“Mrs. Carter has raised seven children and terrifies all of them.”
“That does lend weight to her authority.”
“It lends weight to her voice.” Emma’s expression turned fond but firm. “You cannot spoil a baby by giving comfort, Frances. If she cries, she needs something. Warmth, food, rest, changing, or simply to know someone is there.”
Frances looked down again. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
“I appreciate your honesty.”
“Itisexhausting,” Emma continued. “And frightening at times. And quite often dull in the most relentless way. But it becomes easier when you stop believing you must do everything alone.”
Frances gave a soft laugh. “That sounds like advice intended for a duchess.”
“It is advice intended for my sister.”
Frances said nothing. Gently, she passed the baby into Emma’s arms, though the motion cost her more than it ought. Emma took the child with the practiced ease of a mother, lowering her into the crook of her elbow and swaying once, instinctively. The baby fussed, and a tiny crease formed between her brows.
Frances stepped closer at once.
“She does that when the light is too bright,” she said. “Turn a little away from the window.”
Emma obeyed.
“And she prefers the blanket tucked near her left side.”
Emma tucked the blanket.
“And if she begins making that little sound… there, that one, she is either hungry or deciding whether to be offended.”
Emma looked up at her. “You have observed her very closely.”
Frances folded her hands before her. “There is very little else to do in this house besides avoid scandal sheets and argue with my husband.”
The word emerged before she could stop it.
My husband.
Emma’s gaze lifted fully to hers. “And howisyour husband?”
Frances looked away. “Impossibly ducal.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is an accurate description.”
“Frances.”
She sighed and moved toward the window, though not far. She did not like being too far from the baby. That was another fact she refused to examine.
“What would you have me say?” she asked. “The marriage is an arrangement. You know that already.”
“I know what everyone says. I am asking whatyousay.”
Frances kept her eyes on the garden beyond the glass. Andrew’s grounds were beautifully kept even now, in that tender uncertainty before spring fully claimed the earth. Gravel paths curved in disciplined lines. Trees stood bare but promising. Everything about Sinclair House spoke of control, order, and permanence.
She disliked how reassuring she found it.
