Realization crashed over Beatrice.
Eliza!
The little girl reminded her of Eliza.
The memory rose unbidden—her small weight in Beatrice’s arms, her quiet breaths, her strong grip.
Beatrice remained where she was, her hand hovering for a moment longer than necessary, her heart pounding in her chest.
Yes,that hurts.
She withdrew her hand slowly, her smile thinner now.
“I can stay,” she said, turning to Mrs. Allen. “If you’ll allow it.”
Mrs. Allen hesitated, glancing briefly at Beatrice’s fine coat, then at Alice, who hovered nearby.
“You’re… most welcome, Your Grace,” she replied, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. “Though I wouldn’t have thought?—”
“I would prefer to help,” Beatrice cut in. “If that’s all right with you.”
It was.
Not ten minutes later, her sleeves were rolled to her elbows. The soup was thick and steaming, ladled from a big iron pot that fogged the air with warmth. She took a bowl from Mrs. Allen and set it down carefully in front of a waiting child. Alice moved efficiently beside Mrs. Allen, refilling bowls and wiping spills without comment.
“Mind, it’s hot,” she warned gently.
She learned the children’s names, or the nicknames they answered to, as she went. A boy with a crooked grin. A girl who insisted on holding her own spoon even when it shook.
She moved down the line, bowl after bowl, her skirts brushed by small hands and small bodies, the floor uneven beneath her shoes.
“You don’t have to do this,” Mrs. Allen said quietly as they worked side by side. “We manage.”
“I know.” Beatrice ladled soup with practiced care. “But managing isn’t the same as thriving.”
Mrs. Allen studied her then.
Beatrice took the bowl the matron handed her and set it carefully before a small boy who watched her with solemn intensity before whispering a shy thank you.
“You’re welcome,” she said, with a genuine smile.
Mrs. Allen worked beside her, efficient despite the hunch in her shoulders. “We don’t often have help at this hour,” she admitted quietly.
“I’m glad to be of use,” Beatrice replied.
“We do what we can. It isn’t nothing,” Mrs. Allen added, almost to herself.
“No,” Beatrice agreed. “It isn’t.”
She watched as Mrs. Allen fixed a child’s sleeve, her fingers deft, maternal without softness. A woman long past the luxury of hope.
She wiped her hands on a cloth and nodded toward the ceiling. A faint drip echoed somewhere beyond the walls. “Does the roof leak badly?”
Mrs. Allen followed her gaze. “The winter was hard on the building,” she sighed, as though the words had slipped free before she could weigh them. “The rain found its way in. We move the beds when it does. Buckets, mostly.”
Beatrice’s hand stilled on the cloth. “Which rooms?”
“The eastern wing. Two nights ago, it was the girls’ dormitory.” A pause. “They slept in the hall. Said it felt like an adventure.”
