Chapter 28 #2
“You took my choice,” Beatrice hissed, stepping back. “You took my future and called it protection.”
Lady Moreland sniffed. “I was afraid! Afraid you would be ruined before you ever had the chance to live. Afraid that one scandal would erase everything you are.”
“So you erased it yourself?” Beatrice scoffed. “Do you know what it is like to live with a man who never chose you? To smile beside him while knowing that every courtesy is an obligation?”
Lady Moreland reached for her again. “Beatrice—”
“No.” Beatrice’s eyes flashed. “You don’t get to touch me.”
Lady Moreland recoiled as if struck.
“I trusted you,” Beatrice continued. “You took my voice—again. You decided what was best for me without even asking what I wanted.”
Lady Moreland sobbed openly. “When you become a mother, you will understand what it means to love someone so much you will risk everything—even their anger—to save them.”
The words landed like a slap.
Beatrice went still. Something twisted painfully in her chest
“Mother…” Her voice trembled. “I will never be a mother.”
Lady Moreland froze. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, darling—”
“My marriage is over,” The confession escaped before Beatrice could stop it. “Edward and I… we barely speak. He cannot bear to look at me. He is gone. Whatever hope there was… it’s over.”
Lady Moreland crossed the room slowly. “Beatrice, my sweet girl…”
“I will never have a child. Not like this.” Beatrice’s breath hitched. “I will never have a family of my own.”
Lady Moreland gathered her into her arms, clutching her as if she could anchor her back into the world.
Beatrice resisted for a heartbeat, then collapsed against her, grief crashing through the shock and rage all at once.
“I wanted so badly to believe that I could fix things,” Lady Moreland sobbed into her hair. “I only wanted you safe.”
Beatrice wept harder against her shoulder.
Lady Moreland did not loosen her hold when Beatrice’s sobs subsided. If anything, she pulled her closer, one hand firm on her back, the other smoothing her hair with the same tenderness she had used when Beatrice had been a child.
“I know,” she murmured. “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be.”
Beatrice’s breath evened out. The fury that had burned so hot moments ago softened into something heavier, more exhausted than fierce. She pressed her forehead against her mother’s shoulder, then pulled back just enough to look at her.
“I hated you,” she said hoarsely. “For a moment, I hated you for what you took from me.”
Lady Moreland nodded. “I deserved it.”
“But I don’t want to carry that hate,” Beatrice added quietly. “I don’t have the strength for it. Not anymore.”
Lady Moreland’s eyes filled again. “Does that mean—”
“It means I forgive you,” Beatrice said. The word felt strange on her tongue, but not false. “Not because what you did was right, but because I know you did it out of love, however misguided.”
Lady Moreland closed her eyes, a broken sound escaping her. She pulled Beatrice into her arms again, holding her as though she might vanish.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, my darling.”
They remained like that for a moment longer, the room still around them, the morning light shifting across the carpet as time moved on regardless of grief or reconciliation.
When Beatrice finally stepped back, she wiped her eyes with a wet laugh. “I suppose we’ve both ruined our appearances for the day.”
Lady Moreland smiled weakly. “It would not be the first time.”
Silence settled between them. Not empty, but gentler.
Beatrice hesitated, then said, “There is something I don’t understand.”
Lady Moreland stilled. “Yes?”
“The article,” Beatrice began. “You didn’t just write about the baby. You wrote it as Miss Verity.” She searched her mother’s face. “Why use that name? Weren’t you afraid the real Miss Verity would expose you?”
Lady Moreland’s expression shifted, not into guilt, but into something almost fond. “Oh, Beatrice,” she breathed.
“What?” Beatrice frowned. “Mama?”
Lady Moreland reached out and took her hands, squeezing them gently. “I was never afraid.”
“Why not?”
She smiled then—a small, knowing smile. “Because I always knew who Miss Verity was. I have always known.”
Beatrice froze. “You knew?” Her pulse skittered. “How?”
Lady Moreland lifted one shoulder. “A mother notices things. A change in handwriting. The way you’d retreat to your room after supper. The questions you asked at breakfast were carefully casual. And then there was the voice.”
“The voice?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “I’ve heard it all your life. In the way you make observations. In the way you refuse to accept hypocrisy simply because it is convenient.” Her thumb brushed over Beatrice’s knuckles. “No one else could have written those words.”
Beatrice swallowed. “You never said anything.”
Lady Moreland shook her head. “It was never my secret to reveal. And I was… proud.” Her voice softened. “Proud of your courage. Proud of your restraint. Proud of every word you wrote.”
Something tight and fragile inside Beatrice gave way.
“You didn’t think less of me?” she whispered. “For writing as I did?”
“Think less?” Lady Moreland repeated, almost incredulous. “My darling, you gave voice to truths others were too afraid to reveal. You did it with wit, intelligence, and compassion. How could I think less of that?”
Tears welled up again, but this time, they were different—quiet, relieved, almost disbelieving.
“I wanted Miss Verity to matter,” Beatrice rasped. “I wanted her to do good.”
“And she did,” Lady Moreland affirmed. “She still does, even now.”
Beatrice let out a slow breath. “Then using her name…”
“Was the only way to be believed,” Lady Moreland finished, regret flickering briefly in her eyes. “I never meant to tarnish her. Or you. I thought—foolishly—that borrowing your voice would protect you.”
Beatrice nodded slowly. “It did not.”
“No,” Lady Moreland agreed. “It did not.” She paused, before adding gently, “But one day, when this pain has dulled, perhaps you will find your way back to her. On your own terms.”
Beatrice looked down at their joined hands. “Perhaps,” she muttered. “When I know who I am without all of this.”
Lady Moreland squeezed her fingers. “You are exactly who you have always been.”
Beatrice lifted her gaze, something steadier settling in her chest.
For the first time since the baby had been left at her home, since the scandal, since the marriage that had never truly been hers, she felt seen. And loved.
Not for what she had endured, but for who she truly was.