Chapter 28
The dining room felt too large.
It always had been, in truth. Edward insisted on proportions that made a house feel like a statement rather than a home. But tonight, the space swallowed her whole.
The candles on the long mahogany table flickered as though nervous to be left alone with her. Their light illuminated only half the table, the rest disappearing into shadow.
The butler had asked gently whether she wished to use the smaller breakfast room instead.
“No,” she had replied, unsure why she insisted. “Here is fine.”
Now, she wasn’t so certain.
She lifted her spoon, and the faint clink against the porcelain sounded impossibly loud, traveling the length of the table, bouncing back to her as if the room were answering.
Every sound she made felt amplified—the rustle of her sleeve, the controlled breath she took before swallowing.
She took a small sip, swallowed mechanically, and set the spoon down.
Edward should have been sitting across from her, slightly angled toward the fire as always. He preferred warmth. He pretended not to, but she had noticed how he shifted whenever the fire dimmed, how his shoulders relaxed when the room held heat.
The chair he favored remained empty, the family crest carved into its high back catching the candlelight. Someone—she suspected it was the butler, out of habit—had set a wineglass there. It caught the candlelight like an accusation.
She had expected the house to feel more peaceful without his presence. Instead, it felt… unmoored.
“That is enough moping,” she whispered to the empty room, though her chest ached.
She rose from the table, unable to endure the cavernous stillness any longer.
“Your Grace, may I bring the next course?” a footman asked as he moved to clear the dishes.
“No,” she replied, too quickly. “No, thank you. That will be all. I shall not take anything further.”
He hesitated, clearly uncertain whether to protest, then bowed. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
The corridor outside felt equally hollow, her footsteps barely making a sound over the carpet runner. Upstairs, a draught murmured through the doors, brushing her shoulders like a passing thought.
Beatrice paused halfway to her chambers. Pip’s old blanket was lying on a side table, folded neatly by Mrs. Hart before they left for the wedding. A soft cream wool, the corner worn slightly from being gripped by tiny fingers.
Her throat tightened.
She reached out before she could stop herself, brushing her thumb over the hem. The texture was familiar enough to summon a hundred small memories: midnight pacing, whispered nonsense, Edward’s quiet presence hovering just beyond the lamplight.
She exhaled, long and steady.
“You are ridiculous,” she muttered to herself, though her eyes burned.
She could not sit in her chambers and think. Not tonight. The quiet would be unbearable.
With a decisive inhale, she descended the stairs and called for the butler. He appeared promptly, his hands folded, his expression neutral—the one constant in a house that seemed to have shifted overnight.
“I…” She hesitated. Her mind felt too full, her chest oddly tight.
“Your Grace,” he asked carefully, “is there anything else I might assist you with this evening?”
There is.
“I need information on the nearest orphanage.”
The butler blinked once in discreet surprise, before bowing slightly. “Of course, Your Grace. May I inquire as to what kind of information?”
“How many children it shelters. Their ages. Their needs. Any records of recent conditions. If they keep records, I would like to see them. If they need funding, I want an honest account of the amount. And…” She paused, taking a steadying breath. “And I want to know whether they accept visitors.”
He regarded her with polite surprise. “Of course, Your Grace. May I ask—purely for clarity—when you intend to visit?”
“As soon as possible,” she answered. “Perhaps next week, after adequate preparations.”
He nodded gravely. “Shall I prepare a list by morning?”
“Yes, please.” Her voice came out softer than she had intended. She cleared her throat, adding firmly, “I would like to be… useful. If there is anything the children lack, I want to know about it.”
The butler’s expression softened. “Very good, Your Grace. I’ll have the information ready.”
When he retreated, Beatrice remained at the bottom of the stairs, her fingers curled lightly around the banister.
Useful.
The word clung to her.
Her marriage felt like something she was failing to mend. Edward had left with polite finality. And she—she had no idea how to fix what she barely understood.
But children… children she could help. She had held Pip through sleepless nights. She had soothed colic, read stories in a hushed tone, and steadied trembling little limbs.
She knew how to offer comfort when it was needed.
Perhaps, she told herself as she climbed the stairs again, if she could not fix her own marriage, she might fix something else.
In her chamber, she got ready for bed slowly, deliberately. She unpinned her hair, folded her gown, extinguished one candle and then another.
She caught herself glancing toward the door as if expecting a soft knock, a quiet request for conversation, a simple goodnight. But none came.
