“I say it is temporary in every way that matters,” Frances replied. “Once the baby’s situation is solved, His Grace and I shall go our separate ways.”
The baby made another faint sound behind her. Frances turned at once.
Emma lowered her gaze to the child, whose fist had found the edge of her own blanket. “You seem sad about it.”
“I do not.” Frances’ throat tightened, and she hated it. “I was… looking at the baby.”
“Yes,” Emma said quietly. “That is precisely why.”
Frances wanted to make some sharp reply. She wanted to say something clever enough to close the subject and remind Emma that she was still Frances Norton beneath the borrowed title, still sensible and immune to the soft traps of domestic feeling.
But the baby was looking at her again, or seemed to be. Frances knew infants did not truly focus as adults did. She knew this because she had asked the physician with an air of detached inquiry, as though curiosity were her only motive. Still, when those dark, uncertain eyes turned in her direction, it felt horribly like being chosen.
“You are not the same woman who once told me marriage was the worst fate that could befall a woman,” she heard Emma saying.
Frances stiffened. “I never saidtheworst.”
“You said it with great conviction while eating the last of the lemon cakes and declaring that any woman who entered marriage willingly had surrendered her reason.”
Frances narrowed her eyes. “You remember that far too well.”
“I was being courted by Philip at the time. Your speeches were difficult to forget.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“You loved him.”
Emma smiled faintly. “Well, not at first.”
Frances had no answer for that.
The baby fussed more insistently then, her face scrunching with the first warning of tears. Frances moved before she thought, crossing the room and reaching out.
“Here,” she said. “She is tired.”
Emma surrendered the child without protest. Frances took her back, settling her carefully against her shoulder. The baby’ssmall cry broke, softened, then faded as Frances began to move in the slow, uneven rhythm she had learned by accident over several sleepless nights.
“There,” Frances murmured. “You see? There is no need to make a tragedy of everything.”
Emma’s eyes gleamed. “Is that advice for the baby or for yourself?”
“For the baby, naturally.”
“Naturally.” Emma’s expression warmed. “You know, you can ask for help when you need it, Frances.”
“I do.”
“No,” Emma corrected. “You permit assistance when it is already in the room and impossible to reject. That is not the same thing.”
Frances smiled. “You came here to see the baby, not to catalogue my flaws.”
“I can do both,” her sister teased. “I am talented.”
Frances’ mouth twitched. The baby had settled again, her face turned into Frances’ shoulder. One tiny hand was resting against the bodice of her gown. Frances should put her down. She knew that. Emma had just spoken of routine and rest, and Francesbelieved in both on principle. Still, she held the child a little longer.
Emma’s voice softened. “What will happen when the situation is solved?”
