Chapter 22
Four days into their stay in London, the rain had only just stopped, leaving the townhouse wrapped in a soft gray stillness. It was almost dinner time when a maid appeared in the doorway, her hands folded neatly.
“Your Grace, there is a visitor for you.”
Beatrice looked up from the letters she had been sorting. “A visitor?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Lady Amelia Kensley. She… insisted she must see you.”
Beatrice’s eyebrows rose. “Lady… Amelia Kensley,” she repeated softly, more to herself than to the maid. “Did she say what the matter was?”
“No, Your Grace.” The maid inclined her head. “Merely that it was urgent.”
Beatrice’s brow furrowed with mild confusion. “Very well,” she said, smoothing her skirt as she rose. “Show her into the blue drawing room. I’ll come at once.”
The maid curtsied and withdrew.
Beatrice followed, her curiosity sharpening with each step. She pushed open the drawing room door and stopped.
Lady Amelia stood by the window, her cloak damp at the hem, her bonnet askew, her fingers clenched around the sill. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in days.
Beatrice’s first thought was that the girl might faint. Her second hit harder.
Why is she here?
Sharp fear shot through her, but she pushed it down.
“Lady Amelia,” she greeted warmly. “Please, sit. You look unwell.”
Lady Amelia turned. Her face was pale—not delicately pale, but drained, as if the color had been pulled from her very bones. She curtsied, the movement stiff.
“Your Grace. Forgive me, I did not know where else to turn.” Her voice shook.
“Then you were right to come,” Beatrice murmured, gesturing to the sofa. “Sit. Let me ring for tea.”
She crossed to the bellpull and tugged it. Moments later, another maid appeared.
“Please bring tea,” Beatrice instructed. “Something warm. And quickly.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The maid cast a concerned glance at Lady Amelia before leaving.
Beatrice gestured to the sofa, and Lady Amelia sank onto it with the tremulous grace of a woman who had been holding herself upright for too long.
When the tea tray arrived, steaming, the maid set it down on the low table. But instead of retreating immediately, she lingered, her eyes flicking between the two women, sensing something amiss.
Lady Amelia stiffened. “Your Grace, I must speak to you alone.”
Beatrice gave the smallest nod. “Thank you,” she told the maid gently. “Leave us now.”
After a quick curtsey, the maid withdrew, closing the door softly behind her.
Silence settled, thick and charged.
Beatrice poured the tea with steady hands, though her heart thudded hard against her ribs. She offered Lady Amelia a cup, which the woman accepted with both hands as though it could anchor her.
“We are alone,” Beatrice said softly. “You may speak freely.” Her voice remained calm, though dread flickered at the edges of her thoughts. “What troubles you?”
Lady Amelia stared into her cup as though the steam weakened her courage. A long beat of silence passed, taut as a thread, then her lips parted.
“It concerns… a child,” she whispered.
Beatrice’s heart lurched so sharply she nearly gasped.
Her fingers curled into her skirt. “Go on,” she managed.
Lady Amelia swallowed, her eyes shining. “Months ago, I… I was involved with Lord Simon Pembroke.”
The world seemed to slow for a moment.
Beatrice forced herself to remain still, her breathing even. “I see,” she murmured.
Lady Amelia’s composure cracked, just a little. “It was foolish. Entirely my fault. I don’t pretend otherwise. I fell in love too quickly. I was lonely, and he was… oh so kind, and I thought…” Her voice quavered.
“I sent several letters to Simon, but they all came back unopened. After his silence, I realized I was with child—” She stopped, covering her mouth as if steadying herself. “Everything collapsed. I was beside myself. I—” Tears welled up in her eyes.
Beatrice leaned in slightly. “Please, take your time.”
Lady Amelia nodded, breathing shallowly. “My parents sent me away to a small property in Surrey. No servants except the housekeeper. No visitors. No letters. They said that I had ruined myself and that everything must be handled quietly.”
She pressed her sleeve to her eyes. “That there was no future for me unless I agreed to… to marry a man they had chosen. I was to marry an older gentleman—a widower—the moment I returned.”
“And the child?” Beatrice prompted, though she already knew the answer.
“They intended to give her away the moment she was born,” Lady Amelia said, her tears spilling over.
“Not to family, not to anyone who would know her name, but through some charitable intermediary in London—an orphanage they donate to.” She swallowed thickly.
“They wanted no trace. No questions. No family. No name. Nothing.”
Beatrice felt a sharp, protective ache bloom in her chest.
