Page 2 of A Mother for the Blind Duke’s Orphans

“That is a dreadful offense, Aurora.” Poppy pouted. “I must explain, then. I was only five minutes late.”

Aurora frowned, and Poppy held her tongue from calling her adorable.

Now is not the time to jest with her.

“Five minutes,” Poppy said, holding up the fingers of one hand and speaking in her most serious tone.

Aurora looked at her fingers with suspicion and lifted her little chin defiantly. “That is still too many hours.”

Poppy laughed softly.

She approached the little girl and embraced her, speaking gently in her ear. “Sometimes, your minutes may feel like many hours because you miss someone.”

Aurora hugged her back, but Poppy could feel her stiffening as she considered her words. “Princess missed you, not I!”

Poppy’s throat tightened, though she smiled. Even at her tender age, Aurora tried to seem as though she were strong, and it made Poppy’s heart clench painfully for her. She understood what it meant to grow up too fast because of her circumstances, and no child deserved a life like that.

“Well, I missed you both.” She smiled down at Aurora, who grinned back at her.

Aurora looked into the cot, and Poppy saw the flash of worry crossing her childish features.

“Do not fret, Aurora. Your sister will recover and be back to her normal self,” Poppy reassured her.

Aurora nodded but did not look away from Princess.

“Can I help?” she asked eagerly.

Poppy could not say no to her adorable gray eyes, hidden beneath the longest, darkest lashes.

“Of course, you may help.”

Poppy had long since learned that help, to Aurora, was not merely a pastime. It was proof of her love. In the three months she had known the sisters, she had seen the child try to earn her place in every room she entered. She fetched what was too heavy, folded what did not need folding, and apologized for mistakes she had not made. When praised, Aurora bloomed, and when corrected, she shrank as if expecting to be put out in the cold.

“Take the edge of the blanket there,” Poppy said. “Only the edge. We shall lift it together.”

Aurora reached with great concentration. Her fingers brushed the cloth, but she caught too much of it, and the linen slid down over Princess’s eyes.

Princess jerked and made a sharp, offended sound. Aurora snatched her hand back as though burned.

“I—I d…d… did not mean t…t…to hurt her,” she stuttered.

Aurora only stuttered when she was afraid or nervous. Poppy felt a deep sense of empathy for the child. She reached across and clasped her hand gently.

“It is all right.” Poppy lifted the blanket away. “See? No harm done.”

Princess screwed up her face, preparing a complaint of considerable volume. Her mouth trembled, and Poppy picked her up and tucked her close, rocking her before the tears cascaded. She cried out, but it quickly dissolved into a whimper.

Poppy felt her throat clench when she saw that Aurora’s eyes filled with tears too. “I made her cry.”

“No, Aurora, she was just startled.”

“I d-d-do everything wrong.” The stutter caught on the first word and deepened her distress. Her cheeks flushed. “I c-cannot do anything right. I c-cannot make her stop. I c-could not fix the blanket. I c-cannot⁠—”

“Aurora.”

The child pressed her lips together, but the tears spilled anyway.

Poppy looked at Annabelle, who understood without being asked. The woman took her leave and stepped back, giving them the mercy of space.