Lady Moreland turned away from the window, the faint light accentuating the fine lines around her mouth. “You knew the risk when you started writing, Beatrice. It isn’t about what youwrote, not truly. It’s about who they’ll believe had the audacity to write it.”
Beatrice met her mother’s gaze. “Then let them whisper. I wrote what was true.”
Lady Moreland’s eyes hardened. “You wrote what was dangerous.”
Beatrice lifted her chin slightly. “I didn’t write to wound anyone.”
“No,” Lady Moreland said, coming closer. “But you wrote as though the world would be grateful for your honesty. It rarely thanks a woman for having opinions.”
Beatrice met her gaze, steady but pained. “And should I have stayed silent?”
“You should have stayed safe,” Lady Moreland said simply, “but now you are a duchess. You carry more than your name—His Grace’s, this house’s, even that child’s. And until the baby’s mother is found, everything must look proper. You must appear… composed. No hint of disorder, no reason for anyone to look too closely. Respectable—that is how you survive a scandal.”
“I can survive worse than whispers.”
Cecily touched her arm gently. “Bea, we only mean that you shouldn’t give them more ammunition to use against you. People forget the good things quickly. They’ll remember the scandal longer.”
Beatrice’s eyes flicked from Cecily’s anxious face to her mother, who stood very still, her hands folded just so. For a moment, she felt the walls close in on her.
A faint draft slipped under the door, stirring the edge of the curtains. She drew a slow, steadying breath.
Lady Moreland used that pause to move toward the cradle, her gaze taking in the neatness of the room, the folded linens, the pale ribbon at the canopy’s edge, the small brass bell on the bedside table.
“You have made this room into a proper nursery, Beatrice. It is orderly, and the child looks well cared for.”
Beatrice inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Mrs. Hart has been a great help.”
“She has good hands,” Lady Moreland agreed, her fingers drifting along the hem of her glove as though confirming its smoothness. Then she stilled, her expression sharpening. “Listen to me, my dear.”
Beatrice tensed instinctively. Nothing good ever followed that tone.
“Until the baby’s mother is found, until there is some answer for people to point to, everything must appear entirely under control. You must beseen.”
Beatrice blinked. The declaration landed like a small, blunt stone.
“Seen?” she echoed.
“Yes.” Lady Moreland nodded. “At the chapel on Sundays. At dinners, when the company is polite. At small gatherings and larger ones—balls, where you can be seen moving through a room. Let no one assume there is unease here. Let them think that your household is content and your marriage is solid.”
Beatrice let out a slow breath. “And if I don’t?” she asked quietly.
Lady Moreland’s eyes softened a fraction. “Then whispers turn into certainties. And certainties become stories no one will let you outlive.” She folded her hands, each finger precisely placed. “Quelling suspicion is a task of appearances, not of argument.”
Cecily glanced at Beatrice with a watery smile. “So, smiles, then. Lots of smiles.” She shifted, brushing a stray curl from her forehead with a restless, nervous hand, though it sprang loose at once. “That part I can help with. You were always dreadful at pretending to be pleased.” She shrugged. “Someone had to be, growing up with Mama.”
Lady Moreland inhaled sharply. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mama,” Beatrice cut in gently, stepping closer before her sister dug herself a deeper hole. “They’ll do more than watch what I wear or where I stand. They’ll look for cracks.” She swallowed. “What if I am not capable of meeting their expectations?”
Her mother’s mouth twitched. “My dear, every woman who steps into Society wears a version of herself she does not feel. It is simply what you must do.”
Beatrice looked toward the cradle, at the sleeping child who had reshaped her life in weeks. “I don’t know how to be what all of you expect.”
“No one is equal to every demand,” Lady Moreland replied. “One simply learns which parts must be shown and which may be kept to oneself.”
Beatrice drew in a deep breath. How strange that she should be surrounded by order, neat linens, a tidy room, a peacefully sleeping child, and still feel as though something inside her wavered.
Lady Moreland’s voice gentled. “You have made a life here, Beatrice. Truly.” She glanced around the room, then back at her daughter. “It is a good house. And the Duke…” She paused, weighing her words. “He has been kind, hasn’t he?”
