“The article,” Beatrice began. “You didn’t just write about the baby. You wrote it as Miss Verity.” She searched her mother’s face. “Why use that name? Weren’t you afraid the real Miss Verity would expose you?”
Lady Moreland’s expression shifted, not into guilt, but into something almost fond. “Oh, Beatrice,” she breathed.
“What?” Beatrice frowned. “Mama?”
Lady Moreland reached out and took her hands, squeezing them gently. “I was never afraid.”
“Why not?”
She smiled then—a small, knowing smile. “Because I always knew who Miss Verity was. I have always known.”
Beatrice froze. “You knew?” Her pulse skittered. “How?”
Lady Moreland lifted one shoulder. “A mother notices things. A change in handwriting. The way you’d retreat to your room after supper. The questions you asked at breakfast were carefully casual. And then there was the voice.”
“The voice?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “I’ve heard it all your life. In the way you make observations. In the way you refuse to accept hypocrisy simply because it is convenient.” Her thumb brushed over Beatrice’s knuckles. “No one else could have written those words.”
Beatrice swallowed. “You never said anything.”
Lady Moreland shook her head. “It was never my secret to reveal. And I was… proud.” Her voice softened. “Proud of your courage. Proud of your restraint. Proud of every word you wrote.”
Something tight and fragile inside Beatrice gave way.
“You didn’t think less of me?” she whispered. “For writing as I did?”
“Think less?” Lady Moreland repeated, almost incredulous. “My darling, you gave voice to truths others were too afraid to reveal. You did it with wit, intelligence, and compassion. How could I think less of that?”
Tears welled up again, but this time, they were different—quiet, relieved, almost disbelieving.
“I wanted Miss Verity to matter,” Beatrice rasped. “I wanted her to do good.”
“And she did,” Lady Moreland affirmed. “She still does, even now.”
Beatrice let out a slow breath. “Then using her name…”
“Was the only way to be believed,” Lady Moreland finished, regret flickering briefly in her eyes. “I never meant to tarnish her. Or you. I thought—foolishly—that borrowing your voice would protect you.”
Beatrice nodded slowly. “It did not.”
“No,” Lady Moreland agreed. “It did not.” She paused, before adding gently, “But one day, when this pain has dulled, perhaps you will find your way back to her. On your own terms.”
Beatrice looked down at their joined hands. “Perhaps,” she muttered. “When I know who I am without all of this.”
Lady Moreland squeezed her fingers. “You are exactly who you have always been.”
Beatrice lifted her gaze, something steadier settling in her chest.
For the first time since the baby had been left at her home, since the scandal, since the marriage that had never truly been hers, she felt seen. And loved.
Not for what she had endured, but for who she truly was.
CHAPTER 29
The morning air in Bath was sharp and damp, carrying the scent of wet earth and the faint tang of horse sweat.
Edward had saddled his horse himself, a habit he kept even with stable hands at his disposal. It required concentration, and that was precisely what he needed. Attention to the reins and stirrups, to the rhythmic stomp of hooves on the gravel, left less room for wandering thoughts.
