A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans (Troublesome Duchesses #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“She stops crying when you hold her, Poppy,” Nurse Annabelle said softly.

Poppy Norish, otherwise known as Penelope, had already noticed that the feverish nine-month-old baby relaxed in her arms. She smiled softly at the nurse before her.

“She is unwell, but once she recovers, she will get used to you too,” Poppy cooed as she gently rocked the child back and forth.

“I do pray so,” Annabelle said as she gathered some medication.

The nurses at Saint Catherine’s Haven had complained that the baby’s cries had been tearing through the orphanage’s nursery for the better part of an hour. Yet the moment Poppy gathered her into her arms, the sound broke, faltered, and gave way to a few exhausted hiccups against her shoulder.

“I do not know what we would do without you,” Annabelle continued.

Poppy felt a familiar warmth spread within her chest every time she entered Saint Catherine’s Haven.

She felt as though she belonged there, amongst the forgotten children, because she herself was an orphan with a departed father.

Thankfully, Poppy had her sister Iris and their aunt Violet, who took them in immediately.

But it was not until recently that Poppy felt like everything that she went through eventually led her to the moment she met Aurora and Princess. The toddler and baby completely changed her life.

As if she read her thoughts, Princess moved in her arms and grunted softly.

“There now,” Poppy murmured, shifting the little girl more securely against her. “There is my brave princess. You have made your protest very clear today. We have all heard it. Perhaps the whole of London heard it too.”

Princess gave a small sigh and pressed her hot cheek against Poppy’s collarbone. Although she had arrived without a name, the entire orphanage called her Princess because Aurora gave her that name. Poppy looked around for Aurora, but did not see her nearby.

That is odd.

Aurora rarely left her sister’s side, and her fierce love for Princess always reminded Poppy of her own older sister, Julia, the Duchess of Pridewell.

Julia’s marriage to the duke saved them from the cursed life they were about to live, and Poppy would remember that all the days of her life until one day she could return the favor in some grand gesture that would repay the debt.

Annabelle cleared her throat, and Poppy snapped back into reality.

“Her fever is rising.” Poppy stroked Princess’ tiny forehead. It was unnaturally hot.

With her free hand, she grabbed a cloth and gracefully made her way to the bucket of water.

She dipped the cloth into the water and wrung it, placing it softly across the baby’s forehead.

Poppy cradled her a little longer before she gently lowered her into the cot and adjusted her clothes and the blankets so she was not too warm.

Princess gurgled and fidgeted, but did not cry.

Eventually, she settled down, and Poppy watched as the baby slowly fell asleep.

“She must be given some water regularly,” Poppy ordered Annabelle, who nodded in agreement.

“I will see to it.”

“Thank you, Annabelle.”

Princess stirred, her mouth working unhappily.

Poppy lowered herself into the chair beside the cot with the care of long practice, keeping the baby upright enough to breathe easily while freeing one hand to take the cloth.

The linen had lost much of its coolness.

She folded it open, found the fresher inner side, and laid it lightly across Princess’s forehead again.

“And where is that sister of hers?” Just as the words left her mouth, Aurora came rushing into the nursery with a nun following closely behind her.

The energetic four-year-old beamed when she saw Poppy. But that smile quickly faded into a scowl.

“You are late!” she exclaimed crossly.

Poppy chuckled as Princess grimaced at the sound of her sister’s voice, but she still did not cry.

Thank heavens.

“You were terribly late,” Aurora continued in a scolding manner.

Poppy kept her expression serious. “Was I?”

“Yes.” Aurora stepped into the room, her small shoes making careful taps on the floor. “You were gone for five hours, and we have been waiting for you!”

Annabelle gave Poppy a slight smirk and busied herself with refolding clothes.

“That is a dreadful offense, Aurora.” Poppy pouted. “I must explain, then. I was only five minutes late.”

Aurora frowned, and Poppy held her tongue from calling her adorable.

Now is not the time to jest with her.

“Five minutes,” Poppy said, holding up the fingers of one hand and speaking in her most serious tone.

Aurora looked at her fingers with suspicion and lifted her little chin defiantly. “That is still too many hours.”

Poppy laughed softly.

She approached the little girl and embraced her, speaking gently in her ear. “Sometimes, your minutes may feel like many hours because you miss someone.”

Aurora hugged her back, but Poppy could feel her stiffening as she considered her words. “Princess missed you, not I!”

Poppy’s throat tightened, though she smiled. Even at her tender age, Aurora tried to seem as though she were strong, and it made Poppy’s heart clench painfully for her. She understood what it meant to grow up too fast because of her circumstances, and no child deserved a life like that.

“Well, I missed you both.” She smiled down at Aurora, who grinned back at her.

Aurora looked into the cot, and Poppy saw the flash of worry crossing her childish features.

“Do not fret, Aurora. Your sister will recover and be back to her normal self,” Poppy reassured her.

Aurora nodded but did not look away from Princess.

“Can I help?” she asked eagerly.

Poppy could not say no to her adorable gray eyes, hidden beneath the longest, darkest lashes.

“Of course, you may help.”

Poppy had long since learned that help, to Aurora, was not merely a pastime.

It was proof of her love. In the three months she had known the sisters, she had seen the child try to earn her place in every room she entered.

She fetched what was too heavy, folded what did not need folding, and apologized for mistakes she had not made.

When praised, Aurora bloomed, and when corrected, she shrank as if expecting to be put out in the cold.

“Take the edge of the blanket there,” Poppy said. “Only the edge. We shall lift it together.”

Aurora reached with great concentration. Her fingers brushed the cloth, but she caught too much of it, and the linen slid down over Princess’s eyes.

