Margaret glanced up. “She’s well cared for. I can see that already. You’ve done wonderfully.”
“Mrs. Hart deserves the credit,” Beatrice said. “I simply… check on her. Constantly.”
“As you should,” Margaret agreed warmly.
She held the baby with the unthinking ease of someone who had done so many times before. A gentle sway, a light pat on the back, the faintest hum.
“You make it look effortless,” Beatrice noted.
Margaret smiled down at Pip. “I assure you, it is mostly practice and a very patient nurse. Heaven knows I stumbled through my son’s first months like a blindfolded fool. Though there are a few things that help.”
She glanced up. “Warm, quiet rooms. Short walks in the morning when the weather allows.” She stroked Pip’s cheek. “And if exhaustion ever wins, a wet nurse is a perfectly acceptable solution. I fought the idea once, and Sebastian nearly had to drag me to common sense.”
Beatrice smiled faintly. “I’ll remember it.”
“Fresh linens and a steady routine. And an early christening—preferably before people start giving unsolicited opinions.”
Beatrice let out a soft breath of amusement. “They’ve already started.”
“Of course they have. Thetonis always eager to fill the silence.” Margaret shifted Pip expertly. “Are you managing?”
Beatrice stared at her hands. “I… don’t know. Some days I feel capable, steady. Other days, I have no idea how any ofthis is supposed to work.” Her voice thinned. “She’s not mine, Margaret. And yet?—”
Margaret reached over and put her hand over Beatrice’s, warm and steady. “Love doesn’t need blood.” She paused. “You of all people should know that.”
Beatrice swallowed, her throat tight.
Margaret studied her a moment longer. “Beatrice… may I ask about your marriage?”
Beatrice’s breath caught. “There isn’t much to tell.”
For a moment, they sat in the quiet room, the only sound the patter of the rain and the crackle of the fire. Then Margaret asked, “What of Edward?”
Beatrice stiffened. “What of him?”
Margaret’s lips curved. “If you were anyone else, I would assume you didn’t notice the way he looks at you. During dinner?—”
Beatrice flushed. “Margaret?—”
“I’m not teasing you,” Margaret assured her, struggling not to laugh. “Not entirely. I simply know affection when I see it. I married a man who tried to pretend for months that he didn’t care for me at all, remember? Well, it went both ways.”
Beatrice let out a slow breath. “I remember you coming home,” she said gently. “And how miserable you were. And how miserable he was, though he pretended otherwise.”
Margaret gave a small, rueful laugh. “Oh, he was unbearable. He believed he was being sensible—convincing himself that affection complicated things, that I would be safer at a distance. As though safety has anything to do with happiness.”
Beatrice’s mouth twitched. “That sounds like Sebastian.”
“It was.” Margaret nodded. “And he kept at it until he realized he might lose me entirely. Only then did all that ridiculous restraint collapse in on him.”
Beatrice leaned back, letting the words sink in. “And then?”
Margaret’s smile warmed. “Then he admitted he was a fool. And I—well, I forgave him before he finished the sentence.”
Silence settled between them again, comfortable this time.
Beatrice looked toward Pip. “My marriage is nothing like yours.”
“No marriages are alike,” Margaret pointed out. “Not even the happy ones.”
