“Do you believe she looks like William?”
I moved closer. I had little experience with children. Isabella being the first in the house since Henry was born thirty-five years ago.
And I had been born within a fortnight of him.
I examined her. “Perhaps…” I scratched my nose. “The shape of her lips. The Hartridge visage is quite distinct.” I crouched. “She has Caroline’s eyes, though.” I met his gaze. “Sorry.”
He shook his head. Then he glanced around.
Mrs. Fernsby, apparently having decided she could entrust her charge with two men, had stepped from the room.
“Old hurts, Percy. I long forgave her for choosing my brother. He did not have… Well, you know.”
William was not half Black. Yes, I know.
My resentment of Caroline had spanned my entire acquaintance of her. She would have never known, though. First, because she paid me no mind. Second, because I would never let her see the enmity. If my father had caught wind, he would have banished me. My proximity to Henry—even if he never returnedto Crosswood—was through the estate. I held to the hope he might one day return.
And he had.
“She does have Caroline’s eyes. I am glad we have several portraits of her. As well as a couple of William. She shall always know of her parentage. They loved her very much.”
He said the words with more surety than he had the right to put in them. William died before Isabella was born, and her mother a mere two months later. Regardless of how her parents felt about her, she had been wanted. The entire household knew of the miscarriages and of the need for an heir.
Now the estate had one.
Or possibly more if Henry marries.
“She is all I need, Percy.”
Henry met my gaze.
“She is the legacy.”
“You might—”
“No, my friend, I will not.”
Friend?
Must be the sentimentality getting to him.
“You are too personal, my lord.”
He shrugged. “You are my valet. My confidante. If I choose familiarity—”
“And how is my charge doing?” Mrs. Fernsby bustled into the room.
I nearly tipped over, steadying myself against Henry at the last moment.
He never released his grip of Isabella’s hand. “She is well, Mrs. Fernsby. You are very good for her.”
The wet nurse blinked. “I am the lucky one, Lord Hartridge.”
He cleared his throat. “I understand you were a governess before you married Mr. Fernsby.”
At the mention of her late husband, Mrs. Fernsby crossed herself. “You understand correctly, my lord. I had three of Miss Marston’s nieces under my charge.” She straightened her spine. “I would have remained, except…I fell in love.”
And then had lost both her husband and the child they had so desperately wanted.
