Chapter 30
The carriage did not stop directly before the orphanage gate. Beatrice leaned forward, her gloved hand resting against the window frame, and took in her surroundings.
The street was too narrow, the paving uneven, so she disembarked two houses away, lifting her skirts to avoid the wet edge of the gutter.
Her maid hopped down to retrieve the baskets from the back—two lined with folded blankets, one filled with bread, apples, and a small jar of honey she had insisted on.
“I can carry one,” Beatrice offered, reaching out her hands.
Alice hesitated. “Your Grace—”
“I insist,” Beatrice said, taking the lighter basket before her maid could protest.
They walked the rest of the distance on foot.
The walk was short but revealing. The houses grew smaller, brick giving way to patched stone, narrow windows, and worn curtains.
A boy darted past them, barefoot despite the chill, laughing as another chased after him.
Beatrice slowed down instinctively, watching until they disappeared around the corner.
The orphanage stood at the end of the row. It looked clean, narrow, and barely kept. No ornament beyond a modest wooden sign. The paint had faded, but the letters were still visible.
She knocked.
A moment passed. Then she heard footsteps.
The door opened to reveal a woman in her late forties, her sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows, her hair pinned back with firm practicality. “Yes?”
“Good morning,” Beatrice greeted. “I’m Beatrice Pembroke. I wrote to you earlier in the week.”
Recognition flickered in the woman’s eyes, and her shoulders relaxed. “Ah. Yes. Your Grace. I’m Mrs. Allen.” She opened the door wider. “Please, come in.”
Warmth met them immediately, along with the smell of coal smoke, boiled oats, and clean linen. Alice lingered a step behind her, setting her basket down, already scanning the room for where she might be useful. The noise followed a heartbeat later.
Beatrice smiled at the light and overlapping voices. She set her basket down, removed her gloves, tucking them carefully into her reticule, then knelt to untie the covers.
“These are for the children,” she explained. “I brought books as well. They are second editions, but well-kept. A few psalms and some nice, warm blankets. The weather has turned.”
Mrs. Allen glanced into the baskets, then up again, visibly moved. “That’s very kind. We can always use them. Always.”
“I hoped so,” Beatrice said. “I also brought bread,” she added, lifting the lid of the basket. “And apples. Nothing elaborate.”
Mrs. Allen smiled faintly. “Elaborate is rarely what they need.”
They moved further inside. The main room was long and narrow, scrubbed clean. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows. A group of children sat at a table, working with slates and chalk. Several looked up at once.
“Who’s that?” one boy whispered loudly.
Mrs. Allen clapped her hands lightly. “All right now. We have a visitor. You may greet her properly.”
That only piqued the children’s interest.
One boy, perhaps six years old, grinned. “Is she important?”
Mrs. Allen gave him a look. “Henry.”
Beatrice smiled. “Only if you decide I am.”
That earned her a few chuckles.
She went down on one knee, her skirts gathered neatly, bringing herself to their eye level. “Good morning,” she said. “I’m Beatrice.”
A girl with blonde hair tilted her head. “You talk funny.”
Beatrice smiled. “So I’ve been told.”
That earned her a giggle.
“I’ve brought a few things to share.”
A girl with a ribbon tied unevenly in her hair crept closer, her eyes fixed on the basket of books. “Are those stories?” she asked.
“Yes,” Beatrice replied. “Some are adventures. Some are quieter. You may choose.”
That was enough.
Two children stepped forward at once, curiosity outweighing their shyness. Another followed.
Soon she was surrounded by small hands, questions tumbling over one another. A boy reached out to touch the hem of her sleeve, then withdrew his hand quickly, as if unsure he was allowed.
Beatrice opened the basket and handed out apples one by one, careful to make eye contact each time.
“What’s your name?” she asked a small boy who accepted his with both hands.
“Thomas.”
“Well, Thomas, you’re holding it like it might run away.”
Thomas looked down at the apple, startled, then giggled.
Mrs. Allen watched from a distance, her arms folded, her expression attentive rather than indulgent.
“You’re welcome to visit again, any time,” she offered quietly when Beatrice glanced up. “They remember kindness.”
“I would like that.” Beatrice smiled.
As the children went back to their lesson, one little girl remained. She couldn’t have been more than one year old, toddling uncertainly near the wall, curls escaping her hair tie. She sucked thoughtfully on her fingers, her eyes wide and solemn.
