“Yes,” Beatrice said quickly, a little too eager. She drew in a breath, steadying herself. “I would like that… very much.”
Mrs. Hart hesitated, then added, “We haven’t disposed of anything, of course. There’s no need. Such things can be used again.”
Beatrice’s eyes softened. “Useful?” she echoed.
Mrs. Hart inclined her head, her gaze steady. “For your own children, one day.”
Beatrice swallowed, letting the words sink in. A small, wistful smile touched her lips. “Perhaps… one day,” she murmured.
Mrs. Hart led the way, her pace slower than usual. At the nursery door, she hesitated.
“I can come back later,” she offered. “If you would prefer?—”
“No,” Beatrice said. She met the older woman’s eyes and managed another smile. “Stay, if you like.”
The nursery was just as she had left it that morning—too tidy. The cradle stood near the window, its lace canopy tied back. The little chair where she had spent more hours than she would ever admit sat beside it, and a folded shawl lay across the seat.
Mrs. Hart busied herself at once, straightening a basket that did not need straightening, smoothing the edge of a blanket that was already smooth.
“She took her well,” she remarked quietly. “The mother. Held her like she’d never let go.”
Beatrice inclined her head. “She will be well cared for.”
“I believe so,” Mrs. Hart agreed. She paused before adding, “The child liked you very much.”
Beatrice’s fingers tightened around the back of the chair. “Yes,” she said softly. “She did.”
Mrs. Hart seemed to sense the edge of something too sharp to approach. She cleared her throat. “I’ll air the room later, then. No hurry.”
“Thank you.”
When the door closed behind her, the silence rushed in again, thicker this time.
Beatrice moved to the cradle and rested her hand on the edge, just as she had done a hundred times before. The faint indentation in the mattress was still there. She traced it with her fingertips, absurdly careful, as though Eliza might still be sleeping and she dared not wake her.
You are where you belong,she reminded herself.
She lowered herself into the chair, and the wood creaked softly beneath her weight. She stared at the empty cradle until her eyes burned.
Eliza had her parents now. A mother who loved her enough to come back. A father who would stand before the world and claim her. A future unshadowed by scandal or secrecy.
Beatrice repeated these truths to herself, like a litany. They did not dull the ache. If anything, they simply sharpened it.
“I wish I had more time,” she whispered, the words slipping free before she could stop them. “More moments to know her… to watch her grow up.”
Her gaze caught on the small basket beneath the window—the one that had carried Eliza between rooms, between houses, and into her life. Inside it lay the things she had not yet given away: a spare muslin cloth, a tiny cap she had knitted, the folded paper on which Amelia had once written a name and crossed it out three times before settling on Eliza.
She reached for the basket and lifted the cap. It was absurdly small. She turned it in her hands, her thumb brushing the hem where the wool was softened from use.
The sound that followed startled her—a shuddering breath that did not feel like it belonged to her at all. She bent forward, pressing her hands together, her shoulders drawing inward as though she might hold herself together by sheer will alone.
She did not weep loudly. She did not sob. Instead, tears slid down her face, each one leaving a burning path she did not bother to wipe away. Her breath hitched once, twice, and then the composure she had worn so carefully all morning crumpled.
She thought of the way Eliza curled her fingers around hers when she slept. The way she settled at the sound of humming,even when Beatrice did not realize she was doing it. The weight of her—small, warm, impossibly real.
It was never meant to be.Not for you.
She hiccupped. She pressed her palm to her mouth, stifling the sound.
