She nestled into the chair, allowing a smile. Andrew was still seated on the opposite side of the cradle, with one hand resting lightly on the rail, watching the baby sleep.
For a time, Frances watched, too. The baby’s breathing was still not entirely easy, but it was steady. Every small sigh seemed toloosen another knot of fear inside her. Frances rested her head against the chair back for only a moment, meaning merely to ease the ache in her neck.
Andrew remained by the cradle. He was quiet now. The firelight touched the side of his face and caught in his fair hair, softening him in a way daylight never did. He looked tired, terribly so, but calmer. His gaze moved from the child to Frances and back again.
“You will wake me if she needs anything,” Frances murmured.
“Yes.”
“And if the fever rises.”
“Yes.”
“And if she cries.”
“I promise.”
Frances should have objected to the tenderness in that word.
Promise.
He had made too many of them, perhaps, and kept too many hidden. But tonight, in the dim nursery, she was too tired to guard herself against it.
Her eyelids lowered only for a moment. She heard the fire crackle. The baby breathed. Andrew shifted softly nearby. The house around them was quiet. Frances felt herself drifting and tried to pull back.
“I am still awake,” she whispered.
“I know,” Andrew murmured.
She had the vague impression that he was closer now. Something brushed her temple, light as breath. She might have imagined it, had the touch not been so careful. Andrew’s fingers moved a loose strand of hair away from her face, tucking it gently back as though he feared even that might disturb her.
Frances did not open her eyes.
She should have. She knew she should have.
Instead, she let herself remain still, held between sleep and waking, with the last of her awareness fixed on the warmth of his hand, the quiet cradle beside them, and the strange, fragile comfort of Andrew keeping watch.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Andrew had read the same sentence six times and understood none of it.
The letter lay upon his desk, weighted at one corner by a brass seal and at the other by his own unmoving hand. It concerned a tenant dispute on the northern boundary, or so he believed. There had been mention of fencing, grazing rights, and one Mr. Harper’s unfortunate tendency to move markers by night.
Under ordinary circumstances, Andrew would have found the matter tedious but manageable. Today, it defeated him entirely.
He set the letter down.
From the open window came the faint brightness of a spring morning. The air had softened in the days since the baby’s fever, carrying the scent of damp earth, new leaves, and the first brave flowers along the southern wall.
Everything was well. The baby was well. That ought to have restored him.
Instead, Andrew had found himself unable to settle. In the days since the physician had declared the child out of danger, the nursery had returned to its ordinary rhythm. Mrs. Carter had announced that the little one had excellent spirit, which Andrew had chosen to interpret as a favorable medical conclusion rather than a warning.
Still, every hour or so, he found some excuse to inquire after her. Once, he had gone himself. Twice… possibly more.
He rose abruptly and crossed to the window, intending only to take in air before returning to his work. Then he saw Frances.
She was sitting upon the stone bench near the old rose arbor, with the baby resting in a small cradle that had been brought out into the garden for the occasion. Frances rocked her gently, not with any grand maternal display, but with a small, steady motion that seemed almost unconscious.
