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Chapter Text

The morning sun fell in golden streaks across the wide windows of the Russell mansion. Light slid across polished floors, glinting off gilt-framed mirrors and the carved edge of the marble fireplace. Bertha Russell sat at her dressing table, her maid fussing with her hair. She pressed a lace handkerchief discreetly to her lips, hoping no one had noticed the faint wave of nausea that had stolen over her.

It wasn’t the first morning she felt this way. A heaviness in her limbs, a curious flutter in her stomach. Yet she brushed it aside, as she did with anything that might interfere with her obligations. Today was full. Meetings with a charity committee, discussions on another fundraising gala, and a luncheon she had promised to attend.

George appeared in the doorway, freshly dressed for his day at the office. His dark suit was neatly pressed, his expression alert but softened as his eyes fell on her.

“You look pale,” he said, stepping into the room. “Are you unwell?”

Bertha straightened her shoulders, catching her reflection in the mirror. “It’s nothing. A restless night, that’s all.” She turned, offering him the faintest of smiles. “I am okay. Don’t fuss, George.”

His brow furrowed. He wasn’t easily convinced when it came to her well-being. “If it’s more than that, you should rest. The world can manage one day without you.”

“The world never manages without anyone,” Bertha replied gently. “Besides, today is important.”

George hesitated, then leaned down, pressing a kiss to her temple. “At least promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

She allowed herself a small laugh, touched by his concern. “I always do.”

The day passed in a blur of carriages and velvet-draped drawing rooms, each one more stifling than the last. Bertha moved from house to house, greeted by perfumed air heavy with roses and the soft rustle of silk skirts. She sat in gilt chairs while women with practiced smiles debated which causes deserved their patronage, though it was less about charity and more about who could outshine whom.

At the first committee meeting, she listened to endless arguments over the placement of guests at an upcoming fundraiser. “Mrs. Astor’s cousin cannot be placed below the Schermerhorns,” one matron insisted, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. Bertha answered smoothly, her wit cutting in just the right places, turning the tide of the room in her favor. Yet even as she triumphed, a dull ache spread behind her temples.

By midday, at a luncheon on Fifth Avenue, the conversation turned to which families were rising, which were slipping, and who was quietly maneuvering for a more prominent place in society’s circles. Bertha nibbled politely at a plate she had no appetite for, her stomach turning at the rich sauces. The laughter of the women around her grated on her nerves, each titter feeling louder than it was. She held her smile in place, nodding, speaking when necessary, her performance flawless to any outsider. But inside, she longed for air, for quiet, for escape.

In the late afternoon, another parlor, another round of schemes disguised as philanthropy. The velvet curtains were drawn too tightly against the sun, the room thick with perfume and chatter. A lady beside her fanned herself furiously, complaining of the heat, but to Bertha the air felt not just hot but oppressive, pressing against her chest. Her body was heavier than usual, her corset more unforgiving, her skin too warm. Still, she leaned forward when needed, delivered clever remarks, and carried herself with the confidence expected of Mrs. George Russell.

By the time her carriage brought her home at last, she felt wrung out. Her back ached from sitting so long in a rigid posture, and her head pounded faintly with every rattle of the wheels. Even the grandeur of her own front hall, usually a source of pride, seemed daunting in its scale. She handed her hat and gloves to the footman with a weariness she rarely allowed herself to show, murmuring a polite thank you. Her smile was still there, but it had grown thin, its edges frayed by the weight of the day.

“Church, is Mr. Russell back yet?”

“In his study, ma’am,” the butler replied.

She walked through the long corridors, the sound of her heels softened by the thick carpets. The familiar scent of leather and tobacco greeted her as she entered George’s study. He was at his desk, papers spread before him, spectacles balanced on his nose. He looked up the instant she came in, his face breaking into warmth.

“There you are,” he said, rising. “I thought you might be late tonight.”

Bertha smiled faintly, coming closer. “The committees were insufferable as usual. I told them I would retire earlier than planned. I’m tired, George.”

He studied her more closely. Her cheeks were high with color, but her eyes seemed weary. He moved around the desk, resting a hand on her arm. “You’re flushed. Perhaps you should lie down.”

“I was about to,” she said softly, straightening. But as she did, the room tilted. A sharp dizziness seized her. The floor seemed to fall away.

George caught her before she could collapse, his arms wrapping around her with sudden alarm. “Bertha!” His voice was urgent, his heart lurching as he lifted her against him.

A maid, hearing the commotion, rushed in, eyes wide. “Sir?”

“Fetch the doctor. Now,” George ordered, his voice clipped with panic. He carried Bertha to the sofa, brushing back a strand of hair that had fallen loose. She stirred faintly, her eyelids fluttering.

“George…” she whispered.

“I’m here,” he said, holding her hand tightly. His chest was tight with fear, his mind racing through every possibility. For all their triumphs, for all the walls they had broken through in society, none of it mattered now. Only she did.

The doctor arrived within the hour, his bag set down with quiet authority. George hovered close, unwilling to leave Bertha’s side as the examination went on. Finally, the doctor straightened, clearing his throat.

“Well, Mr. Russell, Mrs. Russell… there’s no cause for alarm. Your wife is in good health. But the fainting, the fatigue… it is due to a very particular condition.”

George’s grip on Bertha’s hand tightened. “Condition?”

The doctor smiled faintly, as if accustomed to delivering such news. “Mrs. Russell is expecting. Congratulations, sir.”

For a moment, silence filled the study. Bertha blinked, her lips parting, her mind racing through the meaning of his words. Expecting. At her age, after so many years, after Gladys had just come out in society, and Larry, a grown man already.

