Chapter 26 #2
With the ceremony over, Cecily and Margaret hurried forward, cooing over Eliza. Nearby, Sebastian congratulated Simon and Amelia. Lady Moreland brushed a hand over Eliza’s gown as if blessing her, and Amelia’s parents, Lord and Lady Kensley hugged Amelia tightly.
Mrs. Hart whispered, “A blessed day. A truly blessed day.”
Guests stepped outside the church, milling about quietly, exchanging murmured congratulations but Beatrice moved with purpose toward Amelia in the vestry.
The vestry smelled faintly of candle wax and polished wood, the air still carrying the warmth of the chapel and the scent of lilies.
She held Eliza close a moment longer before gently passing her back to Amelia.
Amelia’s cheeks were flushed, and her eyes sparkled with an emotion Beatrice had come to recognize as pure happiness. She held Eliza carefully in her arms, rocking her gently.
Beatrice’s heart swelled with something steadier than joy—a sense of responsibility and privilege.
“I thought this might help,” she said, extending a neat piece of paper. The edges were slightly worn from being folded and tucked into her gloves.
Amelia took it, glancing down. “What is it?”
Beatrice smiled faintly. “A little… guide. Feeding hours, favorite lullabies, how she likes to be held, and other things I’ve noticed. Little details that might make her days smoother.” She hesitated, then added softly, “I know it’s nothing serious, but it might help.”
Amelia’s fingers brushed over the paper, and she looked up at Beatrice with a mix of gratitude and wonder. “Beatrice, this is… thoughtful. So thoughtful.”
Beatrice’s hands flexed at her sides, faint warmth rising in her cheeks. “I’ve been watching,” she said lightly, though her tone carried more pride than she intended. “It helps to notice small things—what she responds to, what calms her. It’s easier to be consistent, to make her feel secure.”
Amelia smiled, her eyes glimmering. “I can already see how careful you are. How attentive. She’s so lucky.”
Beatrice gave a small nod, caught in a quiet moment of satisfaction.
Lucky, indeed, she thought, though not for the reasons Amelia imagined.
She was lucky to be here, to be entrusted with Eliza’s care, to have a role far beyond ceremony or obligation.
She pointed to a line on the paper. “She likes to be held upright for a few minutes after feeding. It helps with her digestion. And she hums slightly when you sing ‘Hush-a-Bye Baby’—I’ve noticed that melody calms her down more quickly.”
Amelia blinked rapidly. “Oh—oh, Beatrice,” she whispered, her voice wobbling.
Beatrice stilled. “Amelia?”
Amelia let out a tremulous laugh and pressed the heel of her palm beneath her eye.
“I did not plan to cry today. Not after the ceremony, not after the vows—not now.” She gave a watery smile.
“But you… you’ve been so steadfast. And this list, this care—” Her breath hitched, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
“I promise I will write. Every week. Even if nothing is happening, I shall send a letter.”
Beatrice’s throat thickened. “You needn’t—”
“I want to,” Amelia insisted softly. “You’ve been a sister to me in all but name. I mean it.”
Warmth spread beneath Beatrice’s ribs—startling, tender, edged with something almost fragile. She lowered her gaze to Eliza, who let out a yawn.
“Come here,” she murmured, leaning forward.
Carefully, reverently, she pressed her lips to Eliza’s forehead. The baby’s skin was warm and impossibly soft. The faint scent of milk and violets clung to her.
Beatrice breathed her in, steadying herself.
“You sweet girl,” she whispered. “The world is lucky to have you in it.”
Her fingers lingered a moment longer on Eliza’s tiny hand. The baby’s fingers curled instinctively, clinging to her glove, and the soft pressure struck something inside her—deep and silent and aching.
I want this.
Not only to cradle a child for a moment, but to hold one every morning, every night. To feel that small weight settle against her shoulder because she was home. To hum lullabies not as a guest or a helper, but as a mother.
The thought burrowed between her ribs, warm and wrenching all at once.
Amelia watched her carefully, her eyes still shining. “You can’t help the fact that she has already stolen your heart.”
Beatrice laughed softly. “She has. Quite thoroughly.”
“One day,” Amelia said, hopeful in the way only a new bride could be, “you will be wonderful with little ones of your own.”
