Mrs. Hart smiled, coming closer. “Then she’s already doing her job, Your Grace.”
Beatrice’s gaze drifted to the window, where light spilled softly across the carpet. “I suspect she’ll prove many things before long,” she said, half to herself.
“Only good ones, I hope,” Mrs. Hart replied mildly.
The baby gave a soft coo as if in agreement, her small fists batting at the air.
Beatrice’s gaze softened. “You hear that? You have an ally already.”
Mrs. Hart smiled faintly at the baby. “A formidable one, I should say.”
Beatrice said nothing to that. Her hand lingered near the cradle’s edge, her mind already turning to the day ahead.
She should have been in her study by now. The steward was waiting to review the repairs accounts, and a letter from Lady Halverton, written in a familiar looping hand, awaited her attention. Yet she lingered.
It was easier here. The nursery was quiet, warm, and predictable in a way the rest of the house was not. Beyond these walls, there was the soft shuffle of servants through polished corridors, the muted thud of boots, the constant hum of things being done.
It was a mystery to her how so many people, all seemingly capable, lost the ability to decide anything the instant she appeared. If she paused in a corridor too long, someone was bound to ask her opinion on flower arrangements or roof repairs—sometimes both, in the same breath.
It occurred to her, after the third inquiry about chimney drafts, that she needed someone in the house, apart from Edward, who spoke to her as Beatrice, not as the Duchess.
Hence, she had written to her sister two days ago, asking her to visit with their mama. A decision made almost without thought. The house had felt too still, and her sister’s presence, for all its chaos, might bring something that the walls of Wrexford sorely lacked.
She would have to leave the nursery soon, she reminded herself. She was expected downstairs within the hour. Still, she stayed a moment longer.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
A footman entered, bowing. “Lady Cecily to see Your Grace, along with Lady Moreland.”
Beatrice’s head snapped up. “Show them in,” she instructed, rising quickly.
The moment her mother and sister crossed the threshold, a smile spread across her face.
Cecily’s bonnet was slightly askew, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her curls escaping from their pins. A small basket swung from her arm, overflowing with toys that looked charming but questionably useful.
Behind her followed their mother, composed and elegant, her presence filling the room with gentle poise. She carried the faint scent of violets and travel, refined even after hours on the road.
Beatrice’s breath caught. For the first time in what felt like ages, she was looking at people who belonged to her. The sight of Cecily standing there, alive and smiling and entirely herself, was almost too much. She could have wept from sheer relief.
“Cecily,” she breathed, hurrying across the room. “Mama.”
Cecily’s face split into a grin as she handed her bonnet to a maid. “You see, Mama? I told you she’d look like she might cry.”
“I most certainly will not,” Beatrice said, though her voice betrayed her. She reached for her sister’s hands and held them tight, laughing a little at how absurdly good it felt just to see her. “Thank heavens you survived the ordeal.”
Cecily let out a breathless laugh. “You make it sound as though we rode through cannon fire instead of puddles.”
Lady Moreland stepped forward, her gloved hands cool but firm as they wrapped around Beatrice’s. “It was hardly pleasant, my dear, but Cecily insisted we come once we received your letters. She was quite sure you’d lost all sense of proportion living out here in such… tranquility.”
“Peace, Mama,” Beatrice corrected gently. “It’s called peace.”
Lady Moreland sniffed. “Peace is well and good. Solitude, less so. You look pale, Beatrice.”
“I’m fine,” Beatrice said quickly, though warmth crept up her neck.
Cecily leaned in, wrapping an arm around her.
Beatrice’s throat tightened. “I’ve missed you,” she murmured against her shoulder.