George was the first to speak, his voice low, almost disbelieving. “Pregnant?”

“Yes,” the doctor confirmed, adjusting his spectacles as he looked between them. “Mrs. Russell is in good health, but at thirty-nine, the condition does require a degree of care. Rest, good nourishment, and a more measured pace of life will be important. We shall monitor her closely.”

George tightened his grip on Bertha’s hand, his gaze never leaving her. “You’re certain of this?”

“Quite certain,” the doctor said gently. “The signs are unmistakable. The faintness, the fatigue… even the flush in her complexion. These are classic indications.” He glanced at Bertha. “Tell me, Mrs. Russell, have you experienced morning sickness?”

Bertha hesitated before answering, her voice soft. “A little, yes. I thought it was only a passing ailment. Something I could ignore.”

The doctor gave a small smile. “Not uncommon. It should ease as the weeks progress. But you must listen to your body. Rest when you need it.”

George frowned, his voice edged with concern. “And the risks? You said her age makes it delicate.”

The doctor inclined his head. “There are always risks, Mr. Russell, but I see no immediate cause for alarm. Mrs. Russell appears strong. With proper care and attention, I believe she can look forward to a safe pregnancy.”

The couple exchanged a look, their silence speaking volumes.

The doctor began packing away his instruments, snapping the clasp on his bag. “I will call again in a week to see how matters progress. In the meantime, moderation in all things. No overexertion, no unnecessary late hours. Allow others to shoulder the smaller burdens of society. Good evening to you both.”

George rose to show him out, offering a quick handshake, his thanks clipped but sincere. When the door closed behind him, the room seemed suddenly very still.

Bertha leaned back against the bed frame, her eyes wide, her hand still held tightly in George’s. A laugh, light and incredulous, escaped her. “Well. It seems the Russells are not done with surprises.”

George sat beside her again, pulling her close. His smile was there, genuine, touched with wonder, but she felt the tension in his arm around her. “Another child,” he said softly, almost to himself. “At our age.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, his voice rough. “Bertha, I am overjoyed. Truly. But I won’t pretend I am not afraid for you.”

She touched his cheek, her fingers brushing his jaw with tenderness. “I know. But don’t let fear steal this moment. We have been given something unexpected. Perhaps something extraordinary.”

George swallowed, his eyes searching hers. The fear was still there, but so was awe. “Extraordinary,” he echoed, pulling her closer. “Yes. That it is.”

The fire had burned lower, leaving the room bathed in an amber glow. Bertha moved first, rising from the edge of the bed to unfasten her gown. George crossed the room without a word, his hands brushing hers away as he loosened the last row of hooks. His touch lingered at her waist, protective, reverent.

“You shouldn’t overexert yourself,” he murmured, though the gentleness in his voice carried no command, only worry.

Bertha glanced at him in the mirror, her lips curving faintly. “I’ve only stood still while you undressed me. Hardly overexertion.”

He gave a soft huff of laughter and kissed the back of her bare shoulder before helping her out of the gown. Once she was wrapped in a silk robe, he guided her back toward the bed as though she were something fragile. She sat, drawing him down beside her.

They lay together in the quiet, the heavy curtains shutting out the world beyond their walls. George settled on his side, one arm beneath her, the other stretched across her waist. His thumb traced idle circles through the thin silk of her robe, his expression caught somewhere between awe and fear.

“You’ve given me a life I never dreamed of,” he whispered into her hair. “This house, our children… you. And now, another gift I never expected.”

Bertha shifted so she could see him, her hand smoothing over his chest. “Then accept it for what it is. Not a burden. Not a threat. A gift.”

He caught her hand, pressing it flat against his heart. “If anything ever happened to you…” His voice faltered, rougher than he intended.

She silenced him with a soft kiss, lingering just long enough for her calm to sink into him. “Nothing will happen. You will not lose me.”

For a long moment, they simply breathed together, her head resting beneath his chin, his hand cradling her as though she might slip away if he let go. The flicker of the fire threw shifting light over them, but the room itself seemed to hold still, time suspended.

“I never thought,” George said at last, his lips brushing her temple, “that after twenty years of marriage, you could still surprise me.”

Bertha smiled against his chest. “I intend to keep doing so. It keeps you on your toes.”

He chuckled low in his throat, then tilted her chin up to meet his kiss once more. This time it was unhurried, deeply familiar—the kind of kiss that spoke of years of devotion, of laughter, of quarrels, of reconciliation. When he finally drew back, his hand rested on her belly, tentative at first, then firmer as though laying claim to what was now theirs.

Her eyes softened as she placed her own hand atop his. “You see? Not something to fear. Something to protect. And no one protects me better than you, George Russell.”

His throat tightened at her words, but he only nodded, drawing her closer still. They slipped beneath the covers, her body curved into his, their hands still joined at her stomach. The world outside might demand their attention tomorrow, but tonight there was only this. The warmth of their bed, the steady beat of his heart against her back, and the quiet joy of a future neither of them had imagined.

Chapter Text

Morning crept into the Russell townhouse not with noise but with soft light spilling through the heavy drapes. The fire had burned low in the grate, casting the last glow of embers across the room. Bertha stirred first. For a moment, disoriented, she lay still, listening to the faint crackle of wood and the muffled clatter of servants already at work downstairs. Then the memory of last night returned in a rush, filling her chest with warmth and something close to disbelief.

