Page 109 of A Duchess for his Family

“Plants do not grow because someone protects them from every drop of rain,” Sophia continued. “They grow because someone notices what they need. Sometimes that is shelter. Sometimes it is space. Sometimes it is having the hard ground beneath them broken open.”

“And if I choose wrongly?”

“You will.”

Benedict frowned. Sophia’s mouth curved faintly. “So shall I. So did their parents, I am certain.”

“You seem unusually cheerful about our inevitable failure,” he pointed out.

“I find it comforting.”

“How?”

“Because loving someone does not make one infallible. It only gives one a reason to notice when one has been wrong.”

Benedict considered her words.

“I am still afraid,” he admitted. The confession escaped so quietly that he might have pretended not to say it. Sophia did not permit him the pretense.

“Of failing them?”

“Of failing to see what they need until it is too late.” His throat tightened. “Of Marjorie’s courage carrying her somewhere I cannot follow. Of Amelia becoming so quiet that I mistake her silence for peace. Of making one decision, just one careless, ordinary decision and discovering it was the one which mattered.”

Sophia’s hand shifted upon the stone between them, though she did not touch him. “You cannot protect them from every sorrow.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

He glanced at her. She spoke without reproach. That made the question harder.

“I am learning,” he said.

“You are trying.”

“It may not be enough.”

“It will be as long as you love each other.”

The words settled painfully beneath his ribs. He looked toward the house, where the twins slept beneath the same roof that had once contained their parents, their whole family, and a happiness Benedict had not known how to preserve.

“I understand fear more than you suppose,” Sophia whispered.

He turned back to her. She stared at the moonlit path.

“I have never felt entirely settled anywhere. At home, I was the daughter who did not shine in company. I was not accomplished enough to be admired or troublesome enough to command attention. I simply existed at the edge of things.”

Benedict’s expression tightened. “You were always interesting.”

Sophia gave him a sad little smile. “You did not know me then.”

“I know you now.” The words came with more force than he intended.

Her eyes lifted briefly to his before falling again.

“In society,” she continued, “I was too quiet to be remembered and too uncertain to become interesting. People rarely disliked me. They simply forgot I was present.”

“I would not have forgotten you.” The certainty in his voice surprised them both. Sophia looked at him. Benedict had no explanation to offer. He only knew it was true.