Lady Moreland recoiled as if struck.
“I trusted you,” Beatrice continued. “You took my voice—again. You decided what was best for me without even asking whatIwanted.”
Lady Moreland sobbed openly. “When you become a mother, you will understand what it means to love someone so much you will risk everything—even their anger—to save them.”
The words landed like a slap.
Beatrice went still. Something twisted painfully in her chest
“Mother…” Her voice trembled. “I will never be a mother.”
Lady Moreland froze. Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, darling?—”
“My marriage is over,” The confession escaped before Beatrice could stop it. “Edward and I… we barely speak. He cannot bear to look at me. He is gone. Whatever hope there was… it’s over.”
Lady Moreland crossed the room slowly. “Beatrice, my sweet girl…”
“I will never have a child. Not like this.” Beatrice’s breath hitched. “I will never have a family of my own.”
Lady Moreland gathered her into her arms, clutching her as if she could anchor her back into the world.
Beatrice resisted for a heartbeat, then collapsed against her, grief crashing through the shock and rage all at once.
“I wanted so badly to believe that I could fix things,” Lady Moreland sobbed into her hair. “I only wanted you safe.”
Beatrice wept harder against her shoulder.
Lady Moreland did not loosen her hold when Beatrice’s sobs subsided. If anything, she pulled her closer, one hand firm on her back, the other smoothing her hair with the same tenderness she had used when Beatrice had been a child.
“I know,” she murmured. “I know you’re angry. You have every right to be.”
Beatrice’s breath evened out. The fury that had burned so hot moments ago softened into something heavier, more exhausted than fierce. She pressed her forehead against her mother’s shoulder, then pulled back just enough to look at her.
“I hated you,” she said hoarsely. “For a moment, I hated you for what you took from me.”
Lady Moreland nodded. “I deserved it.”
“But I don’t want to carry that hate,” Beatrice added quietly. “I don’t have the strength for it. Not anymore.”
Lady Moreland’s eyes filled again. “Does that mean?—”
“It means I forgive you,” Beatrice said. The word felt strange on her tongue, but not false. “Not because what you did was right, but because I know you did it out of love, however misguided.”
Lady Moreland closed her eyes, a broken sound escaping her. She pulled Beatrice into her arms again, holding her as though she might vanish.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, my darling.”
They remained like that for a moment longer, the room still around them, the morning light shifting across the carpet as time moved on regardless of grief or reconciliation.
When Beatrice finally stepped back, she wiped her eyes with a wet laugh. “I suppose we’ve both ruined our appearances for the day.”
Lady Moreland smiled weakly. “It would not be the first time.”
Silence settled between them. Not empty, but gentler.
Beatrice hesitated, then said, “There is something I don’t understand.”
Lady Moreland stilled. “Yes?”