George’s arm was heavy over her waist, holding her as though even in sleep he refused to let her go. She shifted slightly, and his grip tightened. A faint smile curved her lips. Always protective, but this was something new, something sharper, as if he thought she might vanish if he loosened his hold.

She turned her head, studying his face in the morning light. The stern lines of his jaw were softened by sleep, the faint creases at his eyes born more from laughter than worry, though lately he had known more of the latter. She had known this man for over twenty years, and still he found ways to surprise her. A child. At their age.

His eyes fluttered open, catching her gaze. For once, George Russell did not wake with his usual briskness. Instead, he lingered in that haze between sleep and wakefulness, tightening his arm and pulling her closer.

“Good morning,” she murmured.

He blinked, his voice low and rough with sleep. “How do you feel?”

Bertha laughed softly. “You have barely opened your eyes, and already you ask that?”

“It is the first thing on my mind,” he said, brushing his thumb along her side. His voice softened. “It is the only thing on my mind.”

She touched his cheek. “I feel no different than I did yesterday.”

“Yesterday,” he said quietly, “was before we knew.” He kissed her temple, lingering there. “Everything is different now.”

Bertha let the words settle before shifting back. “Different, yes. But we cannot treat it as though the world has stopped turning.”

George gave a small huff of protest, already half rising on his elbow. “Perhaps not, but you do not need to rush into meetings or social calls today. Stay in. Rest.”

Her brows lifted in mock challenge. “And let everyone assume I have taken ill? That will invite more speculation than I care for.”

“Then let them speculate,” George said flatly. “Your health comes before anyone’s gossip.”

Bertha shook her head, amused despite his stubborn tone. “George, if you intend to hover over me like a nurse, this will be a long nine months.”

His lips twitched, reluctant to smile, but he did. “Then I suppose you will have to endure me. I do not intend to do otherwise.”

A soft knock interrupted them. “Breakfast, madam, sir?” came the voice of Mrs. Bruce, careful not to intrude.

Bertha was about to tell her to serve in the dining room, but George spoke first. “Bring it up here.”

Bertha turned her head toward him, an arched brow. “So, this is how it will be?”

He only shrugged, unapologetic. “Today it is.”

When the trays arrived, George oversaw them like a general directing troops. He dismissed the richer dishes, asking instead for lighter fare, fruit, toast, and eggs prepared plainly. Bertha’s laughter spilled out as she watched him.

“You do realize,” she said once they were alone again, “that I am not an invalid. I can eat more than fruit and toast.”

“You can,” George conceded, buttering a piece of bread and placing it on her plate himself. “But you will forgive me for being cautious.”

Bertha shook her head, but her eyes softened as she accepted the offering. “Cautious. Overbearing. The line between the two grows thinner by the hour.”

“Then call me both,” he replied. “I can live with it.”

For a time, they ate in companionable quiet, their trays balanced across their laps. It was domestic in a way their mornings rarely were. No rushing servants, no children sweeping in with questions, no immediate demands from the world outside. Just the two of them, with a secret nestled between them like something precious and unspoken.

It was Bertha who broke the silence first, setting her teacup down with deliberate care. “We will not tell anyone. Not yet.”

George looked up at her, his expression serious. “I agree.”

“No servants, no friends,” she continued.

He nodded, a low hum of agreement in his chest. “Not even the children?”

“Especially not the children.” Bertha held his gaze, her tone steady. “If I’ve kept count correctly, I am almost three months along. I want us to enjoy this feeling without being hounded for questions or speculation. Just for a while.”

George slipped his arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple. Then, with a teasing murmur at her ear, he said, “Do you think we conceived this child that day?”

“George!” Bertha turned to him, scandal written across her face.

His laughter filled the room, warm and unrestrained. Nothing pleased him more than knowing he could still make Bertha, the formidable matriarch of their house, blush like a young bride. A reaction meant only for his eyes.

“You know you have my full support, darling,” he said, his tone gentling.

She drew in a breath, her hand brushing across the tray to find his. “It feels ours for now. I want to keep it that way. A secret that belongs only to us. It makes it real, and yet not fragile.”

George’s eyes softened. “Then I agree. No one else will know until you decide.”

“We decide,” she corrected, fingers tightening on his.

“Together,” he said firmly, covering her hand with his own.

Later, as Bertha dressed for the day, George lingered nearby instead of heading down to his office. He dismissed the maid once her gown was fastened, stepping close to smooth a wrinkle at her shoulder. His hands lingered, sliding down to her waist, fingers tracing the curve of her body.

Bending, he pressed his lips to the side of her neck, teasingly grazing with the tip of his teeth. She shivered, a soft gasp escaping her lips. “Dear, do not start something you cannot finish,” she murmured, her voice thick with anticipation.

“You should not be on your feet all morning,” he countered, lips moving lower, trailing along the hollow above her collarbone. His hand slid around to her back, brushing a spot just beneath the nape of her neck, where only he could reach, a secret place, hidden unless one was close enough to claim it. His teeth grazed there lightly, leaving a trace of heat, a mark meant only for him.

Bertha caught her reflection in the mirror, her smile faint but teasing. “If you continue like this, George, you will have me confined to a chair before the week is out.”

“Would that be so terrible?” he whispered, lips grazing the back of her neck once more. “Perhaps I prefer keeping you exactly where you are, and leaving my mark where only I can see it.”

Her fingers threaded through his hair, tugging lightly as she leaned into him. “Terrible,” she murmured, her voice softening with want. “I am not a woman who sits idle.”

“Then I will simply find ways to sit with you,” he countered, hands sliding from her waist to cradle the small of her back, pressing lightly along her spine, teeth brushing that hidden line again, leaving a private trail of heat. His lips met hers in a slow, teasing kiss, hot and lingering, making her breath catch.

