“Don’t I? Let me guess. You thought you could keep your heart locked away and safe from hurt. Built walls so high that you couldn’t see over them. And now there’s someone on the other side, and you’re terrified to let them in.”
The accuracy of her assessment was unsettling. “It’s more complicated than that.”
“Always is.” She rose with a grunt. “But here’s what I’ve learned in seventy years. Walls keep out pain, sure enough. But they keep out joy, too. And a life without joy is just existing, not living.”
She shuffled away, leaving him alone with his thoughts and the flickering candles.
Through the windows, he could see his carriage waiting patiently. Beyond that, somewhere in the London night, Iris was probably tucking Evie into her cradle. His wife. His family.
If he let himself claim them.
CHAPTER 11
“She’s finally settling, Your Grace.”
Iris looked up from where she sat on the nursery floor with Evie cradled in her lap. Mrs. Pemberton stood in the doorway. There was a knowing smile on her weathered face.
“She likes it when I hum,” Iris said as she traced a finger along Evie’s tiny fist. “Though I’m not sure my voice is anything to boast about.”
“Babies don’t care about perfect pitch. They care about the feeling behind it.” The housekeeper moved into the room and lowered herself into the chair by the window. “You’re a natural.”
“I’m learning.” Iris adjusted Evie’s blanket, marveling at how small she was. How perfect. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“When babies this young cry, how do you know what they need? Sometimes she’s hungry, sometimes she needs changing, but other times…”
“Other times she just wants to be held,” Mrs. Pemberton finished. “Babies are like the rest of us that way. They need to know that someone’s there.”
“But how do you tell the difference?”
“Experience, mostly. But you’re already learning her cries. The hungry one’s more insistent—starts soft and builds. The uncomfortable cry is sharper, more sudden.” Mrs. Pemberton leaned forward. “You’ve noticed that already, haven’t you?”
Iris nodded. She had noticed and that made her feel oddly proud. In such a short time, she’d begun to understand Evie’s different sounds, preferences, and rhythms.
“She doesn’t like to be swaddled too tightly,” she noted. “And she prefers to face the window when she’s awake. She’s fascinated by the light.”
“See? You’re already her mother in all the ways that matter.”
The words hit like cold water. “I’m not her mother.”
“Aren’t you?” Mrs. Pemberton’s gaze was steady. “Who else does she have?”
“That’s not… I’m just caring for her until we find a proper nurse.”
“If you say so, Your Grace.”
But as Mrs. Pemberton left, Iris studied Evie’s peaceful face. The baby’s dark lashes fanned against her cheeks and her rosebud mouth made small sucking motions in sleep.
Evie stirred slightly, and Iris automatically began humming again. She recalled a lullaby her own mother had sung, back when there had been music in their home before her brother died and took the joy with him.
She was so lost in the melody and memories that she didn’t notice the afternoon slipping away. The light through the window shifted from bright to orange and cast long shadows on the floor. Evie slept soundly for nearly an hour, but Iris couldn’t bring herself to put her down.
“You’re going to spoil her.”
The soft voice from the doorway made her look up. Mary stood there with a tea tray.
“Mrs. Pemberton thought you might need refreshment, Your Grace. You’ve been here all afternoon.”
