Penelope spun towards the door. Mrs. Keating stood there, her expression less severe than it had been last night. Not warm, precisely. But not hostile either.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The baby.” The housekeeper moved into the room with the confidence of someone who’d managed this household long before Penelope arrived. “If you check on her every hour, she’ll never learn to settle properly.”
The criticism stung, though it was delivered rather kindly. Penelope lifted her chin. “I am not spoiling her. I am ensuring she is cared for.”
“She has a wet nurse for that, Your Grace.”
“She has me as well.” The words came out sharper than intended. Penelope moderated her tone with effort. “Mrs. Keating, I understand you have managed this household with great competence for many years. I have no wish to undermine your authority. However, Rose is my responsibility. I will not delegate her care entirely to servants, no matter how capable.”
Mrs. Keating’s mouth pursed, but she inclined her head. “As you say, Your Grace.”
An uncomfortable silence now lay between them. Penelope smoothed her skirts, searching for words that might ease the tension without surrendering her position.
“I should like to make some changes to this room,” she said at length. “Nothing drastic. But the curtains are rather heavy for a nursery, and I think lighter fabric would allow more natural light. Also, that corner there—” She gestured towards the far wall. “It would be perfect for a comfortable chair. Somewhere I might sit when she wakes at night.”
Mrs. Keating followed her gaze, and her expression shifted . “That’s very... hands-on of you, Your Grace. Most ladies of quality prefer to maintain some distance from the nursery.”
“I am not most ladies.” Penelope met the housekeeper’s eyes squarely. “And Rose is not most babies.”
“No,” Mrs. Keating agreed quietly. “I don’t suppose she is.”
They stood together in the sun-warmed room, regarding the sleeping infant. After a moment, the housekeeper cleared her throat.
“I’ll have the maids bring fabric samples this afternoon. And I believe there’s a rocking chair in the attic that belonged to the late duchess. It could be brought down and re-upholstered, if you’d like.”
Relief loosened something in Penelope’s chest. “That would be perfect. Thank you, Mrs. Keating.”
The housekeeper nodded and turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. “His Grace left for London early this morning, Your Grace. Before dawn. He asked me to inform you that he had urgent business matters to attend to and would return within a few days.”
Penelope’s hands went cold. “I see. How... thoughtful of him to send word.”
If Mrs. Keating noticed the brittleness in her tone, she gave no sign. “He instructed that you were to have anything you required. I’m to send for him immediately if there are any concerns.”
“How remarkably generous.” Penelope turned back to the cradle, unable to meet the housekeeper’s eyes lest her composure shatter entirely. “That will be all, Mrs. Keating. Thank you.”
The door clicked shut.
Penelope stood frozen, her fingernails digging into her palms. He’d left. Not even a full day after bringing her here, after promising her a marriage, after naming the baby together in that rain-dark carriage—he’d fled back to London.
Back to his clubs. His women. His parties and scandal and everything he’d sworn meant nothing.
She’d been a fool to believe him. A fool to think he might actually honour the vows he’d spoken yesterday, even knowing they were empty. He’d made it abundantly clear this was a marriage of convenience, that he wanted nothing from her, that they would lead separate lives.
But she hadn’t expected him to abandon her quite so quickly.
The hurt burned beneath her ribs, sharp and humiliating. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing the sensation away. Shewould not cry. Would not waste tears on a man who’d made his priorities clear.
Rose stirred in her sleep, making a small sound of distress. Penelope moved instantly, lifting the baby with careful hands. The weight of her was grounding—warm and real and dependent.
“It’s all right,” she whispered, though she wasn’t certain which of them she was reassuring. “We’ll be perfectly fine without him.”
The baby settled against her shoulder, and Penelope breathed in the milk-sweet scent of her. This was why she was here. Not for Alastair. Not for a marriage that existed only on paper. For this child who had no one else.
By afternoon, Penelope had thrown herself into transforming the nursery with determined energy. The heavy curtains had been taken down, replaced temporarily with lighter muslin until proper fabric could be selected. The rocking chair had been retrieved from the attic—a beautiful piece of carved mahogany that only needed new upholstery and a thorough polish.
Penelope knelt on the floor beside one of the maids, helping to beat dust from the chair’s cushions. Her morning dress was already marked with grime, and she’d abandoned all pretence of maintaining ducal dignity in favour of actually getting things done.