Later, Edward joined her at the small writing desk they had commandeered near the kitchen, his sleeves smudged with ink, his hair slightly disheveled in a way that suggested he had stopped caring about appearances somewhere between the second ledger and the third interruption.
“Have we lost a chair?” he asked mildly.
“Borrowed,” Mrs. Allen replied from the doorway. “From the dining room.”
“It’ll come back,” Beatrice said without looking up.
Edward glanced toward the hall, where the boy was now dragging the chair with great determination. “Or it won’t.”
“That’s optimism,” Mrs. Allen pointed out.
“No,” Edward replied easily. “It’s experience.”
Beatrice hid her smile behind the ledger.
Edward leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You’ve frightened the nurse.”
“She frightens me,” Beatrice replied, her quill moving steadily. “I consider it mutual respect.”
“You skipped luncheon.”
“I had tea.”
“At eight this morning.”
She sighed and finally closed the ledger. “Is this concern or an audit?”
“Concern,” he said. “Audits involve less frowning.”
She studied him for a moment—the familiar lines of his face, the quiet attention, the way he noticed without pressing. Something in her chest loosened, as it so often did now, without her quite realizing it had been tight.
“I forget sometimes that this is allowed to be… manageable,” she admitted softly.
Edward nodded once. “That takes practice.”
They sat together at the narrow desk, their shoulders nearly touching, their voices reduced to murmurs and numbers. Every so often, a child would hover nearby, feigning disinterest while watching them as though the ledgers themselves might explain why the building felt steadier, warmer, different.
Beatrice caught Edward’s eye once, just briefly. He smiled as if to say,I see it too. It was enough.
They returned home in the late afternoon, the light already beginning to fade. They hadn’t even removed their coats when a high-pitched squeal rang through the hall, sharp with delight.
Laughter followed—unrestrained, breathless—ricocheting from somewhere beyond the blue drawing room, as though the house itself were learning how to echo again.
Beatrice stopped short.
Edward turned toward her, reading her expression. “That,” he said gently, “sounds like chaos.”
She exhaled, something between a laugh and a breath she hadn’t known she had been holding. “It sounds like life.”
She felt Edward’s hand brush hers—an unconscious gesture, familiar now. She basked in it.
For a moment, she simply stood and watched.
The house no longer felt too large. The rooms no longer echoed in accusation. They held noise now, and movement, and the promise that whatever came next, it would not be empty.
Edward leaned close. “You look… content.”
She considered the word, then nodded. “I am.”
