Andrew waited. Carter, infuriatingly perfect, said nothing more.
“And?”
“Her Grace sent word that she would not be coming down this morning.”
Andrew’s hand tightened around his cup. “Is she unwell?”
“Not to my knowledge, Your Grace.”
“Then where is she?” he demanded to know.
“In the nursery, Your Grace.”
The cup paused halfway to Andrew’s mouth.
“In the nursery.”
“Yes, Your Grace. She went up shortly after dawn, I believe.”
Shortly after dawn.
The words unsettled him more than they ought. He pictured her there in the pale morning light, her hair perhaps not perfectly pinned, her gown chosen hastily, her hands reaching for a childthat was not hers and might yet wound her by the very fact of existing.
“She has eaten?” he asked, though he feared he already knew the answer.
“I cannot say, Your Grace.”
Andrew set down the cup with more care than necessary. “Have a tray sent up.”
“At once.”
“No.” He stopped himself, then corrected more evenly. “Ask first whether she would like one.”
Carter inclined his head. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Andrew dismissed him with a nod and looked back at the newspaper. It had become, he discovered, entirely impossible to read.
He imagined going to the nursery. The thought came at once, too swift to be called decision. He could rise, cross the hall, take the east stairs, and appear at the open doorway as though he had come for some ordinary purpose. He could ask after the child. He could ensure Nurse Ellis had all she required. He could remind Frances that neglecting meals did not constitute sensible behavior.
There were half a dozen excuses available, yet he remained seated.
The urge did not pass. It grew worse.
By nine, he had moved to his study. By ten, he had read the same account from his steward four times and discovered, on the fifth, that he had been staring at a column of figures while thinking of Frances’s hand brushing his across the dinner table.
He swore softly and rang for coffee.
Work had steadied him through every difficult season of his life. Work had brought the estate from debt into prosperity. Work had given shape to grief, discipline to fear, purpose to the parts of him that might otherwise have broken into useless feeling. Work was reliable. Ledgers did not look at him with tired green eyes and ask for trust. Tenants did not fall asleep with warm cheeks against Frances’s shoulder. Correspondence did not leave behind the memory of a touch.
He sharpened a pen. The point snapped beneath his hand.
Andrew closed his eyes. A small sound carried faintly through the house. He could not tell whether it was the baby or imagination.
His first instinct was to stand. His second was to hate himself for the first.
The child was cared for. Nurse Ellis was competent. Frances was there, which was precisely the problem and precisely the comfort. There was no reason for him to go. No reason at all, except the absurd ache beneath his ribs that drew him toward the nursery as surely as if someone had fastened a cord there.
He stayed in his study.
