Chapter 16
Beatrice spent part of the morning in the small nursery adjoining the guest chamber, watching Margaret’s little boy sleep after the journey.
Oliver was a cheerful child, rosy-cheeked and endlessly curious, and he had wrapped his tiny fingers around hers with such unquestioning trust that her breath had caught in her throat.
Margaret had laughed softly from the doorway. “He does that to everyone. He’s a terrible flirt.”
The moment had stayed with Beatrice long after she had left the nursery.
Now, she and Margaret retreated to the small sitting room beside the guest chambers, a cozy space Beatrice had always preferred to the grander drawing rooms.
A tea tray rested on the low table between them, though neither had grabbed a cup.
“We’ve only been here a day,” Margaret said lightly, raising her eyebrows, “but it already feels like a visit worth extending. If I had known, I would have dragged Sebastian and myself here a week earlier.”
Beatrice smiled, soft and sincere. “I’m glad you came.”
Margaret leaned forward slightly, her voice softening. “Tell me how you are doing.”
Beatrice hesitated only a moment before the truth pressed through. “It’s the baby.”
“I assumed as much. When I saw how your face twisted each time her name was mentioned, I knew something weighed on you. No one abandons an infant without reason.”
“It just hurts me that she delivered in such an ordinary manner… ,” Beatrice said. “At the front of the house. In the cold. There was nothing with her, not even a note. Only the blanket she was wrapped in.”
Margaret’s lips pressed together. “How awful, for her mother to feel she had no safe place left.”
“That’s what I keep thinking.” Beatrice looked down at her hands.
“Someone must have been frightened. Or desperate. Or both.” She swallowed.
“Whoever the father is… I cannot make sense of any of it. And Edward—” She hesitated, the words knotting in her throat.
“I keep wondering whether he’s simply shielding someone, or if there is more he isn’t telling me. ”
Margaret’s expression softened. “Edward may be many things—infuriating, proud, and impossibly stubborn—but he is not a liar.”
Beatrice looked up, startled by the conviction in her cousin’s voice.
“And he is certainly not irresponsible,” Margaret continued. “If he says the matter is his to handle, then he believes it. He would never abandon a truth or a duty, no matter how difficult.”
A breath escaped Beatrice—half relief, half lingering doubt. “I want to trust that.”
“I know,” Margaret soothed. “And you can.” After a brief pause, she tilted her head. “Do you resent having the child here?”
“No,” Beatrice said at once. “No, I… I find I want to know that she’s safe. That she’s warm.”
Margaret reached across the table and patted her hand. “It is not frightening, Bea. It’s human.”
Beatrice swallowed.
Margaret squeezed her fingers gently. “May I carry her now? If she isn’t sleeping.”
“She woke up a little while ago.” Beatrice rose at once, relieved for having something to do. “I’ll fetch her.”
She returned moments later with the baby nestled against her shoulder, her small face warm and drowsy from sleep.
Margaret let out a breath, rising halfway from her seat before settling back down, her hands clasped. Beatrice transferred the baby into her cousin’s waiting arms.
Margaret’s expression softened. “Oh, she is a darling.” A faint smile touched her lips. “She gets lovelier with each hour. Sebastian tried to pretend he wasn’t charmed, but I saw his face when he held her. He melted like butter on a warm plate.”
Beatrice snorted softly. “I’ll treasure that image forever.”
Margaret glanced up. “She’s well cared for. I can see that already. You’ve done wonderfully.”
“Mrs. Hart deserves the credit,” Beatrice said. “I simply… check on her. Constantly.”
“As you should,” Margaret agreed warmly.
She held the baby with the unthinking ease of someone who had done so many times before. A gentle sway, a light pat on the back, the faintest hum.
“You make it look effortless,” Beatrice noted.
Margaret smiled down at Pip. “I assure you, it is mostly practice and a very patient nurse. Heaven knows I stumbled through my son’s first months like a blindfolded fool. Though there are a few things that help.”
She glanced up. “Warm, quiet rooms. Short walks in the morning when the weather allows.” She stroked Pip’s cheek. “And if exhaustion ever wins, a wet nurse is a perfectly acceptable solution. I fought the idea once, and Sebastian nearly had to drag me to common sense.”
Beatrice smiled faintly. “I’ll remember it.”
“Fresh linens and a steady routine. And an early christening—preferably before people start giving unsolicited opinions.”
Beatrice let out a soft breath of amusement. “They’ve already started.”
“Of course they have. The ton is always eager to fill the silence.” Margaret shifted Pip expertly. “Are you managing?”
