Beatrice’s heart clenched painfully. “Yes,” she said softly. “She is here.”
Lady Amelia closed her eyes, and a sob tore from her throat. Relief so sharp it nearly toppled her.
“She is?” she choked out. “Truly? I have thought of nothing else—every hour, every moment. I have barely slept. I feared she would be placed in some cold attic or?—”
“No,” Beatrice said firmly. “She is warm and loved and cared for.”
Lady Amelia pressed a shaking hand to her mouth. “Thank God. Oh… thank God.”
Beatrice hesitated. Would Lady Amelia ask how the baby reached her? Why she was caring for an abandoned child?
But Lady Amelia only said, her voice trembling, “I don’t understand how she came to you, but I’m grateful. Deeply grateful.”
Beatrice’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “She is safe, Lady Amelia,” she assured her. “Truly.”
Lady Amelia nodded, tears streaming down her face. Beatrice waited, letting her breathe, letting her pour out her sorrow. When Lady Amelia finally looked up again, her expression held a new kind of desperation.
“I must marry within the week,” she whispered. “My parents insist.”
Her voice broke. “But I cannot—cannot—enter that marriage without knowing my daughter is safe. Without knowing that someone kind will raise her.”
Beatrice reached out and took her cold hand. “She is warm. She is cherished. She is healthy,” she said gently. “I have been caring for her myself. You need not fear for her.”
Lady Amelia shuddered with relief. “May I…” she whispered, choking on the words. “May I see her?”
Beatrice nodded and rose to her feet. “Of course.”
She led Lady Amelia up the stairs, her hand steady on the banister, though her heart felt strangely full and tight all at once.
She had known this moment would come. She had known it from the second she first saw Pip’s tiny face, red and furious in her basket at her front door. Known it every time she woke up in the dark to soothe her, every time the baby’s small fingers curled around her own.
But knowing did not soften the ache.
She had expected Lady Amelia’s arrival to unsettle her. Of course, it would. But she hadn’t anticipated the ache beneath it. A strange, protective ache she had never felt before Pip.
They reached the nursery, and Beatrice pushed the door open gently. The air was warm with the faint scent of oils and milk. Morning light filtered through the lace curtains, casting a pale glow over the small room.
Lady Amelia hesitated on the threshold, her hands trembling in the folds of her dress.
“She’s just waking up from her nap; she had a very busy day,” Beatrice whispered.
They stepped inside.
The cradle stood near the hearth, a simple wool blanket tucked neatly around the sleeping infant. Lady Amelia drew closer, one slow step at a time, as if afraid the floor might give way beneath her.
Beatrice stepped toward the cradle and leaned over with instinctive ease, brushing a thumb across the corner of the blanket. She looked down at the baby’s soft curls, her tiny fist, the lashes on her chubby cheeks, and gently smoothed the baby’s hair.
“She’s grown so quickly,” she murmured. “Even if it had been just a few weeks.”
Lady Amelia’s breath caught. “May I…?”
“Of course.” Beatrice stepped aside.
Lady Amelia bent over the cradle, both hands gripping the edge as if anchoring herself. The sight of her daughter—warm, content, safe—seemed to steal the air from her lungs. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Beatrice watched her quietly. The emotion trembling through Lady Amelia’s shoulders spoke louder than any words.
“She likes humming, especially in the afternoons,” she offered, in a bid to lighten the moment. “Cecily, my sister, taught me how to hum to her, and I’ve been doing it constantly. Mostly off-key.”
