Outside the door, the Carden household drifted through its rituals with hushed precision. She clung to the familiar rhythm, reminding herself that a world existed beyond this room.
The seamstress made a show of smoothing the skirt. “Ah, we need gloves and slippers,” she said. “One moment, my lady.”
The maid trailed after her, evidently unwilling to be left alone with the mother of the bride.
Lady Whiteridge waited until the latch had fully engaged before speaking in a voice that could have frozen honey. “We areagreed, then. You will walk down that aisle with a smile. You will not cry, and above all, you will not disgrace yourself further by?—”
A knock came at the door, soft and apologetic. This time, a different servant peeked in, bobbing a curtsy so shallow it was barely visible.
“I beg pardon, but the baby is?—”
“Lizzie is crying,” Rose supplied, letting the name be a balm to the prickling tension. She turned to her mother, hopefully.
Lady Whiteridge waved her hand. “See to it, then. Quickly.”
But as Rose made to rise, her mother put a hand on her shoulder, surprisingly strong, voice harsh and unforgiving.
“Before you go,” she started, making her words an order, not a request.
Rose stilled, feeling the pressure even through layers of fabric and bone.
“You must remember your duty,” Lady Whiteridge continued. “Not only to that child, or to your own sentimental fancies, but to the family name. This is not a storybook, Rose. You have been given the rarest of second chances. Do not squander it on idealism or…” She wrinkled her nose, as if the next wordoffended her mouth. “Feelings. You must be clever. Wives who are not clever are the unhappiest.”
The echo of nunnery discipline had followed her even here, into the perfumed heart of Carden Hall.
Rose closed her eyes.
When she did not answer immediately, Lady Whiteridge prattled on, “You must keep the duke satisfied in every sense. There will be rumors. There will be temptations. If you expect to keep your place, you must?—”
“That is enough, Mother,” Rose said brusquely. She regretted it at once but could not unsay it. “I am marrying him for the child, not for myself. I have made that clear.”
A flicker of regret crossed Lady Whiteridge’s face, but was gone just as quickly. She rose, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles from her own gown.
“Very well, then. Attend to your duties.” Her mother hesitated, then spoke in a gentle tone. “Try not to let them see how afraid you are.”
Rose nodded. “Yes, Mother.”
As she left, Lady Whiteridge paused in the doorway, turning back to deliver the last blow. “And Rose? Do not trust him. Men like His Grace need only themselves.”
The door shut, leaving Rose gritting her teeth in the aftermath.
She stood, letting the skirts fall around her, and stared at her reflection one last time. She did not recognize the girl in the glass; she was so perfectly arranged, so obviously a forgery.
With careful hands, she gathered the train and made her way to the nursery. The chilly air in the hallway felt like a balm after the suffocating heat of her mother’s presence. Though each step came down more like a walk to the gallows than a bridal march, at least she was on her own.
At the nursery, the sound of Lizzie’s cries reached her first: a determined wail that summoned Rose more surely than any bell. The nursemaid hovered uncertainly, but Rose waved her aside, reaching for the baby, gathering her in her arms to press her to her heart. She could feel Lizzie’s heart beating a steady pulse against her own.
The room was warm and sunlit, the world outside erased for a moment by the circle of their embrace. Rose rocked her, murmuring gentle reassurances until the wailing ebbed into a series of soft sighs.
“There you are, darling,” Rose whispered. “We’ll get through it, I promise.”
She did not know if she was speaking to Lizzie or herself.
From the corridor, she could hear the faint rustle of her mother’s dress, already moving on to the next battlefield. Rose held Lizzie tighter, letting the warmth soak into her frozen hands.
She would go back. She would finish the preparations, stand in front of the world, and become the duchess her mother wanted her to be.
But for this moment—just this one—she was simply Rose, and Lizzie was hers, and the world could wait outside.
