Talbot House's morning room glowed softly, the pale spring sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains and pooling over porcelain teacups and neatly sliced sponge cake. The air smelled faintly of bergamot and fresh lilies. Lady Elizabeth Talbot poured another cup for Beatrice Campbell, her motions practiced and serene, but her brow knit in unmistakable worry.
Beatrice accepted the tea and traced the rim of the cup thoughtfully. "I had hoped Sophia would calm after everything at White's," she murmured, voice low so the footmen posted discreetly by the walls couldn't possibly overhear. "But after yesterday… I fear she carries too much on her shoulders."
Elizabeth exhaled a soft sigh—the kind that slipped out of a woman who had spent too many years learning to stay composed. "Sophia has always been bold," she said gently. "Brilliant. Impulsive. But even brilliance has limits. She is only eighteen, yet she strides into every battlefield as though she must win alone."
