Chapter 9
Two weeks had passed since Cecily arrived, and Leopold had begun measuring the days by the small routines forming around her. The realization irritated him, especially when he saw how thoroughly his own habits had become entangled with the child abandoned on his doorstep.
He went to the nursery every morning before breakfast, telling himself it was merely to check on Cecily.
A duke could surely look in on a child left on his doorstep, make certain the nursery was in order, and learn whether she was eating, sleeping, and causing fewer domestic disasters than expected.
All perfectly reasonable. It had nothing to do with the fact that he had begun looking forward to those moments before breakfast more than most meetings in his study. And it certainly had nothing to do with the lovely, enigmatic nursemaid who cared for the stray child.
That morning, he found the nursery door open and heard a woman’s voice before he crossed the threshold. Phoebe was seated in the chair by the window with Cecily in her lap and a book open in her hands.
The baby pulled at the lower corner of the pages with both fists, making determined little noises of protest, and Phoebe kept reading as if that were entirely normal.
Leopold stopped in the doorway. She was reading aloud from a book on English gardens.
Her voice was confident, clear, and well-paced.
She read as though she knew exactly where every sentence was going and expected the listener to keep up.
Cecily tugged at the page again. Phoebe turned it around her fists without pausing.
Leopold watched for several seconds before stepping inside.
She did not look up right away, leaving him free to notice the curve of her jaw, the tilt of her nose, and the auburn curl that slipped down her cheek before she brushed it behind one ear.
If his heartbeat quickened, it was only because her voice had made even English gardens sound worth hearing.
He crossed to the chair by the window and sat down quietly, more because he had decided to listen than because he intended to interrupt.
Cecily was absorbed in the book as though it was a far more interesting object than the world.
Phoebe turned another page, then another, and continued reading in the same calm voice.
The room was warm, the fire banked low, the curtains drawn partway back to let in a cool strip of morning light, and the smell of milk and paper and clean linen hung faintly in the air. Leopold listened.
She read well, he thought. Better than well.
Her voice warmed whenever she forgot he was there, easing into the rhythm of the sentences until even the duller passages seemed intentional.
It was the least guarded he had ever seen her, and for one unsettling moment, he felt as though he were meeting her properly for the first time.
Leopold knew the instant she noticed him. The warmth withdrew from her voice, leaving it cool and wary. Her eyes lifted from the page, met his for one brief second, and then she settled back into composure.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said with a polite smile.
“You are already at work, I see,” he said, suddenly sheepish about his silent observation.
Cecily looked up from the book, saw him, and immediately gave a pleased little sound.
Leopold inclined his head toward the child. “She approves of the reading.”
Phoebe’s mouth moved slightly. “She approves of the pictures more than the reading.”
“That seems fair.”
“She is easily entertained by destruction.”
Leopold glanced at the baby. “Then she is well suited to the family.”
That earned him a quick look from Phoebe, brief but sharp enough to suggest she had understood the joke and was deciding whether to approve of it. Cecily squirmed then, and Phoebe looked down to readjust her, grateful for the interruption.
He gestured toward the book. “What are you reading?”
She held it up slightly. “A book on gardens.”
“So I see.”
“I found it in the library.”
His brows rose. “You went to the library?”
“Yes, my lord. I do hope that is permitted.”
Leopold looked at her a moment, his heart squeezing. She had been unsure whether he would approve of her use of the library. Did he give her the impression that he was an ogre of an employer? He thought about his mother and groaned inwardly.
Perhaps I did not, but perhaps the esteemed dowager duchess did, he thought, hoping his concern was unfounded.
“The library is available to the whole household. Any time you wish.”
She lowered her eyes briefly to the page. “That is useful.”
“This was meant to be reassuring.”
“It was.”
The answer was soft enough that he could not tell whether she was amused or simply cautious.
Leopold leaned back in the chair by the window and crossed one ankle over the other. “Do you read about gardens as often as you read about history?”
She smiled, softly and with surprise.
“Sometimes.”
“Why this book specifically? Was there something special about it?”
Phoebe glanced down at the title and then at him again. “I like the planning in this one.”
“That seems like a very particular reason.”
“It is.”