Beatrice stared at her hands. “I… don’t know. Some days I feel capable, steady. Other days, I have no idea how any of this is supposed to work.” Her voice thinned. “She’s not mine, Margaret. And yet—”
Margaret reached over and put her hand over Beatrice’s, warm and steady. “Love doesn’t need blood.” She paused. “You of all people should know that.”
Beatrice swallowed, her throat tight.
Margaret studied her a moment longer. “Beatrice… may I ask about your marriage?”
Beatrice’s breath caught. “There isn’t much to tell.”
For a moment, they sat in the quiet room, the only sound the patter of the rain and the crackle of the fire. Then Margaret asked, “What of Edward?”
Beatrice stiffened. “What of him?”
Margaret’s lips curved. “If you were anyone else, I would assume you didn’t notice the way he looks at you. During dinner—”
Beatrice flushed. “Margaret—”
“I’m not teasing you,” Margaret assured her, struggling not to laugh. “Not entirely. I simply know affection when I see it. I married a man who tried to pretend for months that he didn’t care for me at all, remember? Well, it went both ways.”
Beatrice let out a slow breath. “I remember you coming home,” she said gently. “And how miserable you were. And how miserable he was, though he pretended otherwise.”
Margaret gave a small, rueful laugh. “Oh, he was unbearable. He believed he was being sensible—convincing himself that affection complicated things, that I would be safer at a distance. As though safety has anything to do with happiness.”
Beatrice’s mouth twitched. “That sounds like Sebastian.”
“It was.” Margaret nodded. “And he kept at it until he realized he might lose me entirely. Only then did all that ridiculous restraint collapse in on him.”
Beatrice leaned back, letting the words sink in. “And then?”
Margaret’s smile warmed. “Then he admitted he was a fool. And I—well, I forgave him before he finished the sentence.”
Silence settled between them again, comfortable this time.
Beatrice looked toward Pip. “My marriage is nothing like yours.”
“No marriages are alike,” Margaret pointed out. “Not even the happy ones.”
Beatrice stilled. She hated the way her heart sank.
“There isn’t… a life between us,” she said carefully. “Nothing that would resemble a marriage.”
Margaret didn’t respond.
“We’ll raise Pip until… until her mother is found. Or until we know she’s safe.” Beatrice swallowed. “And then we’ll go our separate ways. That was the agreement.”
Margaret studied her face with an unsettling tenderness. “And you’re content with it?”
Beatrice looked toward the cradle, then toward the hall, where Edward had walked earlier, his footsteps firm and steady. Her voice came quieter. “It’s what makes sense.”
“But that’s not what I asked,” Margaret said.
Beatrice didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Margaret reached over and laid her free hand atop Beatrice’s. “You’re allowed to want more than sense, you know.”
The fire crackled. Pip sighed in Margaret’s arms, her tiny body settling into perfect trust.
Beatrice wished she felt as certain.
As the last course was cleared, the soft clatter of servants cleaning the table gentled the end of the meal. Silver dishes were lifted away, leaving behind only the smaller dessert plates, a crystal compote of sugared apricots, and the decanters of port and ratafia.
Beatrice folded her napkin neatly and rested her hands atop it, watching the last of the servants bow and withdraw.
The main dining room always felt cavernous during formal dinners, but once the doors closed and only the four of them remained, the space seemed to fold in around them, becoming almost intimate.
Margaret leaned back in her chair with a pleased sigh. “I believe I will never eat again.”
Sebastian reached for the port. “You say that at every dinner, but you end up eating only a little.”
“And I always mean it. I say that so I have renewed appetite,” Margaret replied, plucking a sugared apricot.
Beatrice smiled. She felt Edward’s gaze from the opposite end of the table. It was unreadable, except for the faint tension in his jaw. He reached out to pour the port, his sleeve brushing the candlelight.
Oliver and Pip had long been fed and settled, both asleep in the nursery under the watch of Oliver’s nurse. It left the adults unusually free.
Margaret toyed with her napkin, smiling. “I shall be perfectly spoiled after this visit. London dinners are never this quiet or this comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” Sebastian huffed, leaning back in his chair. “I have been attacked at least twice by your cook’s insistence on offering me a fourth helping.”
“She only asked whether you wanted more,” Beatrice pointed out, amused.
“Precisely,” Sebastian insisted. “It’s a trap. If I agree, Margaret will say I’m greedy. If I refuse, Cook will think her food is lacking. And Edward”—he gestured across the table with his fork—“will smirk at me.”
Edward did not look up from his cup, but Beatrice saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Smirking is not a crime,” he said mildly.