“And after that?”
“A little sleep near noon if all goes kindly. More milk. She is wakeful in the late afternoon, often fretful. Evenings can be difficult. She does not like being left in the cradle when the fire is low, but she settles if held upright and spoken to.”
“Spoken to?” Frances repeated. “Does she care what is said?”
“Not in the least, I think. Only the sound of it.”
“That is fortunate. Many people in society would be improved by the same habit.”
Nurse Ellis smiled again, though more carefully this time, as if not certain whether duchesses intended their jokes to be acknowledged. Frances noticed and felt herself retreat a little inside.
There it was again. Rank standing between her and ordinary conversation like an overlarge piece of furniture in a narrow room.
She looked back at the baby. “How much does she eat?”
“Enough to satisfy me most days. She can be impatient with it. She takes a little, dozes, wakes cross because she has not taken more, and then blames the nearest person.”
“A sensible strategy.”
“Indeed, Your Grace.”
“What should I do if she cries?”
Nurse Ellis seemed to understand that this question mattered more than the others. Her expression softened, but not with pity. Frances was grateful for that.
“First, see whether she is hungry,” the nurse said. “Then whether she wants changing. If neither, she may be tired, or only wishing to be held. Some babies like to be rocked. Some like a song. This one likes a steady voice.”
Frances glanced toward the cradle. “I am not certain mine is always steady.”
“Begging Your Grace’s pardon, but she will not mind if it trembles.”
Frances looked up. Nurse Ellis’s face remained kind, practical, and entirely without mockery.
The baby stirred then, her mouth moving in a small, searching motion. Nurse Ellis lowered her into the crook of her arm and murmured something soft. Frances watched carefully.
“Would Your Grace care to hold her?” Nurse Ellis asked.
Frances’s fingers tightened in her lap.
It was absurd. She had held the child once already. Successfully, even. The baby had quieted against her. Everyone had looked at her as though she had performed some gentle miracle. But miracles were unreliable foundations for habit.
“What if I wake her?” Frances asked.
“Then she will wake.”
“And cry?”
“Very likely.”
Frances considered the matter. “You are not making a persuasive case.”
“No, Your Grace. Only an honest one.”
That won Frances before flattery could have done. She stood. Nurse Ellis rose with the baby, and Frances arranged her arms as she remembered. Still, when the warm, delicate weight was transferred to her, her breath caught. The baby was so small.
“There,” Nurse Ellis said. “Support the head. Yes, just so.”
Frances looked down. The baby opened her eyes. They were dark and unfocused, solemn with that peculiar infant gravity which made her seem not ignorant of the world, but profoundly disappointed in it.
