Edward said nothing. He did not trust his voice not to waver.
Cecily’s eyes flicked between them. “Good. Children remember those things.”
Edward frowned. “Remember?”
“Oh yes,” Cecily replied with a grin. “In their bones, if nowhere else. Long before the mind learns how.”
Edward glanced toward Beatrice. She had gone very still.
“And after tomorrow?” Cecily asked lightly.
Amelia’s voice softened. “She comes home with us.”
“Yes,” Cecily said. “I know. I meant you two.”
Edward straightened instinctively. “Everything has been arranged.”
Cecily shook her head. “That word again.”
“It is a useful one.” Beatrice’s voice was calm.
“For people who are afraid of mess,” Cecily replied gently.
Edward’s jaw tightened. He resisted the urge to interject—to defend, or deny, or confess to something he had no name for.
“You have done something generous,” Cecily continued, her gaze steady on him now. “Both of you. Do not pretend it costs nothing.”
The room seemed to quiet around them.
Edward forced a measured breath. “We are not pretending.”
Cecily studied him, then nodded. “Good. Then I won’t worry.”
A footman appeared to announce dinner.
As they rose, Cecily caught Beatrice’s hand briefly. Edward noticed how she leaned into the touch before she grew aware of it.
“Tomorrow will be loud,” Cecily murmured to her. “Tonight may be complicated.”
Beatrice swallowed. “It already is.”
Edward looked away.
As they moved toward the door, he lingered a moment behind, watching them—Amelia radiant with anticipation, Simon steady at her side, Beatrice composed and distant.
Later that evening, he made his way to the study. He tapped the papers under his arm; he had promised himself he would finish work before midnight. But as he passed the nursery, a familiar hum drifted through the half-open door.
He looked inside.
The lamps were turned low, casting the room in a warm glow. Pip lay in her cradle, kicking softly, her tiny toes pushing against the embroidered hem of her blanket. And Beatrice stood above her.
Edward froze.
Beatrice didn’t see him at first—she was bent over the baby, her head bowed, strands of her hair slipping from their pins. She hummed under her breath, smoothing Pip’s hair in that absent way she often did, so tender it tore something inside him.
“Your mother will be here soon,” she whispered. “You’ll have a proper family. A beautiful one.”
Pip made a soft, questioning sound, and Beatrice leaned closer, her smile small but pained. “Yes, I know. I’ll miss you, too.”