For all his protectiveness, there was reverence in the way he held her, as if discovering how precious she had become overnight. Bertha let herself melt into him for a heartbeat, lips brushing his in quick, playful kisses, before pulling back with a sly, triumphant smile, eyes alight with mischievous delight.

“I have callers this morning,” she said.

George sighed but did not argue further. “Then I will see that the carriage is driven more carefully. And that you are not kept standing too long.”

Bertha laughed softly. “George Russell, master of railroads and steel, now managing the speed of my carriage.”

He kissed her cheek, unbothered by her teasing. “There is nothing I would not manage if it keeps you safe.”

They left the room together, descending the grand staircase side by side. George’s hand rested lightly at the small of her back, guiding her as though the polished steps themselves might prove a threat.

At the end, a young servant carrying a silver tray appeared too suddenly, his pace brisk. He stopped short, bowing quickly, but George’s eyes lingered on him a fraction too long. That look was enough, heavy with authority. The servant’s shoulders tensed. He stepped back against the wall, flattening himself to allow them passage.

Bertha caught the exchange and tilted her head, masking her smile behind composure. George Russell, master of steel and railroads, carried that same formidable presence everywhere he went. But today there was something new in it.

“You frightened that poor boy,” she murmured as they reached the next flight.

George arched a brow. “Nonsense. I merely looked at him.”

“And that is quite enough,” she said, amusement curling her lips. “Your look is enough to make most men reconsider their very existence.”

“Perhaps,” he allowed, his mouth twitching in the hint of a smile. “But he was walking too quickly. These stairs are treacherous. One stumble and....” His hand pressed a little firmer at her back, steady, protective. “I will not have anything near you that could cause trouble.”

Bertha’s eyes sparkled as she gave him a sidelong glance. “You intend to order the entire household to move at half speed now, is that it?”

“If that is what it takes.” His tone was even, but warmth flickered behind his eyes.

They reached the drawing room, where the low hum of voices drifted through. Gladys sat perched neatly on a chaise, a book opened on her lap. Larry stood by the window, hands in his pockets, gaze directed toward the road, though his sister’s voice had clearly been keeping him occupied.

Gladys looked up first. “Mother. Father. We wondered what had become of you. You missed breakfast this morning.”

Bertha moved further into the room, her presence as commanding as ever. “Your father and I took breakfast upstairs. There was no need for concern.”

Larry’s gaze shifted, calm but inquisitive. “You are both well?”

“Perfectly,” George said at once, crossing behind Bertha as though to stand guard at her shoulder. “Your mother was simply tired.”

Bertha shot him the faintest look, sharp enough to remind him she did not care to be spoken for, but she let it pass with a graceful lift of her chin. “It suited us better today,” she added smoothly, then turned to Gladys. “Now, what is this I hear of you interrogating your brother about his reading habits?”

Gladys straightened, her cheeks coloring slightly. “He abandoned the book before finishing. I told him he cannot claim to understand it fully without reaching the end.”

Larry’s reply was steady, unruffled. “And I told her that the author’s meaning was clear by the halfway point. To persist any further was a waste of time.”

Bertha regarded them both, her gaze sharp. “Discipline is not built by abandoning what one starts, Larry. A book, even a dull one, teaches patience if nothing else.”

Gladys, emboldened, smiled at her brother. “Just what I said.”

George’s voice carried from behind her chair, calm but firm. “Yet discernment has value too. A man who knows when to leave something behind shows judgment. The trick is knowing the difference.”

Larry inclined his head slightly. “Precisely, Father.”

Bertha’s eyes narrowed just enough to make both children straighten. “And you, Gladys, arguing only to win is a poor use of your mind. Ask yourself what you have gained from the exercise.”

Gladys ducked her gaze, chastened but not wounded. “Yes, Mother.”

George reached for the book in Gladys’s hands, glancing at its spine before passing it back. “Read it through, Gladys. See if your brother is right. Then tell me what you think of it.”

“Yes, Father.” She accepted it with a small smile.

Larry gave a quiet, almost teasing shrug. “Perhaps you will thank me for sparing you the last chapters.”

Bertha cut him a look, half stern, half indulgent. “Do not be so sure, Larry. Your sister may surprise you.”

George’s hand came to rest on the back of Bertha’s chair, his gaze lingering on her face for just a moment too long to go unnoticed. There was no need for words; his devotion was written plainly in that small, protective gesture. George felt like he had everything at this moment.

The city was already in motion when George reached his office. Carriages rattled, newsboys called the hour, and a brisk wind ran the length of Broadway, sharpening every sound. Inside Russell Consolidated Trust, the world fell into its order. Clerks moved with purpose, the scrape of pens and the tick of the telegraph carrying faintly through the door to his private suite.

His office smelled of oiled wood and paper. Floor-to-ceiling windows washed the walnut paneling with thin winter light. A map of his rail lines hung behind the desk, red threads marking connections from Chicago to the harbor. A model locomotive rested on a side table near a stack of prospectuses. George set his hat and gloves aside and stood for a moment, letting the day align itself around him.

Clay was waiting with a ledger in hand. “Good morning, Mr. Russell.”

“Clay.” George shrugged out of his coat. “Let’s begin.”

Clay moved through the schedule with practiced economy. A ten-minute report from accounting on fuel costs. A quarter hour with counsel regarding a right-of-way dispute outside Newark. A brief with engineering on boiler inspection standards. A banker at ten. A supplier at ten thirty. A union representative at eleven, already sharpening his arguments.