Beatrice’s smile did not waver. “Perhaps,” she said lightly.
But inside, something crumpled.
Edward would never give her this. Not with affection, not with shared looks over a cradle, not with hands entwined while watching a child sleep. He had made that clear without saying it outright. Their union represented duty. Stability. A carefully constructed peace.
She did not resent him for it, but she could not lie to herself about what it meant.
Amelia’s expression softened. “Beatrice? Did I say something?”
“No,” Beatrice replied quickly, smoothing her gloves. “Not at all. You mustn’t worry. Today is yours. Yours and Eliza’s.”
Simon approached and slid an arm around Amelia’s waist, clearly sensing her emotions. He gave Beatrice a grateful nod. “Thank you for everything.”
Beatrice inclined her head. “She is a treasure,” she said, forcing a small smile. “You are blessed.”
Amelia leaned into Simon, and for a brief moment, Beatrice studied them—husband and wife, new parents, bound not only by circumstance but also by devotion.
Something inside her stirred. Not envy. Longing, perhaps. Though she wished it were otherwise.
Eliza fussed, and Amelia rocked her with instinctive ease.
Before Beatrice’s thoughts could spiral further, Amelia touched her arm. “You will always be part of her life, Beatrice. Always. We will visit often. I want you to see her grow up.”
Beatrice nodded, grateful for the promise even if she could not articulate why. She forced her breath to steady.
“I would like that, thank you,” she whispered. “You cannot know how much that means to me.”
But she suspected Amelia knew, at least a little.
Beatrice stood in the entrance hall, her hands hanging at her sides, listening to the rustle of the wind outside. Everything smelled of lavender and polished wood, yet nothing could fill the emptiness of the house.
“Mrs. Hart has packed the last of the baby’s things, Your Grace,” a footman said softly, as if he feared speaking too loudly might shatter her.
Beatrice nodded. “Thank you.”
She did not go upstairs at once. Instead, she removed her gloves with care, set them on the side table, and stood there longer than necessary, listening to the quiet. No small sighs. No startled cries. No soft murmuring from the servants’ quarters.
It is finished. It is done.
Only when Mrs. Hart appeared at the landing did she move.
“I thought you might wish to see the nursery once more, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said gently. “Before we—well, before we clear it out.”
“Yes,” Beatrice said quickly, a little too eager. She drew in a breath, steadying herself. “I would like that… very much.”
Mrs. Hart hesitated, then added, “We haven’t disposed of anything, of course. There’s no need. Such things can be used again.”
Beatrice’s eyes softened. “Useful?” she echoed.
Mrs. Hart inclined her head, her gaze steady. “For your own children, one day.”
Beatrice swallowed, letting the words sink in. A small, wistful smile touched her lips. “Perhaps… one day,” she murmured.
Mrs. Hart led the way, her pace slower than usual. At the nursery door, she hesitated.
“I can come back later,” she offered. “If you would prefer—”
“No,” Beatrice said. She met the older woman’s eyes and managed another smile. “Stay, if you like.”
The nursery was just as she had left it that morning—too tidy. The cradle stood near the window, its lace canopy tied back. The little chair where she had spent more hours than she would ever admit sat beside it, and a folded shawl lay across the seat.
Mrs. Hart busied herself at once, straightening a basket that did not need straightening, smoothing the edge of a blanket that was already smooth.
“She took her well,” she remarked quietly. “The mother. Held her like she’d never let go.”
Beatrice inclined her head. “She will be well cared for.”
“I believe so,” Mrs. Hart agreed. She paused before adding, “The child liked you very much.”
Beatrice’s fingers tightened around the back of the chair. “Yes,” she said softly. “She did.”
Mrs. Hart seemed to sense the edge of something too sharp to approach. She cleared her throat. “I’ll air the room later, then. No hurry.”
“Thank you.”
When the door closed behind her, the silence rushed in again, thicker this time.
Beatrice moved to the cradle and rested her hand on the edge, just as she had done a hundred times before. The faint indentation in the mattress was still there. She traced it with her fingertips, absurdly careful, as though Eliza might still be sleeping and she dared not wake her.
You are where you belong, she reminded herself.
