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As far as she could tell, His Grace was only ever in his study.
She was relieved to hear he did see to his son. She had yet to see the two of them together.
‘It is all right,’ she said, stroking the boy’s head. She picked him up, his form limp. And she returned him to his bed. ‘Does he usually sleep after this?’
‘Yes. There may be another episode, but typically one is all he will have on a difficult night.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. But I will listen for him.’
‘If you insist, Your Grace,’ Mrs Brown said, clearly at her limit with how much she was willing to argue with the new Duchess.
‘Yes.’
She was filled with a sense of purpose. For she had comforted the boy. And she could comfort the boy. She might not ever be a wife to Briggs, not truly. But she could be a mother to this boy. Because she had understood him in that moment. It might be an entirely different circumstance, and entirely different...everything, but she understood. On a deep, profound level. For he lived in a space that people could not reach him in, and she had spent much of her childhood doing the same.
Being ill. Being shut up inside.
Tonight had been like witnessing a person who was shut up inside themselves. She knew what that was like as well.
As she had said. A spirit that was held back by the body she was in.
She waited a while, and then she returned to her room, her heart rate slowing. And as she drifted off to sleep, she made a plan. A plan for the next day. She would not simply be a ward. She was going to take charge of her life. She was going to find out what she could do. What she wanted.
And she would begin with William.
* * *
The next morning at breakfast time, she went in search of the child.
She found him in the nursery with his governess, sitting at a small table and looking furious.
‘William...’ The woman was saying his name in a cajoling manner.
‘Good morning,’ Beatrice said, coming into the room.
The boy did not look at her. ‘William,’ she said, saying his name purposefully. ‘Good morning.’
He looked up in her direction. Though his eyes did not meet hers. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘You had a difficult sleep last night,’ she said.
His expression went black and he turned his head away. ‘Who are you?’
‘Did your father speak to you about the fact he was getting married?’
The boy did not answer.
‘Did your father tell you that he was getting married?’ She restated the question.
The boy nodded, his head still angled away from her.
‘I’m his wife. I am your stepmother. You may call me Beatrice,’ she said.
He lowered his head, his focus back on his breakfast.
Beatrice moved to him, and sat down. He looked up, startled by her presence. His eyes connected with hers for a moment before darting away. It was as if it was difficult for him to look straight at her.
‘I like to swing,’ she said, feeling as if there had to be a way to capture his interest. ‘I like to read. And I like to hide in the garden. What do you like?’