Meetings stacked against the clock, and George cut them cleanly. He listened with his usual intensity, asked for figures when a man offered opinions, and sent messengers when he wanted proof. He approved the inspection standard after posing two quick questions, held the banker at a distance with a polite smile that conveyed nothing would be decided today, and instructed the union representative to return tomorrow with the exact names and dates. Each conversation had the tight focus of a rail timetable.

Yet every so often, when a door closed or a pen was set down, his thoughts drifted across the city and settled on Bertha. He pictured the slope of her shoulder at the dressing table that morning, the way her eyes had steadied him with one look, the softness in her voice when she said it suited them to take breakfast upstairs. He had told himself not to hover. That resolve had not lasted ten minutes.

At a pause between meetings, he pulled a sheet of personal stationery and wrote in a hand no one else would recognize:

Rest when you can, darling. Send for anything you want. I will try to come home earlier if I can. G.

He folded it once, sealed it, and handed it to Clay. “Have a trusted man deliver this directly to Mrs. Russell.”

Clay inclined his head. “At once, sir.”

The clock on the mantel crept toward midday. George signed two letters, dictated a third, and struck a name from his afternoon list that he no longer wished to see. The telegraph ticked again, impatient as a sparrow. He ignored it.

Clay reappeared at the door. “Your next appointment is here, sir. Edward Hasting.”

“Hasting.” George stood, smoothing his cuffs. “Send him in.”

A young man entered with the easy bearing of someone who had been ushered through good rooms all his life. Late twenties, perhaps. He had the look of a man who rowed in the mornings and never missed a tailor’s fitting. His suit was deep navy, cut clean at the shoulder; the waistcoat was plain but finely made. His boots shone with quiet polish, and the chain at his pocket watch had the luster of something inherited rather than bought. His hair, between fair and light brown, was neatly parted; his eyes, a cool gray, took in the room without seeming to study it.

“Mr. Russell.” His voice carried the cadence of England, refined but not affected. He extended his hand. “Thank you for receiving me.”

George’s grip was firm. “Mr. Hasting. Welcome. Please, sit.”

They chose the armchairs near the fire instead of the desk, comfortable but neutral. It signaled conversation, not commitment. Clay appeared with a tray.

“Coffee, Mr. Hasting?”

“Tea, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Clay poured without comment and withdrew. George lifted his own cup, then set it down untouched.

“You arrived recently, didn’t you?” George asked.

“Two weeks,” Edward replied. “Long enough to learn that your streets move faster than ours, and your deals faster.” His mouth tilted with polite humor.

“You will find New York demands both speed and patience,” George said. “Tell me how I can be of use.”

Edward leaned forward slightly. “You have been very successful with your steam operations. I have followed your expansion from ferries to longer routes. You have a knack for taking lines others overlooked and making them profitable.”

George inclined his head. Praise never distracted him. “We put service and price where others had put complacency,” he said. “That is all.”

Edward’s smile was measured, not flattery, but meant to set a tone. “There is more to be done. That is why I have come. My family is interested in extending steam traffic between England and America. We believe there is an opportunity to work together.”

Clay’s pen hovered above the page. “What sort of extension?”

“Transatlantic service,” Edward said. “But not only that. Joint freight lines between Manchester and New York. Secure coaling arrangements. Shared use of agents at Liverpool and Southampton. Mail contracts, if the opportunity arises. We can offer access to dock facilities otherwise difficult to secure. We can influence underwriters at Lloyd’s, should it prove necessary.”

George’s eyes narrowed in thought. Breaking monopolies at home had opened the door; now England was knocking. It would mean capital, new specifications, and new risks. But it was tempting.

“All of this is expensive,” George said. “It changes the cash flow. It changes the focus of the Trust. Why come to us?”

Edward’s gaze was steady. “Because you are efficient. You cut costs without cutting safety. You have routes. You have men who can lay steel where it’s needed. We can open doors in England. We don’t want control. We want a partnership. Shared risk, shared returns. We bring access. You bring execution.”

“And the ships?” Clay asked. “Our ferries and coastals are not built for the Atlantic.”

Edward nodded. “Liners built for comfort and for coal economy. Hulls that can stand the Atlantic’s strain and engines set for a steady burn. We have builders in Liverpool who will bid. We can bring engineers. My cousin will handle that part of the negotiation. He is trained and practical.”

George allowed himself a question. He liked to see the edges. “The mail contracts you mention. That usually goes to operators with government ties. Why would the British or American authorities look to us?”

Edward’s mouth tightened. “There are politics and influence at work. My family influences within parliament. Not enough to force a contract alone. But a transatlantic line that is sound on both sides, with well-built ships and a clear schedule, can be put forward to both governments as a serious operator. We would propose initial trials, a schedule of runs, and a guarantee on cargo and passenger conditions. The facts will speak loudly.”

George considered risk. “The weather. Insurance. The way passengers judge a line’s safety. And the question of fares. If we go too low, we invite a price war. If we go too high, we do not win passengers.”

Edward’s gaze was steady. “We build for reliability and reputation first. Fares can be set after a trial period. We can underwrite a reserve fund to cover initial losses. The trust can take the lead on operational costs. We can provide the port access and the underwriting introductions.”

“And coal?” Clay asked. “That can cripple a margin.”

Edward opened another folder and slid a map across. He pointed to the Atlantic route and to possible coaling points that could be structured as joint ventures. “We set up depots at strategic ports. We contract with colliers under fixed terms. We secure agreements with wharf owners. That cost is a capital expense, not a recurring surprise.”