She lowered herself into the chair, and the wood creaked softly beneath her weight. She stared at the empty cradle until her eyes burned.
Eliza had her parents now. A mother who loved her enough to come back. A father who would stand before the world and claim her. A future unshadowed by scandal or secrecy.
Beatrice repeated these truths to herself, like a litany. They did not dull the ache. If anything, they simply sharpened it.
“I wish I had more time,” she whispered, the words slipping free before she could stop them. “More moments to know her… to watch her grow up.”
Her gaze caught on the small basket beneath the window—the one that had carried Eliza between rooms, between houses, and into her life.
Inside it lay the things she had not yet given away: a spare muslin cloth, a tiny cap she had knitted, the folded paper on which Amelia had once written a name and crossed it out three times before settling on Eliza.
She reached for the basket and lifted the cap. It was absurdly small. She turned it in her hands, her thumb brushing the hem where the wool was softened from use.
The sound that followed startled her—a shuddering breath that did not feel like it belonged to her at all. She bent forward, pressing her hands together, her shoulders drawing inward as though she might hold herself together by sheer will alone.
She did not weep loudly. She did not sob. Instead, tears slid down her face, each one leaving a burning path she did not bother to wipe away. Her breath hitched once, twice, and then the composure she had worn so carefully all morning crumpled.
She thought of the way Eliza curled her fingers around hers when she slept. The way she settled at the sound of humming, even when Beatrice did not realize she was doing it. The weight of her—small, warm, impossibly real.
It was never meant to be. Not for you.
She hiccupped. She pressed her palm to her mouth, stifling the sound.
When the tears finally slowed, she sat very still, waiting for the ache to ebb. It did not. But she had learned how to carry it, the way she had learned to carry everything else.
She inhaled until her lungs ached, held her breath, then let it go. She wiped her face carefully. Smoothed her hair. Stood up.
By the time a maid knocked softly on the door, Beatrice had regained her composure. She placed the cap back into the basket. She smoothed the shawl on the chair. She adjusted the ribbon on the cradle until it lay just so.
Each movement was precise, controlled. Familiar. This was the part she knew how to do.
“Your Grace,” the maid said hesitantly, “His Grace has returned. He asked—”
“Yes,” Beatrice interrupted. “You may show him in.”
The maid glanced at the cradle, then back at her. “Shall I—”
“No, that will be all.”
Edward paused just inside the doorway. His gaze swept the room. The empty cradle. The chair. Beatrice standing by the window, her hands folded, her expression calm.
“I thought I might find you here,” he said carefully, as though the wrong tone might shatter something fragile.
“Yes,” Beatrice replied. Her voice was steady. Almost distant. “I wished to make sure that everything was in order.”
Edward stepped into the room and gently closed the door behind him.
For a moment, they stood in silence.
“You did not stay long at the church,” he noted.
“I thought Amelia would prefer privacy,” Beatrice replied. “There are some moments one should not intrude upon.”
Edward studied her face. Whatever he was searching for there, he did not find it easily.
“The house feels different,” he admitted.
“Yes,” she agreed. “It always does after a guest departs.”
A guest.
The word struck her hard.
“If you wish,” he offered slowly, “Mrs. Hart can have the room cleared before she returns to Bath.”
Beatrice shook her head at once. “No. Not yet. It’s not urgent. The nursery may remain as it is, for now. There is no need to rush.”
Edward nodded. “As you wish.”
Silence fell again, heavier this time.
He moved closer, stopping beside the cradle. His hand hovered, then rested on the wood, just where hers had been moments ago.
“You were very good with her,” he said quietly.
Beatrice turned to face him. Her smile was small and precise. “That does not mean I should have had her.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “If you ever wished—”
She lifted her hand. Not sharply, but gently. “Please, don’t.”
He stopped.
“I am quite well,” she added. “And everything is settled now. You may tell the servants that everything has been resolved.”
Edward looked at her for a long moment, as though he meant to argue. But then, he inclined his head. “Very well.”
Beatrice stepped past him, her skirts brushing lightly against his feet. As her hand closed around the door handle, she paused.
“Thank you,” she said, without turning. “For seeing it through.”
After she left, Edward remained where he was, staring at the cradle. He did not touch it again.