She glances toward the dining room entrance, then quickly opens the refrigerator and reaches behind a bowl of berries. “I hid one extra,” she says. “Just in case.”
Relief nearly knocks the strength from your legs.
But before you can take it, Caroline’s voice rings out from the doorway.
“Just in case what?”
Elena freezes.
You do too.
Caroline steps inside, a porcelain coffee cup balanced in one hand. Her smile is gone. She looks at the bottle in Elena’s hand, then at your face, then at Oliver crying against your shoulder.
“What did I say about coming downstairs during my events?”
You swallow. “He was hungry.”
“He can wait.”
“He’s a baby,” you say before you can stop yourself.
The room goes silent. Not because the sentence is loud, but because it crosses an invisible line. Caroline sets down her cup with exquisite care.
“What did you say?”
You grip Oliver tighter. Fear floods you so quickly your fingertips go numb.
“I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.”
Elena tries, softly, “Mrs. Bennett, perhaps if I just warm the bottle—”
Caroline turns on her. “Did I ask for your opinion?”
Elena lowers her eyes.
Then Caroline looks back at you, and a strange calm settles over her face. That calm is always worse than the yelling. Yelling is weather. Calm is intention.
“You want to act grown?” she says. “You want to challenge me in my own house?”
Your eyes sting. “I’m sorry.”
But she is past apology now.
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