Beatrice’s breath caught.
The girl wobbled, nearly losing her balance. Without thinking, Beatrice reached out, steadying her gently with two fingers on her waist. The girl leaned into the touch at once, warm and trusting, her small hand closing instinctively around Beatrice’s fingers.
“There,” she murmured, the same word she had used a hundred times before.
The girl smiled openly, trusting.
Realization crashed over Beatrice.
Eliza!
The little girl reminded her of Eliza.
The memory rose unbidden—her small weight in Beatrice’s arms, her quiet breaths, her strong grip.
Beatrice remained where she was, her hand hovering for a moment longer than necessary, her heart pounding in her chest.
Yes, that hurts.
She withdrew her hand slowly, her smile thinner now.
“I can stay,” she said, turning to Mrs. Allen. “If you’ll allow it.”
Mrs. Allen hesitated, glancing briefly at Beatrice’s fine coat, then at Alice, who hovered nearby.
“You’re… most welcome, Your Grace,” she replied, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. “Though I wouldn’t have thought—”
“I would prefer to help,” Beatrice cut in. “If that’s all right with you.”
It was.
Not ten minutes later, her sleeves were rolled to her elbows.
The soup was thick and steaming, ladled from a big iron pot that fogged the air with warmth.
She took a bowl from Mrs. Allen and set it down carefully in front of a waiting child.
Alice moved efficiently beside Mrs. Allen, refilling bowls and wiping spills without comment.
“Mind, it’s hot,” she warned gently.
She learned the children’s names, or the nicknames they answered to, as she went. A boy with a crooked grin. A girl who insisted on holding her own spoon even when it shook.
She moved down the line, bowl after bowl, her skirts brushed by small hands and small bodies, the floor uneven beneath her shoes.
“You don’t have to do this,” Mrs. Allen said quietly as they worked side by side. “We manage.”
“I know.” Beatrice ladled soup with practiced care. “But managing isn’t the same as thriving.”
Mrs. Allen studied her then.
Beatrice took the bowl the matron handed her and set it carefully before a small boy who watched her with solemn intensity before whispering a shy thank you.
“You’re welcome,” she said, with a genuine smile.
Mrs. Allen worked beside her, efficient despite the hunch in her shoulders. “We don’t often have help at this hour,” she admitted quietly.
“I’m glad to be of use,” Beatrice replied.
“We do what we can. It isn’t nothing,” Mrs. Allen added, almost to herself.
“No,” Beatrice agreed. “It isn’t.”
She watched as Mrs. Allen fixed a child’s sleeve, her fingers deft, maternal without softness. A woman long past the luxury of hope.
She wiped her hands on a cloth and nodded toward the ceiling. A faint drip echoed somewhere beyond the walls. “Does the roof leak badly?”
Mrs. Allen followed her gaze. “The winter was hard on the building,” she sighed, as though the words had slipped free before she could weigh them. “The rain found its way in. We move the beds when it does. Buckets, mostly.”
Beatrice’s hand stilled on the cloth. “Which rooms?”
“The eastern wing. Two nights ago, it was the girls’ dormitory.” A pause. “They slept in the hall. Said it felt like an adventure.”
Beatrice did not trust her voice not to waver. “And the roof?”
Mrs. Allen let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Old. Patching buys us time, but not much. We mend it every spring and hope.”
Beatrice’s mouth tightened. She served another bowl, then another, listening as Mrs. Allen continued.
“And we’ve more little ones than before, especially infants. I do what I can, but I was never trained as a nurse. We make do.”
Beatrice set the cloth down slowly. “How many of them?” she asked.
“Too many,” Mrs. Allen replied simply. “And not enough hands. Not enough funds.”
“And a nurse?” Beatrice probed. “Do you have one?”
Mrs. Allen shook her head. “We have a woman who knows herbs. Another who’s good with fevers. But not—” She stopped herself. “Not a nurse.”
“Why?”
“We can’t afford it.” Mrs. Allen gave a small, rueful smile.
Beatrice glanced around the room—the patched sleeves, the small portions, the way the matron counted bowls before allowing herself one.
“How much do you need to repair the roof?” she asked.
Mrs. Allen hesitated. “That sort of work… it’s costly, Your Grace.”
“An estimate,” Beatrice pressed gently. “I understand figures.”