Lady Amelia was fidgeting now. “I could not bear it. I begged them to let me keep her. They refused. I tried to run. They found me. I tried to write to Simon, but every letter was intercepted. The ones that made it to him were also sent back.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “When she was born, I had to send her away before I could even hold her properly.”
For a moment, she could not speak at all.
Beatrice exhaled slowly through her nose and reached for Lady Amelia’s hand. “Lady Amelia… I’m so sorry.”
Lady Amelia let out a small, broken sound. “I thought my heart would stop. Truly. The only thing keeping me from losing my mind entirely was knowing that I must find a way to reach someone who could help her. There was one hope. One.” She lifted her gaze. “Miss Verity.”
Beatrice’s breath caught.
Lady Amelia didn’t notice. She was speaking too fast, too desperate. “I had read her essays about women with no protectors. About the cruelty of society when mistakes are made by women and forgiven in men. Miss Verity’s words were the only kindness I had left.”
She trembled. “So when I could not find Simon, I found the printing house. I left my daughter with a note for Miss Verity, and…” She reached into her reticule with shaking fingers and drew out a folded handkerchief.
Embroidered on the corner was the Wrexford crest, similar to the one on the blanket Pip came with.
“And this crest, so Miss Verity would know that the child was not fatherless.”
Beatrice’s heart hammered.
Miss Verity. The printing house. The crest. Everything was converging all at once.
If Lady Amelia looked at her too closely, if her suspicion sharpened one inch…
But she continued, oblivious.
“I hoped Miss Verity might find Simon,” she whispered. “Or someone who could help. But later, I heard rumors. That the baby… ended up here, with you.”
Beatrice’s heart clenched painfully. “Yes,” she said softly. “She is here.”
Lady Amelia closed her eyes, and a sob tore from her throat. Relief so sharp it nearly toppled her.
“She is?” she choked out. “Truly? I have thought of nothing else—every hour, every moment. I have barely slept. I feared she would be placed in some cold attic or—”
“No,” Beatrice said firmly. “She is warm and loved and cared for.”
Lady Amelia pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. “Thank God. Oh… thank God.”
Beatrice hesitated. Would Lady Amelia ask how the baby reached her? Why she was caring for an abandoned child?
But Lady Amelia only said, her voice trembling, “I don’t understand how she came to you, but I’m grateful. Deeply grateful.”
Beatrice’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “She is safe, Lady Amelia,” she assured her. “Truly.”
Lady Amelia nodded, tears streaming down her face. Beatrice waited, letting her breathe, letting her pour out her sorrow. When Lady Amelia finally looked up again, her expression held a new kind of desperation.
“I must marry within the week,” she whispered. “My parents insist.”
Her voice broke. “But I cannot—cannot—enter that marriage without knowing my daughter is safe. Without knowing that someone kind will raise her.”
Beatrice reached out and took her cold hand. “She is warm. She is cherished. She is healthy,” she said gently. “I have been caring for her myself. You need not fear for her.”
Lady Amelia shuddered with relief. “May I…” she whispered, choking on the words. “May I see her?”
Beatrice nodded and rose to her feet. “Of course.”
She led Lady Amelia up the stairs, her hand steady on the banister, though her heart felt strangely full and tight all at once.
She had known this moment would come. She had known it from the second she first saw Pip’s tiny face, red and furious in her basket at her front door. Known it every time she woke up in the dark to soothe her, every time the baby’s small fingers curled around her own.
But knowing did not soften the ache.
She had expected Lady Amelia’s arrival to unsettle her. Of course, it would. But she hadn’t anticipated the ache beneath it. A strange, protective ache she had never felt before Pip.
They reached the nursery, and Beatrice pushed the door open gently. The air was warm with the faint scent of oils and milk. Morning light filtered through the lace curtains, casting a pale glow over the small room.
Lady Amelia hesitated on the threshold, her hands trembling in the folds of her dress.
“She’s just waking up from her nap; she had a very busy day,” Beatrice whispered.
They stepped inside.
The cradle stood near the hearth, a simple wool blanket tucked neatly around the sleeping infant. Lady Amelia drew closer, one slow step at a time, as if afraid the floor might give way beneath her.
Beatrice stepped toward the cradle and leaned over with instinctive ease, brushing a thumb across the corner of the blanket. She looked down at the baby’s soft curls, her tiny fist, the lashes on her chubby cheeks, and gently smoothed the baby’s hair.
