Pip blinked up at her with that unfocused wonder babies always have, and then—unexpectedly—gave the tiniest smile.
Amelia let out a small, broken laugh. “She smiled.”
“She likes the sound of your voice,” Beatrice said quietly.
Amelia looked back at her, gratitude shining through tears. “You agreed to be her godmother?” she asked shyly.
Beatrice’s breath caught, before she smiled warmly. “I would be honored.” Then she motioned for Amelia to follow her into the sitting room. “We should discuss the christening. And the wedding preparations, if you feel up to it.”
Amelia nodded, wiping her cheek with the heel of her palm. “I do. There’s so little time.”
Beatrice opened her notebook, its pages already filled with her delicate handwriting. “The date is confirmed. The christening will take place on Tuesday, right after the wedding. St. Jude’s has always been a peaceful chapel.”
Amelia brightened. “Yes. A small ceremony. That’s exactly what I wanted.”
“That will be easy.” Beatrice smiled, making a note. “About your wedding gown,” she added gently. “I sent word to Madame Leclerc. She’s expecting you tomorrow morning to make final adjustments.”
Amelia blinked rapidly, overwhelmed. “I didn’t think… I mean, with everything happening, I wasn’t sure?—”
“It will be beautiful,” Beatrice assured her. “Every bride deserves that.”
Amelia’s breath shook a little as she nodded.
“I’ve already prepared the christening gown,” Beatrice said. “You may change anything you like, of course.”
Amelia touched the baby’s hair. “No, I’d like her to wear what you made. You’ve done so much for her, Your Grace.”
Beatrice reached out and put a hand on her shoulder. “She needed someone. Anyone would have done the same.”
Amelia shook her head. “Not anyone.”
Silence settled between them.
When Amelia left later, Beatrice picked up Pip and cradled her against her shoulder. She closed her eyes, holding the child tighter than she meant to.
“Just a little longer,” she whispered into Pip’s hair. “Just a little longer.”
By the time she went downstairs for dinner, she had smoothed her gown, steadied her breathing, and schooled her features into calm.
The butler waited at the foot of the stairs, his hands folded behind his back. “Your Grace,” he greeted with a bow. “His Grace will not be joining you this evening.”
Her steps faltered. “Not joining me?”
You are only asking because it is expected, not because it stings.
“May I ask why?”
The butler hesitated only a fraction, but she caught it. “His Grace has retired to the library for the evening,” he replied carefully. “He asked not to be disturbed.”
Of course he did.
“I see,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
Dinner dragged. Too many courses. Too much silence. Every clink of silver sounded like a reprimand—compose yourself, Beatrice.
Eventually, she set down her napkin and left the dining room with a quiet nod to the servants. Movement helped. The corridors were dim and the house quiet, save for the ticking of distant clocks.
She walked without aim, simply needing air, space—something.