Edward’s eyes moved between the two men. “I have a vote in my family. I speak with authority on the engineering and port side. My uncle and my cousin will be involved in the financing. I intend to be the on-the-ground man here if the partnership moves forward. I will be present.” He did not parade the fact of money. It lingered instead in the rhythm of his speech. He did not have to show it.

There was a pause. George noticed the way Edward’s cuff bore a tiny embroidered crest. It could have been nothing. It was not. Old money did not need to shout wealth. It wore certainty quietly.

“When will you bring your cousin for further discussion?” George asked.

“In four weeks,” Edward replied. “He is finishing some measurements and will be ready to cross.” He hesitated a fraction, then added, as if to be candid, “He is rather a blunt man who trusts his numbers.”

“Numbers are easy to find,” Clay said dryly. “The harder part is agreeing on who takes the risk and how we divide control.”

Edward nodded. “That is what we will discuss then. Today, I wish simply to introduce the idea and to ask if you would entertain a study. A formal plan can be drawn up if you like what you see.”

“Very well,” George said. “We will study it. Clay will assemble figures. We will not make any promises today.”

Edward allowed a small smile. “That is fair.”

They rose. Formalities followed. Handshakes were exchanged. Clay spoke about dates. Men said they would confer with engineers and bankers. Edward lingered a moment longer as he gathered his papers.

At the door, Edward paused. “Mr. Russell, if I may, your success with steam has impressed me. But partnerships succeed on more than ship hulls and schedules. They succeed on trust.”

George held his gaze. “Trust is earned. And it is guarded.”

Edward inclined his head. “Then perhaps we begin by earning it.”

The door closed behind him. Outside, the city moved as always. Inside, George stood still for a moment, the map of rail behind him, and now the sea before him. The notion of a line to England had taken hold. It carried weight that would not leave him easily.

“Clay, find out as much information on Mr. Hasting as you can, and also his cousin.”

“I will look into it immediately, Mr. Russell.”

George remained where he was, silent with his thoughts.

Chapter Text

The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of the Russell drawing room, softening the sharp lines of its grandeur. The chandeliers above caught the sun, scattering flecks of gold across silk and glass. Yet today, the room felt almost intimate. Bertha had ordered the gilt-backed chairs drawn closer together, round tables arranged for conversation rather than spectacle. The air smelled faintly of lilies and polished wood, of money turned into beauty.

She had spent the morning rehearsing her role, not in words but in carriage and composure. Every movement was part of the performance. Every smile, every pause. Her presence must suggest effortlessness, even if she had spent hours ensuring it.

Her gown was baby blue silk, a whisper of color that softened her without diminishing her authority. Diamonds glimmered discreetly at her ears, catching the light whenever she turned her head. She was perfection, and she knew it.

By three o’clock, the room had filled with the rustle of skirts and the quiet chime of porcelain. Trays of tea sandwiches and petits fours floated through the gathering like jeweled offerings. Punch gleamed ruby and gold in crystal cups. Conversation drifted lightly at first, the weather, a ball, a new shipment of Parisian gowns, before circling, inevitably, toward the topic everyone wished to claim a hand in: The Metropolitan Opera.

And there, at the center of one of the small tables, sat Mrs. Mamie Fish. Her smile was the sort that invited laughter and inflicted wounds in the same breath. She fanned herself lazily, eyes glittering with interest or mischief.

“My dear Mrs. Russell,” she began, her voice smooth as silk and twice as cutting, “you look positively radiant this afternoon. Has the heat of the season come upon you already?”

The comment hung in the air like perfume, sweet but suffocating. A few ladies turned, teacups paused midway to their lips.

Bertha felt the warmth rise in her cheeks before she could stop it. Just for an instant, her composure slipped. She lifted her cup, giving herself a heartbeat to recover, then lowered it with a calm smile that betrayed nothing.

“Perhaps it’s not the weather, Mrs. Fish,” she said lightly. “Perhaps I’m simply flushed with excitement. The work we are doing for the Met could make New York the envy of the world. It’s difficult not to glow when history is being written in your own parlor.”

A soft ripple of laughter moved through the group. Mrs. Fish tilted her head, her eyes never leaving Bertha’s.

“How thrilling,” she replied. “I do admire your energy. You seem to have so much of it to spare.”

“Ambition sustains me,” Bertha said with a pleasant nod. “And it’s contagious, I find. Especially in the company of such inspiring ladies.”

“Oh, flattery now?” Mrs. Fish’s smile deepened. “Careful, Mrs. Russell. I might start believing you truly value my opinion.”

“I do,” Bertha said smoothly, leaning forward just enough to seem sincere. “Your candor is refreshing. In a city where everyone whispers, you have the rare courage to say things aloud.”

The laughter this time was sharper, edged with amusement and curiosity. Mrs. Fish arched an eyebrow but said nothing. For once, Bertha had the final word.

The conversation shifted easily after that, exactly as Bertha intended. The ladies began discussing the Opera’s progress: the imported marble, the chandelier that would rival those of Paris, the rumored soprano arriving from Vienna. Bertha guided the talk as deftly as a conductor, allowing others to shine but never losing command. She praised Mrs. Vanderbilt’s influence, nodded graciously at Aurora Fane’s measured insights, and smiled through Mrs. Fish’s every little jab.

Halfway through a discussion about the acoustics of the main hall, the door to the drawing room opened quietly. Church entered, silver tray in hand. On it rested a single envelope, cream-colored, sealed with George’s familiar, firm hand.