“She’s grown so quickly,” she murmured. “Even if it had been just a few weeks.”
Lady Amelia’s breath caught. “May I…?”
“Of course.” Beatrice stepped aside.
Lady Amelia bent over the cradle, both hands gripping the edge as if anchoring herself. The sight of her daughter—warm, content, safe—seemed to steal the air from her lungs. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Beatrice watched her quietly. The emotion trembling through Lady Amelia’s shoulders spoke louder than any words.
“She likes humming, especially in the afternoons,” she offered, in a bid to lighten the moment. “Cecily, my sister, taught me how to hum to her, and I’ve been doing it constantly. Mostly off-key.”
Lady Amelia gave a small, shaky laugh.
“And she adores being spoken to,” Beatrice added softly. “She’ll follow a voice before she opens her eyes. Mrs. Hart is thoroughly convinced she understands every word.”
Tears sparkled at the corners of her eyes as she smiled. “She… she looks well.”
“She is,” Beatrice agreed. “She eats well. Sleeps better than I expected. And…” Her mouth curved. “She smiles at the strangest things.”
“Smiles?” Lady Amelia whispered.
“Mm.” Beatrice nodded. “Especially when someone says Pip.”
Lady Amelia looked up, confused. “Pip?”
“A nickname Cecily, my sister, gave her,” Beatrice explained with a small smile. “It stuck. She smiles every time you say it.”
At that moment, Pip stirred and gave a gummy smile. She made a tiny sound, somewhere between a sigh and a contented hum.
Lady Amelia’s lips trembled, and she let out a small, helpless sound—half laugh, half sob. “She… she has a nickname.”
“She does.” Beatrice’s voice softened. “Everyone in this house adores her. Truly.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Lady Amelia reached down, touching only the edge of the blanket, not quite daring to touch the baby.
“I was so afraid she’d be cold,” she whispered. “Or hungry. Or alone.”
“She has never been alone,” Beatrice said firmly. “Not for a single moment.”
Lady Amelia drew a quiet breath, tears rolling down her cheeks. “She’s so beautiful,” she croaked.
“She is,” Beatrice agreed.
“And she looks… happy.”
“Indeed.” Her voice held more warmth this time.
Lady Amelia wiped her cheek with a trembling hand. “I wasn’t allowed to hold her,” she said. “They took her from me too quickly. I never…” Her throat worked. “I never got to see her like this.”
Beatrice slid her arms beneath the baby and lifted her gently. Pip blinked, then settled against her shoulder. The tiny body, warm and trusting, loosened something deep inside her every time.
She turned slightly to adjust Pip’s blanket, and that was when she saw him.
Edward stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, quiet and unobtrusive, as if he had paused only to check that everything was well. His expression was unreadable, but soft in a way few people got to see.
Beatrice didn’t start, didn’t stiffen. She simply met his eyes for a brief, steady heartbeat. He inclined his head in acknowledgment, and she returned the smallest nod. Then she turned back to Lady Amelia, as if he were a passing shadow in the corridor.
Something tender tightened in her chest. “You may hold her, if you wish.”
Lady Amelia sucked in a sharp breath. “May I?”
“Yes,” Beatrice whispered. “Of course.”
She shifted Pip carefully into her mother’s arms.
Lady Amelia held the baby awkwardly at first, then more surely, her whole body curling around the tiny bundle. Pip stirred, blinked once, then relaxed into her mother’s arms as if she had always belonged there.
“Oh…” Lady Amelia breathed. “Oh, she’s so—” Her voice broke. She pressed her lips to her daughter’s forehead, her shoulders shaking with emotion. “Oh, my darling girl…”
Beatrice looked away, giving them privacy, though her own eyes stung fiercely. She stood close enough to offer support if Lady Amelia faltered.
She didn’t. For once, the young woman seemed held up by something stronger than fear—love, fierce and aching.
Beatrice’s heart swelled with a mix of love and impending loss. Pip had woven herself into her life with such ease.
She reached out absentmindedly, smoothing the edge of Pip’s blanket. She swayed a little with habit, even though the baby was no longer in her arms.
After a few moments, she glanced toward the doorway. Edward was gone.
She drew a slow breath and looked back at Lady Amelia, who was lowering her forehead to the baby’s tiny one. The nursery was quiet except for her soft, rhythmic sniffles.
After a long moment, she whispered, “Thank you… for giving her what I couldn’t.”
Beatrice swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. “She found her way here,” she said gently. “The least I could do was love her until she found her mother again.”