Mrs. Allen named a sum, then a smaller one for wages, her voice flattening as though she expected refusal to follow.
Beatrice nodded once, committing it to memory. “That is not impossible.”
Mrs. Allen looked at her sharply. “For us, it is.”
“It no longer has to be,” Beatrice insisted, not looking away. “I will provide it.”
She made sure her voice was calm and sure. It was not an offer, nor a promise made in passing.
Mrs. Allen gaped at her. “Your Grace—” She faltered, just slightly. “Many people made promises before you.”
“I am not making one,” Beatrice replied. “I will come back with a surveyor. And then, the work can begin.”
Mrs. Allen bowed her head, not in deference, but in something akin to relief. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Not charity for the sake of appearances,” Beatrice continued, her voice steady as she reached for another bowl. “But repairs well done. And a nurse with proper training. These children deserve consistency and safety.”
For a moment, Mrs. Allen could not speak. Then her eyes filled, and she turned away under the pretense of straightening the tablecloth.
“You have no idea what that would mean,” she croaked.
Beatrice did. She thought of Eliza’s warm weight in her arms. Of lists written in the margins of her day. Of knowing how a child liked to be held and how much it mattered.
She passed the next bowl along and said, “We’ll speak again tomorrow.”
She meant that, too.
By the time the last bowls were cleared, the room had warmed—not from the fire, but from motion.
Children had drifted back to their corners, full and drowsy, their earlier energy softened into murmurs and slow blinks.
One of the older boys carried a basket with solemn care, and another insisted on holding the door open for her as though it were a great honor.
Beatrice washed her hands at the basin near the window, rolling her sleeves back down with neat precision. Mrs. Allen hovered nearby, still in shock, still watching her as though she might vanish at any moment.
“I will return next week,” Beatrice said, fastening her gloves. “Please tell the children.”
Mrs. Allen inclined her head. “They’ll be counting the hours, Your Grace.”
Beatrice gave a small, genuine smile. “Then I’d better not disappoint them.”
The little girl—Matilda—had followed her without sound and now stood close enough that the hem of Beatrice’s skirt brushed her shoe. She held up a crust of bread she had wrapped carefully in a scrap of cloth.
“For you,” she said earnestly. “Take, eat.”
Beatrice crouched, ignoring the protest of silk and knees. “That is very kind,” she murmured, accepting the bread as though it were a precious gift. “But I think you may need it more than I do.”
Matilda frowned, considering, then nodded gravely and tucked it back into her pocket.
Beatrice reached out, hesitated for only a moment, then smoothed the child’s hair—light, soft, warm beneath her fingers. Too warm. Too soft.
The ache returned, swiftly and without warning.
She stood up at once.
“Goodbye,” she said to the room at large, and was answered by a scatter of cheerful voices. Alice followed her out.
The moment she stepped outside, the air cooled her skin.
The sky had dimmed to a pewter grey, and rain had begun to fall steadily enough to soak hems and soften sound.
The street smelled of wet stone and cold earth. Her carriage waited at the curb, dark against the pale wash of the day.
Beatrice paused at the gate. It was strange how quickly absence made itself known. How the mind reached instinctively for what it expected to find.
No baby’s laughter waiting at home. No quiet domestic disorder. No Edward, no dry remarks, no infuriating taunt delivered just as she was certain of her ground. No presence at her shoulder, solid and unsettling and far too warm for comfort.
For a moment—only a moment—she let herself imagine him there. Leaning against the carriage door, rain in his hair, his mouth forming a comment he had been waiting to make.
You look triumphant, Duchess. Have you conquered the world this morning, or only half of it?
The thought struck so vividly that it stole her breath.
She squeezed her eyes shut, as though to banish the image. When she opened them, she straightened her spine and straightened her gloves with unnecessary firmness. Sentiment was a poor companion in weather like this.
As she moved toward the carriage, she adjusted her cloak against the damp, careful with her footing, Alice a pace behind her. The driver had just jumped down to open the door when her heel slipped, just enough to send her tipping forward.
She had time to think about how absurd before she fell.
Strong, firm hands caught her, pulling her up before her weight could slam her down. She gasped, her fingers instinctively clutching at a coat sleeve, her breath lodging in her chest.
For a suspended moment, she could not tell whether she was standing or falling, only that she was being held.
“I’ve got you.”