Bertha’s heart lifted the instant she saw it. She accepted it with a polite murmur of thanks, letting her fingers linger just a second longer than necessary on the paper’s smooth edge. She quickly read through the letter, and a soft smile graced her face.

“From Mr. Russell?” Aurora Fane asked, smiling with polite curiosity.

“Yes,” Bertha replied, her tone even but her eyes softening. “He thought I might want to know of his afternoon engagement.”

“How thoughtful,” Aurora said.

Mrs. Fish leaned back in her chair, her fan slowing to a lazy rhythm. “How enviable,” she murmured. “A husband who still writes letters to his wife in the middle of the day. One wonders what he finds to say that he cannot wait until dinner.”

Bertha met her gaze, serene and unshaken. “Oh, Mrs. Fish, with George, there is always something worth saying. And I am always happy to hear from him.”

That earned a few smiles, an envious gaze from Mrs. Winterton, and one quiet, appreciative laugh from Aurora. Mrs. Fish only sipped her tea, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

Conversation resumed, light and lively once more. But as Bertha listened, her hand brushed the sealed letter on her lap. She imagined George’s neat script inside, imagined him thinking of her even amidst the clamor of business and railroads. The thought sent another warmth to her cheeks, one she made no attempt to hide.

Mrs. Fish noticed, of course. Her gaze lingered, sharp as glass, taking in the faint smile that played on Bertha’s lips. But Bertha no longer cared. Let her notice. Let them all notice. For in that moment, amid gossip and porcelain and the sweet scent of roses, Bertha Russell was entirely, quietly happy.

The last of the carriages had pulled away, the rhythmic clip of hooves fading into the quiet hum of Fifth Avenue. The drawing room was still scented with roses and tea, though the laughter and chatter had long since dissolved. Bertha stood near the mantel, gazing for a moment at the remains of the afternoon. Half-empty cups, a crumpled napkin of lace, and one of Mrs. Fish’s ostrich feathers abandoned on a chair. Victory often came dressed in such small, untidy remnants.

She exhaled, allowing her shoulders to soften. “That will do for today,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. Church appeared almost instantly, as if summoned by instinct, and began directing the staff to clear the tables.

Bertha turned toward the staircase, intending to retreat to her room for a few quiet minutes before dinner. But just as she reached the foot of the stairs, the front doors opened. Gladys stepped inside, cheeks pink from the summer wind, sunlight catching in her hair. She removed her gloves with the unhurried grace of someone who had enjoyed herself a little too much.

“Gladys,” Bertha said, her tone calm but curious. “I wasn’t aware you’d gone out this afternoon.”

Her daughter paused mid-motion, eyes flicking briefly toward her mother before settling on the floor. “I was with Carrie Astor,” she said. “She invited me for lunch. It was only a small group.”

Bertha’s brows lifted slightly. “And you didn’t think to mention it?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Gladys said. “You were hosting the members from the Met. Larry escorted me, of course.”

“Hmmm... Is that so!”

Bertha crossed the hall slowly, her skirts whispering against the marble. She studied her daughter with a mix of affection and mild reproach. “You’re growing up, Gladys. But that also means you’ll have to learn what it takes to manage a household such as ours. In the coming months, I’ll expect you to accompany me more closely. You’ll observe, listen, and help. There’s much to learn.”

Gladys blinked, surprised. “Learn what, exactly?”

“How to be mistress of a house like this,” Bertha said evenly. “How to host, how to plan, how to see without being seen. These are the things that separate women who attend society from women who shape it.”

Gladys tilted her head, studying her mother with the same analytical eye she inherited from George. “Have I done something wrong?”

“No,” Bertha said, her voice softening just enough to take the edge off her words. “I’m saying you’re becoming an adult. And adults must take responsibility. You wish to be treated as one, don’t you?”

Gladys hesitated, then nodded. “I suppose I do.”

“Good.” Bertha’s expression softened, though her tone still carried quiet command.

Gladys frowned slightly, her tone a bit uncertain. “Why are you saying this now? Are you planning to start watching me every hour of the day?”

Bertha smiled faintly. “Not watching, my dear. Teaching. I thought you wanted to be seen as an adult.”

“I do,” Gladys said, straightening.

“Then this is what adults do,” Bertha replied gently. “They take responsibility. They manage. They see what needs to be done without being told.”

For a moment, Gladys looked away, studying the embroidery on her gloves. Then she gave a small sigh. “All right, Mother. I’ll try.”

Bertha reached out, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from her daughter’s sleeve. “Good. I know you will. Go on now. Change for dinner. And next time, do tell me when you plan to be out. Even grown women keep their mothers informed.”

Gladys nodded, then went up the grand staircase, her light footsteps fading.

Bertha stood for a while in the quiet hall, listening to the echo of her daughter’s steps. Then she turned toward the drawing room once more, her hand brushing the arm of a gilded chair.

The house was quiet again as the evening rolled in and the sun was beginning to set. The lamps in Bertha’s room cast a soft, golden light that flickered gently across the silk wallpaper. A faint breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the scent of the evening roses from the garden below. Bertha lay on the sofa, her hand resting against a cushion, the pale silk of her gown rippling faintly as she breathed.

The door opened without a sound.

George stepped in, still in his waistcoat, the day’s fatigue softened by the sight before him. He paused for a moment. Simply looking at her, his wife, luminous even in repose.

“You are home,” Bertha said, smiling faintly as she turned her head toward him.

“I am,” he replied, his voice soft and warm.

