Beatrice did not trust her voice not to waver. “And the roof?”
Mrs. Allen let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Old. Patching buys us time, but not much. We mend it every spring and hope.”
Beatrice’s mouth tightened. She served another bowl, then another, listening as Mrs. Allen continued.
“And we’ve more little ones than before, especially infants. I do what I can, but I was never trained as a nurse. We make do.”
Beatrice set the cloth down slowly. “How many of them?” she asked.
“Too many,” Mrs. Allen replied simply. “And not enough hands. Not enough funds.”
“And a nurse?” Beatrice probed. “Do you have one?”
Mrs. Allen shook her head. “We have a woman who knows herbs. Another who’s good with fevers. But not—” She stopped herself. “Not a nurse.”
“Why?”
“We can’t afford it.” Mrs. Allen gave a small, rueful smile.
Beatrice glanced around the room—the patched sleeves, the small portions, the way the matron counted bowls before allowing herself one.
“How much do you need to repair the roof?” she asked.
Mrs. Allen hesitated. “That sort of work… it’s costly, Your Grace.”
“An estimate,” Beatrice pressed gently. “I understand figures.”
Mrs. Allen named a sum, then a smaller one for wages, her voice flattening as though she expected refusal to follow.
Beatrice nodded once, committing it to memory. “That is not impossible.”
Mrs. Allen looked at her sharply. “For us, it is.”
“It no longer has to be,” Beatrice insisted, not looking away. “I will provide it.”
She made sure her voice was calm and sure. It was not an offer, nor a promise made in passing.
Mrs. Allen gaped at her. “Your Grace—” She faltered, just slightly. “Many people made promises before you.”
“I am not making one,” Beatrice replied. “I will come back with a surveyor. And then, the work can begin.”
Mrs. Allen bowed her head, not in deference, but in something akin to relief. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Not charity for the sake of appearances,” Beatrice continued, her voice steady as she reached for another bowl. “But repairs well done. And a nurse with proper training. These children deserve consistency and safety.”
For a moment, Mrs. Allen could not speak. Then her eyes filled, and she turned away under the pretense of straightening the tablecloth.
“You have no idea what that would mean,” she croaked.
Beatrice did. She thought of Eliza’s warm weight in her arms. Of lists written in the margins of her day. Of knowing how a child liked to be held and how much it mattered.
She passed the next bowl along and said, “We’ll speak again tomorrow.”
She meant that, too.
By the time the last bowls were cleared, the room had warmed—not from the fire, but from motion. Children had drifted back to their corners, full and drowsy, their earlier energy softened into murmurs and slow blinks. One of the older boys carried a basket with solemn care, and another insisted on holding the door open for her as though it were a great honor.
Beatrice washed her hands at the basin near the window, rolling her sleeves back down with neat precision. Mrs. Allen hovered nearby, still in shock, still watching her as though she might vanish at any moment.
