“It is not your fault,” he assured her. “None of it.”
The words came quietly, but with more feeling than he would have shown another living soul. He brushed one thumb lightly over the blanket at her shoulder.
“No harm will come to you while I am here,” he whispered. “Do you hear me?”
The child shifted, giving a soft, sleepy sound. Andrew’s gaze did not leave her face.
“I gave my word,” he echoed. “And I will not break it.”
Outside the nursery, the house went on as houses always did, with doors opening and closing, with footsteps in distant passages and life arranging itself around new realities whether invited or not. But within the warm stillness of that room, with the child against his chest and the future pressing nearer by the hour, Andrew felt not confusion, nor even reluctance, but resolve.
Whatever came of the marriage, whatever tension or awkwardness or resistance awaited him in Frances Norton, this much would remain fixed. The child would be safe. She would be guarded, provided for, and kept from the reach of those who hadalready failed her. If he had to build a new life out of scandal, secrecy, and necessity to ensure it, so be it.
He looked down once more at the baby in his arms.
“You will always be safe with me,” he promised softly.
And this, unlike so much else around him, he knew to be true.
Chapter Seven
“Aunt Frances!” Lilian Ashwell flung herself at Frances with all the warmth and certainty of childhood, even before Frances had scarcely stepped onto the lawn. She laughed and bent to catch the little girl, who smelled of sunshine, crushed grass and the faint sweetness of strawberry jam.
“Papa said I might pick every flower that was not important, and I have decided that, since all of them are equally important, I shall pick them all.”
“That is a dangerous principle,” Frances said, kissing her cheek. “You will leave your father no garden at all.”
Lilian drew back, entirely untroubled. “Then we shall plant another.”
It was impossible not to smile at such logic.
The morning was mild, touched by one of those soft early-spring brightnesses that made even familiar places appear gentler. At the far end of the garden, near a low stone path lined with pale budding shrubs, Emma was sitting beneath the light shade of a flowering tree with a glass of lemonade before her. Beside her stood a cradle that had been brought out into the sun, its little hood casting a delicate shelter over the sleeping baby within.
The scene possessed such quiet domestic ease that Frances felt, for a fleeting instant, as though she had wandered into someone else’s life entirely.
Emma rose at once when she saw her. “Frances, darling.”
There was no formality in the greeting, only love. Frances crossed the grass and let herself be embraced. Emma held her tightly for a moment, and in that simple pressure Frances felt the dangerous stirring of emotion she had spent several days keeping carefully subdued.
“You look tired,” Emma mused, drawing back to study her.
“That is because everyone has spent the last two days informing me that my life is altered.”
Emma’s mouth softened in something that was half sympathy and half amusement. “Well, that’s because it is.”
Frances sat beside her. “You are not meant to agree so quickly.”
“I am not agreeing withthem,” Emma assured her. “Only with the fact.”
Lilian had already darted away again, crouching among the flowerbeds with solemn industry, selecting blossoms according to principles known only to herself. The baby slept undisturbed in the cradle, with one tiny hand curled near its cheek. Bees drifted lazily among the early blooms. Somewhere beyond the hedge, a bird sang with offensive cheerfulness.
Emma poured lemonade into a fresh glass and handed it to Frances. “Drink that first. Then tell me how you truly are.”
Frances took the glass, though her fingers closed around it more for occupation than thirst. The coolness of it was pleasant against her skin.
“How do you suppose I am?”
Emma gave her a look. “Do not be difficult, not with me.”