Princess jerked and made a sharp, offended sound. Aurora snatched her hand back as though burned.

“I—I d…d… did not mean t…t…to hurt her,” she stuttered.

Aurora only stuttered when she was afraid or nervous. Poppy felt a deep sense of empathy for the child. She reached across and clasped her hand gently.

“It is all right.” Poppy lifted the blanket away. “See? No harm done.”

Princess screwed up her face, preparing a complaint of considerable volume. Her mouth trembled, and Poppy picked her up and tucked her close, rocking her before the tears cascaded. She cried out, but it quickly dissolved into a whimper.

Poppy felt her throat clench when she saw that Aurora’s eyes filled with tears too. “I made her cry.”

“No, Aurora, she was just startled.”

“I d-d-do everything wrong.” The stutter caught on the first word and deepened her distress. Her cheeks flushed. “I c-cannot do anything right. I c-cannot make her stop. I c-could not fix the blanket. I c-cannot—”

“Aurora.”

The child pressed her lips together, but the tears spilled anyway.

Poppy looked at Annabelle, who understood without being asked. The woman took her leave and stepped back, giving them the mercy of space.

Poppy shifted Princess carefully into the crook of one arm and lowered herself from the chair to kneel on the floor, bringing herself level with Aurora. The boards were hard beneath her knees, but she scarcely noticed.

“Aurora,” she said her name softly, but the little girl would not look at her.

“Will you help me with something very important?”

Aurora sniffed. “I’ll do it wrong.”

“No. This is something only you can do.”

That earned a glance.

Poppy held Princess, so the baby faced outward a little, her warm head resting against Poppy’s arm. “Give her your finger.”

Aurora stared. “My finger?”

“Yes. That one, if you please.” Poppy nodded toward the small hand clenched at Aurora’s side. “Offer it to her. Slowly.”

Aurora lifted her hand. Her finger approached Princess with painful caution, and Princess immediately opened her fist and closed it around Aurora’s finger.

The baby’s grip was not strong by any sensible measure, yet it possessed the authority of absolute need. Her tiny fingers curled around Aurora’s as though she had been searching for that precise anchor all along. When Aurora tried, ever so slightly, to draw back in surprise, Princess held on.

“She will not let go,” Aurora whispered and laughed.

“No,” Poppy said gently. “I do not believe she intends to.”

Aurora looked at her sister as wonder overtook misery by degrees. “Why not?”

“Because she loves you. In fact, Princess loves you so much that she would hold your finger forever, and one day, when she can talk, she will tell you herself that she loves you.”

Aurora’s eyes lit up. “How do you know?”

Poppy looked at the baby’s hand wrapped around the child’s finger, and something inside her gave a small, familiar ache.

She thought of Julia again, fastening ribbons for Poppy, soothing hurts she had not caused, and standing in the place where a mother should have been.

Poppy had been the youngest sister once.

She knew what it was to look upward and see safety shaped like a person.

“I know,” Poppy said, “because I was the youngest sister in my own family. And I can guarantee that Princess already thinks you are her hero.”

Aurora studied her before giving her a satisfied, silent look.

Poppy’s heart broke for the children who were found abandoned. There were no parents to claim them, no letters, and no certain name beyond the ones given or gathered.

Poppy had wondered too often what had happened.

Had the girls been abandoned by someone desperate?

Had their parents died nameless somewhere, leaving no one to speak for them?

Had Aurora seen more than any four-year-old should see and folded the memory into that private chamber where no adult could reach?

Not knowing had its own cruelty. It allowed every possibility to exist at once.

Nobody knew what had happened to them, and Aurora refused to talk about it too.

Princess shifted in her arms, and Aurora leaned closer, still held prisoner by the finger and proud of the captivity. Poppy blinked and looked down before tears could gather fully.

“Aurora, I am afraid that I have to go.”

Aurora looked up at her sadly. “But you will come back tomorrow?”

Poppy touched the back of Aurora’s hand, careful not to disturb Princess’s grip. “Yes, I will come.”

“You promise?” Hope filled her eyes, and Poppy knew she would do anything for her, even if it meant traveling every day to the orphanage.

She crouched before her. She did not make promises lightly to children. They remembered with the precision of saints and creditors.

“I promise.”

She and Aurora smiled at each other as Princess continued to hold on to her sister’s finger.

Poppy did not know what tomorrow would bring. She only knew that she had made a promise, and she intended to keep it. She always did.

But promises were fragile things. Sometimes, all it took was a single day for the world to change.

By the time Poppy reached her aunt and uncle’s house, the day had lost its warmth. At home, different habits waited.

She would have to prepare herself before she entered.

Her Aunt Violet, Lady Bendon, would ask after the children with genuine softness in her face.

She always did. Her kindness was expressed through her actions, and Poppy had come to trust the quiet forms it took—a shawl left where Poppy might need it, a plate kept warm, or a question asked when others would have spoken only of themselves.

Her uncle, on the other hand, Michael, the Earl of Bendon, might be in his study, or at dinner, or away on some business he described in polished terms and never fully explained. Poppy had learned not to ask more than was useful. In that house, usefulness was safer than curiosity.

And then there was Georgia, her beloved cousin, who naturally became her sister when Poppy moved into their home.

As they approached the driveway, Poppy frowned when she saw a polished carriage waiting outside. It was too fine to be ordinary. The lines of it spoke of wealth and importance, even before she noted any detail.

Her carriage stopped, and she felt her breath stop with it.

The distance between the street and the house seemed to stretch, and the carriage, motionless before the entrance, became the center of her world.

Who could this possibly be? Poppy drew in a breath and forced herself forward.