The house settled around her with a sigh.
She missed Edward, and she had no idea what to do with the ache of it.
Beatrice woke up before the sun, though waking up implied she had slept. She had not.
Her eyes burned. Her body ached. The house felt… hollow. A place holding its breath.
She dressed slowly, her lady’s maid brushing her hair in long, gentle strokes. She stared at her own reflection, at the pale skin and the slight puffiness around her eyes.
“Will you take breakfast in the breakfast room, Your Grace?” Alice asked.
Beatrice hesitated. Edward’s seat would be empty again. The sight of it had pricked her too sharply the day before, a tiny wound she had no business bleeding over.
“No,” she replied softly. “In the morning room. Something light.”
Alice curtsied and left.
Beatrice stepped into the corridor just as the butler rounded the corner to the stairs.
“Your Grace,” he said, “Lady Moreland has arrived. She is in the drawing room.”
Her mother? At this hour?
A sinking feeling curled low in her stomach. “Did she seem… distressed?”
He paused. “She asked for you at once. That is all I can say.”
Beatrice drew a steadying breath and made her way down the stairs. The drawing room door was open, and sunlight spilled across the carpet in a warm slant, catching the dust motes that danced in the air.
Lady Moreland stood by the window, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles whitened.
“Mama? I wasn’t expecting you.”
She turned. Her eyes were red, as if she too hadn’t slept. “Beatrice. I know. I thought it best not to send word.”
The way she said her name—so soft—made Beatrice instantly wary.
“What is it?” she asked. “Has something happened?”
Lady Moreland hesitated. She took a deep breath, then another
“Mama, you’re pale. Sit down.”
“I don’t think I should.” Her gaze flicked to the chair, then away. “I won’t stay long.”
Beatrice’s chest tightened. “Very well.”
“I came to apologize,” Lady Moreland said.
Beatrice blinked. “Apologize? For what?”
Lady Moreland’s lips parted and closed again. She took a breath that seemed to cost her something.
“For the pain I caused you,” she murmured. “For the position I put you in. For the life you are now living.”
Beatrice felt a little uneasy, but she smiled nonetheless. “Mama, you needn’t apologize. None of this was your doing.”
Lady Moreland’s breath caught. “Oh, my darling,” she whispered. “If only that were true.”
Beatrice’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”
Lady Moreland moved away from Beatrice, closer to the fireplace, as if she could not bear to be close to Beatrice. Her shoulders trembled once.
She swallowed loudly. “I came because… there is something you must hear from me.” She lifted her chin, though it trembled. “Something I should have told you weeks ago.”
Dread coiled in Beatrice’s gut. “Go on.”
“The night the baby was left at our house,” Lady Moreland said. “When the world had not yet noticed… I was terrified.”
Beatrice listened, confused but attentive.
“I thought of your name,” Lady Moreland continued. “Your reputation. How easily it could be destroyed by a mere whisper. I thought of the way people look for women’s mistakes—how they feed on them.” She turned around, tears on her cheeks. “I thought I could stop it.”
Beatrice’s heart lurched. “Stop what?”
“The scandal,” Lady Moreland whispered. “Before it began. I thought if I could control the narrative, even briefly—”
Beatrice’s blood ran cold. “Control it how?”
The room seemed to tilt.
“What did you do?” she asked softly.
Lady Moreland’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I wrote the headline in the Mayfair Gazette.”
For a moment, Beatrice could not understand the words.
Then understanding dawned.
Her hands trembled.
“You—” Her breath left her in a rush. “You wrote it?”
Lady Moreland nodded, her tears falling freely now. “I sent it myself. Beatrice, you must understand. A baby abandoned at our home—what would people think? I thought if I controlled the narrative, forced the issue—forced Edward to act quickly—then no one else could twist it further.”
Beatrice stepped back as though struck. “Force?” she mumbled.
Lady Moreland flinched. “I did it to protect you. If he married you immediately, no one could ruin you. The gossip would die before it began.”
“You ruined my life,” Beatrice said, stunned.
“I saved you!” Lady Moreland cried. “Or I thought I did. I thought marriage—respectability—would protect you. That once you were a duchess, no one would dare touch you.”
“You forced me into marriage,” Beatrice accused, her voice shaking now, anger piercing through the shock. “You forced Edward into marriage. You made us prisoners of your fear.”
Lady Moreland reached for her. “I was trying to keep you safe.”