stood, composed as ever, hands clasped behind his back.
He looked over as she descended. Their eyes met, just for a moment, before the carriage door opened.
Sebastian stepped down first, tall and at ease. “Wrexford,” he called, spotting Edward immediately. “I trust your house hasn’t collapsed in our absence?”
Edward’s mouth twitched. “Regrettably, no.”
Sebastian grinned as he offered his hand to his wife with a fondness that looked new and natural, even after a year of marriage.
Margaret appeared next, taking her husband’s hand as she descended. She braced her weight on the step gently. Beatrice noted the subtle carefulness, the lingering habit of a mother with a young child at home.
The moment Margaret spotted her across the hall, that carefulness vanished, replaced by a bright, unguarded joy, her whole face lighting up.
“Beatrice,” she breathed, her voice warming in a way that made Beatrice’s heart swell.
Beatrice didn’t bother with propriety. She hurried across the hall, and Margaret met her halfway. Their hands found each other first, before Margaret pulled her into a warm, long embrace that Beatrice returned without hesitation.
“You have no idea how good it is to see you again,” Margaret murmured as they broke apart.
Beatrice laughed under her breath, an unexpected rush of emotion tightening her throat. “I think I do. I’ve missed you.”
Margaret’s eyes softened, searching her face. “Then we came at the right time.”
Edward stepped forward, extending a hand toward his friend. His tone softened in a way most people never heard. “Welcome, Ravenscourt.”
Sebastian clasped his hand with a familiar grin. “It’s good to be here. I trust you’ve kept yourself properly occupied without me.”
“Blissfully so,” Edward replied with a big yawn. “Peaceful. Quiet.”
Sebastian snorted. “That ends now.”
Margaret hid a smile. Beatrice didn’t. The easy affection between the men warmed the air almost as much as the fire crackling behind them.
Sebastian turned to Beatrice and sketched a perfect bow. “Duchess, you are a sight of salvation. We’ve been in your house twenty seconds, and already Margaret looks revived.”
Beatrice arched an eyebrow. “Are we to measure your wife’s comfort in seconds?”
“Only when I wish to sound impressive,” he replied.
Beatrice snorted. “And you are impossible to please. So I shall take that as the highest praise, Duke.”
Margaret elbowed him lightly. “Do stop.” She turned to Beatrice with a grin. “I doubt he means it. He’s just constitutionally incapable of sounding sincere.”
“Lies,” Sebastian said smoothly. “I sound sincere at least twice a year.”
“Usually by accident,” Margaret murmured.
Their teasing was soft, so natural that even the servants struggled to hide their smiles.
Beatrice felt herself smiling, too. She watched Sebastian brush a curl from Margaret’s temple and Margaret’s brief touch at his wrist. The way Margaret leaned into him without thinking, the way his eyes softened whenever she laughed, stirred a desire within her.
But she pushed it down, widening her smile.
She turned to Margaret and gestured toward the hallway. “Your rooms are ready. “You must be chilled from the journey. And the adjoining nursery is ready for tomorrow, when Oliver arrives with his nurse.”
Margaret’s face softened. “You thought of everything.”
Edward glanced at Beatrice, almost imperceptibly, but she felt it nonetheless, heat prickling her face.
Sebastian looped his arm through his wife’s, but not before brushing a loose curl back lightly with gloved hand in a gesture so instinctive it made Beatrice’s throat thicken.
Their happiness was a comfort, but it only made her aware of the space inside herself where something softer might have lived if her own marriage had been born of affection instead of necessity.
They began walking, the heels of her slippers clicking softly on the polished floor. Edward fell a half-step behind her, as though allowing her to lead but remaining close enough to signify they were hosting together.
Sebastian looked around the hall appreciatively. “You run a fine house, Wrexford.”
“I do very little,” Edward replied. “My wife runs it. I merely inhabit it.”
Beatrice felt heat rise in her cheeks before she could stop it. “He exaggerates.”
“No,” Margaret said lightly, her eyes warm. “He doesn’t.”
They reached the entrance of the east wing, the firelight spilling golden across the floor.
Beatrice opened the door to the blue guest chamber, warmth rushing out to greet them. Margaret stepped inside first, smiling at the tidy hearth, the folded blankets, and the soft lavender flowers she preferred.
“Oh, Bea,” she breathed. “It’s perfect.”
Beatrice felt something inside her settle. “Good.”
Sebastian surveyed the room with theatrical satisfaction. “We will be horribly spoiled, wife.”
“You always are,” Margaret murmured, and he grinned.
Beatrice watched Edward watch them quietly, a faint softness threading through the sternness of his posture.
She stepped back into the corridor, offering them each a gentle nod. “Rest. We’ll see you both at luncheon.”
Margaret caught her hand one last time, squeezing with familiar affection. “And then we have a great deal to catch up on. Properly, this time.”
Beatrice smiled. “Of course.”
As the door closed behind the Ravenscourts, she exhaled slowly, feeling the house—her house—shift in a subtle, welcome way.
Edward gave her a sidelong look. “They’re good for you,” he said simply.
She didn’t look at him, but she let the truth of it warm her all the way through.