In the West Wing, the atmosphere was a world away from corporate warfare. The nursery smelled of lavender and fresh paint.
Isabella, heavily pregnant with twins, sat in a rocking chair, folding tiny onesies. Lady Beatrice moved around the room with a focused intensity, arranging crystal figurines on the shelves.
“This was William’s,” Beatrice said, placing a silver rattle on the dresser. “And this music box belonged to Alistair’s mother.”
“It’s beautiful, Beatrice,” Isabella smiled, rubbing her massive stomach. “It feels… safe in here.”
Beatrice paused. She looked at the two cribs set up for the twins, and the third crib in the corner for Victoria’s daughter. For the first time in forty years, the house wasn’t a fortress or a museum. It was a home.
“We must protect this peace,” Beatrice murmured, adjusting a blanket. “The world outside is cold, Isabella. In here, they must only know warmth.”
She was sober. She was present. She was finally the matriarch she had failed to be for her own sons.