Rebecca reached across the small table and took Caroline’s hand. “You will be the same,” she said gently. “I see it already.”
Caroline did not speak at once. She thought of the life growing within her, of duty and distance and all that had been demanded of her. Then she thought of Elizabeth’s unguarded affection, of her certainty, of her trust.
“I hope so,” Caroline said. “Very much.”
They sat together in companionable silence for a time, the fire crackling softly, the house no longer echoing with absence but warmed by new voices and small footsteps.
When Caroline retired that night, she found that sleep came easily—untroubled, unforced. And as she drifted toward it, her last thought was not of exile or obligation, but of a dark-haired child with bright eyes who had walked into her life and made Blackheath feel, at last, a little like home.
Chapter Four
Rebecca and Elizabeth stayed at Blackheath for eight weeks complete, a span of time that passed with surprising swiftness and left its mark upon Caroline as surely as the child she carried. What had begun as a tentative arrangement—two women bound by circumstance and mutual goodwill—settled into something steadier and more profound. Habits formed without conscious effort: shared breakfasts taken unhurriedly, afternoon walks when the weather allowed, evenings spent in companionable conversation while Elizabeth played at their feet or listened solemnly to a story read aloud. Friendship, Caroline discovered, did not always announce itself with drama. Sometimes it arrived stealthily and stayed.
It was during one such calm afternoon, when Elizabeth was occupied at a small table with paper and pencils, that Caroline chose to speak plainly.
“I should like you to be here when the child is born—if you are able.”
Rebecca did not answer immediately. She set her work aside with care and reached for Caroline’s hand. “I will do all I can,” she said simply. “You shall not face it alone.”
The relief Caroline felt was immediate and profound. From that moment, the future—though still uncertain—seemed less forbidding.
Arrangements soon occupied much of their attention. The nursery at Blackheath, long unused and scarcely more than a forgotten suite of rooms, was ordered to be redecorated. Caroline took an interest in every detail, poring over samples of fabric and paint, debating shades of pale green and soft cream, determined that the space should be welcoming rather than grand. Rebecca offered practical counsel born of experience, reminding her gently that comfort mattered more than ornament, and that light and warmth were a child’s first luxuries.
At the same time, discreet inquiries were made for a suitable wet nurse—healthy, even-tempered, and accustomed to service that demanded both discretion and loyalty. Mrs. Harding oversaw the search with quiet efficiency, presenting candidates only after careful consideration. Caroline, though grateful, found the process sobering; even before the child’s arrival, her motherhood was being shared, portioned out among necessity and rank.
Yet the weeks were not all taken up with solemn preparation. Rebecca and Caroline ventured into public together more than once, determined not to retreat entirely from society. They attended the theatre on several occasions, always with Elizabeth in mind—leaving her safely behind under trusted care—and were seen in their box by more than a few observant eyes. Caroline bore herself with calm dignity, Rebecca at her side lending a sense of normalcy that Caroline suspected she could not yet manage alone.
Their appearances did not go unnoticed. Before long, murmurs began to circulate in the tattle sheets: speculation about the Princess of Wales’s condition, conjecture regarding her chosen companions, and the occasional unkind remark about her husband’s conspicuous absence. Caroline read none of it herself, but fragments reached her all the same. She found, to her surprise, that she minded very little. Rumor had long since ceased to wound her; it was companionship that healed.
Through it all, Rebecca heard very little from her husband. A letter arrived now and then—brief, practical, concerned more with schedules and obligations than affection. Caroline heard nothing from hers at all. The silence might once have distressed her; now, it barely registered. Whatever expectation she had once harbored had been replaced by something quieter and far more sustaining.
In truth, neither lady missed her spouse in the slightest.
Their days were full in other ways. Elizabeth flourished under the attention lavished upon her, growing bolder, more inquisitive, and deeply attached to Caroline. She took to calling Blackheath “our house” without prompting and announced, with solemn certainty, that she would help teach the baby to read when the time came. Caroline found herself loving the child with an ease that startled her—an affection uncomplicated by duty or disappointment.
In the evenings, when Elizabeth was abed, and the house settled into stillness, Caroline and Rebecca sat together and spoke freely. They talked of motherhood and marriage, of disappointments borne patiently, and of the strange freedom that could be found in lowered expectations. There was laughter, too—soft, unguarded, and all the more precious for having been absent so long.
If happiness had once seemed an impossibility to Caroline, she now understood that contentment could take many forms. It didnot require passion or grand declarations, only understanding, shared purpose, and the steady presence of those who chose to remain.
At Blackheath, in the company of a friend and a child not her own, Caroline found herself—for the first time since her marriage—not merely enduring life, but living it.
Then, in an instant, Rebecca’s husband recalled her to their own home.
The summons arrived with the morning post, borne in by Mr. Ellis upon a small silver tray and placed beside Rebecca’s teacup as though it were of no greater consequence than the day’s accounts. Caroline saw the change in her friend at once. Rebecca’s hand stilled mid-movement, her eyes scanning the page too quickly, then too slowly, before the color drained from her face.
Rebecca folded the letter with care and set it aside. “I am afraid,” she said softly, “that our idyll has come to an end.”
Caroline’s heart sank, though she had known from the first that such a moment must come. “Is it Mr. de Bourgh?”
Rebecca nodded. “He writes that he has returned to Town—with the prince. We are required at Grosvenor Square this afternoon.” The wordrequiredwas spoken with weary acceptance rather than resentment, as though resistance had long since proved useless.
Caroline attempted a smile. “I should not know where my husband was at all,” she said lightly, “were it not for the letters your husband sends to you.” The quip carried more truth than humor, and they both understood it.
Rebecca reached across the table and took Caroline’s hand. “I will write. Often. And I shall call whenever it is permitted—whenever I can contrive it.” Her voice firmed with resolve. “This separation will not undo what we have begun here.”
“I know,” Caroline said, though the certainty wavered.
Rebecca rose then, already composing herself for the practical demands ahead. “I must go and tell Elizabeth,” she said with a sigh. “And see to the packing.” There was no bitterness in her tone—only the resignation of a woman accustomed to yielding her own inclinations to another’s will.
