Page 20 of The Duchess Trap
By the time the afternoon shadows lengthened, Catherine’s cheeks were flushed, her skirts dusted with chalk and ash, and her hands were raw from turning pages and pointing out flaws.
And still, she wanted more.
She turned to Mrs. Simms at last, her eyes alight. “Now, I wish to see them. The children themselves.”
The matron smiled knowingly. “They are in the yard, Your Grace. At play.”
Catherine’s heart leapt. She gathered her skirts and strode toward the door. The sound of laughter grew louder, sweeter, pulling her like a tether. She wanted to see their faces, wanted to kneel among them, wanted to remind herself that this was why she had agreed to bind herself to the Duke of Raynsford.
As she pushed open the door to the yard and the sunlight spilled over her face, she spared a thought for her husband.
What would he say if he could see all this? How would he feel knowing that his wealth and generosity had preserved the happiness of so many?
A remembrance of the way he’d stomped up the steps and disappeared into his townhouse darted through her mind.
She shoved the thought away.
This is not about him.
This place belongs to the children.
“Miss Terrell!” The cry rang out the moment she stepped into the sunlit yard.
At once, small bodies hurtled toward her, boys with scuffed boots and crooked grins, girls with ribbons half-tied and ink-stained fingers. Their laughter surrounded her, bright and effervescent, until she was engulfed in the whirl of them.
“Children,” came Mrs. Simms’s voice from behind, brisk but fond. “Mind your manners now. It’sYour Graceyou must say.”
The children froze, eyes widening as they turned to Catherine with a mixture of awe and confusion.
Catherine’s heart pinched. The title, so newly hers, sounded foreign in their mouths. “It’s quite all right,” she said softly, smiling to ease their unease. “I’m still Miss Terrell.”
Mrs. Simms shook her head gently. “Perhaps so, but you now bear the title of Duchess as well.”
The words lingered as the children crowded closer again, more cautiously this time, their laughter subdued but still bright enough to warm her chest.
She laughed, startled, lifting her hands. “Careful, one at a time!”
It did not matter. They swarmed her anyway, tugging at her skirts, clutching her hands, clamoring for her attention.
“Look, look what I drew!” A boy with a shock of red hair thrust a crumpled paper toward her, lines of charcoal forming a decidedly lopsided horse.
“Oh, what a fine steed,” Catherine said, crouching down so their faces were level. “I daresay no stable in London could boast a creature so magnificent.”
The boy’s chest puffed proudly as the others giggled.
Another child, a girl with solemn eyes, pressed a tiny bundle of fabric into Catherine’s palm. “I made this. A doll’s blanket. For when the littlest ones cry.”
Her throat tightened. Catherine smoothed a hand over the careful stitching, uneven but earnest. “How thoughtful you are. I’m certain it will keep them warm.”
She drew the girl into a quick hug, earning a shy smile.
Around her, voices overlapped: questions about lessons, stories of scraped knees, eager boasts of who had run the fastest in the yard that morning.
A boy with a tear-streaked face clutched his elbow, his lower lip trembling. Catherine knelt beside him at once, her skirts pooling on the grass.
“Let me see,” she said softly, brushing back his hair. The scrape was no more than a shallow graze. “Ah, a soldier’s wound. It looks fiercer than it feels, doesn’t it?”
He sniffled and nodded.
