Chapter 24 #2
Beatrice stared down at the ivory stationery she had chosen and tried to imagine Pip’s small head cradled over the baptismal font… and then smiled at the image.
In the afternoon, she spent an hour sorting through the small mountain of letters awaiting her—polite notes, invitations, pamphlets. Her quill shook only once. She steadied it quickly.
Once, she heard Edward speaking with someone downstairs. The sound pierced her concentration for an instant before she forced herself back to her task.
A soft knock sounded at the door to her sitting room.
“Your Grace,” a maid said, dipping into a curtsey, “Lady Amelia has arrived. She asked if she might go straight to the nursery.”
Beatrice nodded. “Of course. I’ll join her.”
She smoothed her skirts, took one steadying breath, and stepped out of the room. The nursery door was half-open, so she paused at the threshold.
Amelia stood beside the cradle, looking hesitant. Pip lay inside, blinking sleepily in the soft afternoon light. She made a little chirping sound, the one she always made right after waking up. It undid Beatrice every time.
Amelia started slightly when she noticed her, then offered a timid smile. “I hope I wasn’t too forward. I-I couldn’t wait.”
Beatrice stepped inside, her voice warm despite the quiet ache under it. “You aren’t forward at all. She always wakes up hungry and a little confused.”
Pip stretched, her tiny fists unfurling.
Amelia reached down, her fingers trembling as she lifted her daughter. Pip settled into her arms as though she had always belonged there—naturally, without question.
Beatrice’s heart swelled. “She recognizes you,” she remarked gently.
Amelia pressed her cheek to the baby’s head. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes.”
“Hello, darling,” Amelia whispered, brushing her fingertips over the baby’s warm cheek. “Oh, you really do know me, don’t you?”
Pip blinked up at her with that unfocused wonder babies always have, and then—unexpectedly—gave the tiniest smile.
Amelia let out a small, broken laugh. “She smiled.”
“She likes the sound of your voice,” Beatrice said quietly.
Amelia looked back at her, gratitude shining through tears. “You agreed to be her godmother?” she asked shyly.
Beatrice’s breath caught, before she smiled warmly. “I would be honored.” Then she motioned for Amelia to follow her into the sitting room. “We should discuss the christening. And the wedding preparations, if you feel up to it.”
Amelia nodded, wiping her cheek with the heel of her palm. “I do. There’s so little time.”
Beatrice opened her notebook, its pages already filled with her delicate handwriting. “The date is confirmed. The christening will take place on Tuesday, right after the wedding. St. Jude’s has always been a peaceful chapel.”
Amelia brightened. “Yes. A small ceremony. That’s exactly what I wanted.”
“That will be easy.” Beatrice smiled, making a note. “About your wedding gown,” she added gently. “I sent word to Madame Leclerc. She’s expecting you tomorrow morning to make final adjustments.”
Amelia blinked rapidly, overwhelmed. “I didn’t think… I mean, with everything happening, I wasn’t sure—”
“It will be beautiful,” Beatrice assured her. “Every bride deserves that.”
Amelia’s breath shook a little as she nodded.
“I’ve already prepared the christening gown,” Beatrice said. “You may change anything you like, of course.”
Amelia touched the baby’s hair. “No, I’d like her to wear what you made. You’ve done so much for her, Your Grace.”
Beatrice reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “She needed someone. Anyone would have done the same.”
Amelia shook her head. “Not anyone.”
Silence settled between them.
When Amelia left later, Beatrice picked up Pip and cradled her against her shoulder. She closed her eyes, holding the child tighter than she meant to.
“Just a little longer,” she whispered into Pip’s hair. “Just a little longer.”
By the time she went downstairs for dinner, she had smoothed her gown, steadied her breathing, and schooled her features into calm.
The butler waited at the foot of the stairs, his hands folded behind his back. “Your Grace,” he greeted with a bow. “His Grace will not be joining you this evening.”
Her steps faltered. “Not joining me?”
You are only asking because it is expected, not because it stings.
“May I ask why?”
The butler hesitated only a fraction, but she caught it. “His Grace has retired to the library for the evening,” he replied carefully. “He asked not to be disturbed.”
Of course he did.
“I see,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
Dinner dragged. Too many courses. Too much silence. Every clink of silver sounded like a reprimand—compose yourself, Beatrice.
Eventually, she set down her napkin and left the dining room with a quiet nod to the servants. Movement helped. The corridors were dim and the house quiet, save for the ticking of distant clocks.
She walked without aim, simply needing air, space—something.
She rounded the corner near the long gallery and stopped short. Edward stood there, one shoulder leaning against the paneling, his head bowed, one hand rubbing his brow. The lamplight highlighted the tension in his jaw.
He wasn’t reading. Or writing. Or sorting anything. He looked as though he had been standing there for a very long time.
He didn’t see her.
Her breath caught—a sharp, painful thing.
Why does it hurt to see him like this? Why does he look so tired?
She took a step back before her heart could betray her any further. Then another. And another. Retreating silently, carefully, until the corner hid him again.
She did not stop until she reached her chambers. Then she closed the door softly and pressed her back against it, exhaling softly.
Just a moment ago, she had been perfectly composed. Now, her eyes burned. She sat at her vanity, her palms pressed to the cool wood.
I will not cry. I will not.
Beatrice waited until her breathing slowed, until the tightness in her chest eased enough to let her ribs move without pain.
Her reflection steadied gradually—no longer a disquieted wife, just a duchess with a slightly too-pale face and eyes that betrayed too much. She pinched her cheeks, brushed her hair until it shone, and lifted her chin.
You’re a duchess, not a foolish girl shaken by the sight of her husband leaning against a wall, lost in thoughts that he will never share.
After a moment, she folded her hands in her lap, closed her eyes, and inhaled.