“You sweet girl,” she whispered. “The world is lucky to have you in it.”
Her fingers lingered a moment longer on Eliza’s tiny hand. The baby’s fingers curled instinctively, clinging to her glove, and the soft pressure struck something inside her—deep and silent and aching.
I want this.
Not only to cradle a child for a moment, but to hold one every morning, every night. To feel that small weight settle against her shoulder because she washome. To hum lullabies not as a guest or a helper, but as a mother.
The thought burrowed between her ribs, warm and wrenching all at once.
Amelia watched her carefully, her eyes still shining. “You can’t help the fact that she has already stolen your heart.”
Beatrice laughed softly. “She has. Quite thoroughly.”
“One day,” Amelia said, hopeful in the way only a new bride could be, “you will be wonderful with little ones of your own.”
Beatrice’s smile did not waver. “Perhaps,” she said lightly.
But inside, something crumpled.
Edward would never give her this. Not with affection, not with shared looks over a cradle, not with hands entwined while watching a child sleep. He had made that clear without saying it outright. Their union represented duty. Stability. A carefully constructed peace.
She did not resent him for it, but she could not lie to herself about what it meant.
Amelia’s expression softened. “Beatrice? Did I say something?”
“No,” Beatrice replied quickly, smoothing her gloves. “Not at all. You mustn’t worry. Today is yours. Yours and Eliza’s.”
Simon approached and slid an arm around Amelia’s waist, clearly sensing her emotions. He gave Beatrice a grateful nod. “Thank you for everything.”
Beatrice inclined her head. “She is a treasure,” she said, forcing a small smile. “You are blessed.”
Amelia leaned into Simon, and for a brief moment, Beatrice studied them—husband and wife, new parents, bound not only by circumstance but also by devotion.
Something inside her stirred. Not envy. Longing, perhaps. Though she wished it were otherwise.
Eliza fussed, and Amelia rocked her with instinctive ease.
Before Beatrice’s thoughts could spiral further, Amelia touched her arm. “You will always be part of her life, Beatrice. Always. We will visit often. I want you to see her grow up.”
Beatrice nodded, grateful for the promise even if she could not articulate why. She forced her breath to steady.
“I would like that, thank you,” she whispered. “You cannot know how much that means to me.”
But she suspected Amelia knew, at least a little.
Beatrice stood in the entrance hall, her hands hanging at her sides, listening to the rustle of the wind outside. Everything smelled of lavender and polished wood, yet nothing could fill the emptiness of the house.
“Mrs. Hart has packed the last of the baby’s things, Your Grace,” a footman said softly, as if he feared speaking too loudly might shatter her.
Beatrice nodded. “Thank you.”
She did not go upstairs at once. Instead, she removed her gloves with care, set them on the side table, and stood there longer than necessary, listening to the quiet. No small sighs. No startled cries. No soft murmuring from the servants’ quarters.
It is finished.It is done.
Only when Mrs. Hart appeared at the landing did she move.
“I thought you might wish to see the nursery once more, Your Grace,” the housekeeper said gently. “Before we—well, before we clear it out.”
