Candlelight softened the table, gilding familiar faces.
At some point, Edward’s hand found Beatrice’s beneath the table. His thumb brushed her knuckles once, absently, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. She let herself lean slightly toward him.
Simon was halfway through describing a new business venture when Edward interrupted him. “You’ve said that word three times, and I still don’t believe it exists.”
“It does,” Simon insisted. “You simply lack imagination.”
Beatrice laughed. “Says the man who once insisted pamphlets would never be profitable.”
Simon grimaced. “A misjudgment.”
The conversation shifted, as it so often did now, toward the orphanage.
“You’ll be pleased to know,” Beatrice said as the soup was cleared, “that the roof of the west wing has been repaired.”
Amelia blinked. “Already?”
“Yes. Proper slate this time. No more buckets lining the corridor when it rains.”
Simon smiled. “The matron will weep with relief.”
“And the beds arrived last week,” Beatrice added. “Each child has their own bed now. Frames, mattresses, fresh linens. No more sharing.”
Edward smiled fondly. “There has been a surprising number of debates over who receives which book.”
Amelia looked between them. “Books?”
“Edward has been visiting with me,” Beatrice revealed easily. “He’s been helping with the accounts—andhe’s donated half the library we never use.”
Edward shrugged a shoulder. “They deserved better than ledgers.”
“And a nurse,” Beatrice went on. “Properly trained. She insists on airing the dormitories daily and has already terrorized half the staff into better habits.”
Simon laughed. “Good. Someone should.”
Amelia’s eyes shone. “I can’t believe how much it’s changed.”
Beatrice squeezed Edward’s hand beneath the table. “Neither can I. But it’s… good work. Honest work.”
Edward met her gaze, something warm and steady passing between them. “You led it.”
“I didn’t,” she said softly. “Wedid.”
Simon raised his glass. “To the most efficient charity administration London has ever seen.”
Edward clinked his glass against Beatrice’s. “She terrifies accountants.”
“I do not,” Beatrice protested mildly.
“You smiled while asking them to explain discrepancies,” Edward drawled. “It was deeply unsettling.”
Later, after Eliza was carried upstairs—sleepy, heavy-limbed, her curls damp with exhaustion—the four of them lingered over tea.
Amelia cradled her teacup with both hands, smiling absently as though she could still feel her daughter’s weight in her arms. Simon sat beside her, one ankle crossed over the other, listening more than speaking, his gaze drifting now and then toward the staircase as if expecting to hear a small voice call out.
Beatrice watched them from across the table, her own cup warming her palms. She found herself smiling at nothing in particular—at the simple fact of being there, of not being needed anywhere else. For now.
Amelia seemed to hesitate, then smiled. “Have you read today’s paper?”