Closing the door behind him, he crossed the room and sat beside her, his weight making the sofa dip slightly. For a moment, neither spoke. The quiet stretched comfortably between them.

“Tell me,” he said at last, turning toward her. “How are you today, my dear? How was your day?”

Bertha smiled at the mention of it, her fingers absently touching the silk at her waist. “Tiring,” she admitted softly. “But good. The gathering went well. Mrs. Fish was in her usual form, and I survived her quite admirably, if I say so myself.”

“I never doubted you would,” George said, his eyes glinting. “And the baby?”

Bertha’s smile softened. “Behaved. For now. However, I feel more tired than I’d like. I suppose I’ll have to begin slowing down soon.”

George frowned slightly, a mix of concern and tenderness in his expression. “You should have already slowed down. You’ve done enough for ten women in one afternoon.”

She laughed gently. “If I stopped, the whole of Met would come undone.”

“Let it,” he said simply. “Nothing matters more than you.”

Her eyes lingered on his. “You wrote to me today,” she said after a pause. “It was sweet. You always find the right words.”

“I mean them, every time.”

She began to say something else, but George leaned closer, his hand finding hers. Before she could finish, he drew her gently toward him, his arm sliding around her waist. She let out a quiet laugh as he settled her in his lap.

“George,” she protested lightly, though her hands came to rest on his shoulders. “You’ll wrinkle my gown.”

“I’ll buy you ten more,” he murmured, his lips brushing against her neck.

“George,” she murmured, half-protesting, half-melting into him.

“I missed you,” he said against her ear, his voice quiet, his breath warm. He pressed a slow kiss just beneath her jaw, another at her temple, then moved down to her cleavage. Bertha tilted her head slightly, caught between laughter and tenderness.

“I was just about to tell you something sensible,” she said.

“I’ll listen,” he said, not moving away, “but not sensibly.”

Bertha gave a soft laugh and rested a hand at the back of his neck, her fingers threading absently through his hair. “I was saying… I plan to start teaching Gladys more about running the house. And the society that comes with it. In a few months, I may not manage all of it as I should.”

That made him pause. He leaned back enough to look at her, his hands still resting at her waist. “You want her to take on your duties?”

“Some of them,” Bertha said, her fingers brushing through his hair. “She’ll need to learn sooner or later. And it will help her when she has her own home one day. Besides, it will keep the house in order if I must rest.”

George gave a soft sigh and buried his face against her shoulder. “I’d rather not think about her marriage yet.”

Bertha chuckled softly. “You’re being silly.”

“I know,” he said, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “But she’s still my little girl.”

Bertha smiled, a quiet, affectionate sound. “Now you’re being sentimental.”

“I’m being a father,” he muttered. “But I’m glad you’re thinking ahead, and about resting. If I had my way, you’d stay in bed until the baby arrived.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Would you be there with me, then?”

He chuckled, his hand tightening gently at her side. “If I could, yes. I’d never leave.”

For a moment, their laughter faded into silence. The air between them felt still, close. Then George spoke again, his tone turning businesslike, though his hand never left hers. “I met with this Mr. Hastings today, whom I told about. I’m seeing real potential in the new deal. Expansion into shipping could be enormous and also beneficial. But if I go through with it, I’ll be busier than ever.”

Bertha looked at him, her smile patient, knowing. “Busy is good,” Bertha said gently. “Just promise me you’ll still find time for me.”

“Always,” George said firmly. “And when the time comes... no work, no deal, no power will move me from your side.”

Their eyes met, steady and full of unspoken emotion. Then Bertha leaned forward, and he met her halfway. Their lips met in a kiss that deepened slowly, tenderly, until the world outside the room seemed to vanish. When they finally parted, breathless, Bertha rested her head against his chest, listening to the slow, steady beat of his heart.

George rested his chin on top of her head, his hand splayed across her stomach, protective and reverent. For a long while, neither spoke. The quiet between them felt sacred.

After a while, he said quietly, “Have you thought about where you’d like to have the baby? Here, or… perhaps in Newport?”

Bertha looked up at him, surprised. “Newport? Why there?”

He smiled faintly. “Because that’s where we conceived the baby. I thought perhaps you’d like to give birth there. Away from the prying eyes.”

Bertha blinked, half amused. “I hadn’t even thought of that.”

George’s grin widened. “All our children were born where they were conceived. It’s only fitting this one should be too.”

Bertha gasped, half laughing, half scandalized. “By that logic, George Russell, we should have this baby in the greenhouse. Or perhaps the maze.”

George threw his head back and laughed, pulling her tightly against him. “Now that would give Mrs. Fish something to talk about.”

Bertha swatted his chest playfully, laughing with him. The moment lingered, full of warmth and familiarity and the kind of love that comes from years of choosing one another.

A soft knock came at the door. “Dinner is ready, Mrs. Russell,” a maid called. “Mr. and Miss Russell are waiting.”

George sighed, pressing his forehead against her collarbone. “Perhaps we should have dinner in here,” he murmured, kissing the hollow of her throat.

Bertha cupped his face gently and tilted it upward, trying her best to suppress a smile. “Absolutely not,” she said softly. “We’ve already missed breakfast today. If we miss dinner too, the children will think something’s wrong.”

George groaned quietly. “You’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” Bertha said, rising gracefully from his lap.

He stood and took her hand, pressing a kiss to her fingers. “You always are.”

She smiled, slipping her arm through his as they walked toward the door. The house was quiet but alive, the warmth of family, the promise of new life, and the steady love that held it all together.

Hand in hand, they descended the grand staircase toward the dining room, the faint sound of laughter drifting up to meet them.