“Do you enjoy spending time in gardens, as well?”
“Sometimes.”
“Have you explored the gardens here at Belgrave?”
She paused, her glance meant to be casual, though it appeared more cautious.
“I have taken Cecily for a couple of walks. The gardens are quite…interesting.”
He looked toward the book, then back at her. “You have opinions on the grounds, then?”
“I have questions.”
That got his attention. “About what?”
She looked at him a moment before answering, as though deciding whether to be precise or evasive. “How the east path is maintained. Which areas are replanted in spring. Why the hedge near the rear wall has been allowed to grow unevenly.”
Leopold blinked once. Barnaby would have called those points specific. Leopold found them more than that. They were observant in a way that did not fit the role she had taken in the house.
“Do most nursemaids inquire about hedges?” he asked.
She raised an eyebrow, her eyes not entirely calm.
“I imagine not.”
“No,” he said more dryly than he intended. “They do not.”
Phoebe turned another page. “Then again, most nursemaids probably do not spend much time in the library.”
“That is also true.”
Cecily suddenly jabbed a finger into the page and looked delighted by the resulting crinkle of paper.
Phoebe caught the child’s hand and laughed softly, looking at the infant as if, for that moment, she was the only other person in the world.
Her laugh was low and unguarded enough that Leopold looked at her again before she could collect herself.
There it is, he thought. The warmth. Her demeanor changed when she was focused only on Cecily. It was not dramatic, but it was real, and it made the room feel different, as if the person speaking to the baby were more natural than the woman speaking to him.
When Mrs. Pritchard arrived with breakfast, he realized how long he had been in the nursery—and how little he minded. She set the tray by the fire without comment, as if finding the duke there before breakfast had become ordinary, then left them to it with a tiny, knowing look.
Phoebe sat with Cecily on her lap and fed the child from a bowl of mashed porridge, pushing her own food aside without hesitation. Leopold wondered whether such care was remarkable or merely something a good nursemaid did without thinking.
When Phoebe looked up and caught him watching her so curiously, his gaze moved at once to the window. She said nothing. That, too, was becoming familiar.
Before he could give himself another reason to stay, he quickly rose from his seat.
“You are doing a wonderful job with Cecily, Miss Redmond.”
She blushed brilliantly, not meeting his gaze.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
To that, he simply nodded, turned, and left the nursery. And from the moment he did, he wanted nothing more than to go back to it.
By afternoon, the urge to return to the nursery had become difficult to ignore. He told himself he only wished to make certain Miss Redmond had eaten after abandoning her breakfast, but when he found Mrs. Pritchard leaning over the crib instead, his heart sank before he could stop it.
“Miss Redmond has gone to rest,” Mrs. Pritchard said, despite having never turned to see him in the doorway.
“To rest?” he echoed, disappointed rather than angry.
“She was terribly pale and touched her temple when she thought I was not looking,” Mrs. Pritchard said, with a look that made clear the matter was settled. “I sent her to lie down until she feels better.”
Leopold resisted the dull wave of concern that rose.
“If she was too unwell to care for Cecily today, she could have told me, and I would have seen to it that someone else took her for today.”
Mrs. Pritchard looked at him as if he had just said elephants could fly.
“Miss Redmond would sooner hold herself together with starch paste than to abandon her duties to the baby for a single day.”
Leopold nodded slowly, knowing the words were true as Mrs. Pritchard spoke them. He wondered if he should ask the cook to send up some chamomile tea or ginger biscuits to Miss Redmond’s chambers to help her feel better. But something else demanded his attention then.
Over the edge of the crib appeared a mass of dark curls, sleepy eyes, and a mouth screwed tight with effort. Cecily stood on wobbly legs, clutching the slats, then sputtered through pursed lips and smacked one hand against the crib with a delighted coo.
Mrs. Pritchard watched the interaction with the closest to surprise he had ever seen on her face.
“It seems she is happy to see you.”
Leopold nodded.
I am rather delighted to see her, as well, he thought.
“I should like to sit with her for a little while,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Pritchard asked, the surprise suddenly undeniable on her face.
He approached the crib, where Cecily was reaching for him urgently by the time he reached her.