"They were?" It is not as though she, but nineteen years old could know that. Her eyes are wide, full of wonder as she considers this with no small amount of awe. "I mean to say—I was taught, about Matilda and Eleanor. But Margaret of Anjou is called 'The Bad Queen' for having ruled when her husband could not." Now that she thinks on it, that seems more than passing unfair.

Reaching forward, she grasps her hands, glancing down for a moment at the sight of herself and her descendant. It all seems entirely surreal. That means someday, she will realize her dream of becoming a mother. Something she had barely dared hope for when the hope of a Portuguese marriage had died with her Uncle. Elizabeth finds herself smiling when she looks back up at her, her features softening.

"There is no need to apologise, for I feel much the same, Your Grace. You are my future. And I look into your eyes and find them similar to my Lady Mother's. It is incredible! Ah, and of course, if there is aught you wish to know, I would be more than happy to speak of it with you."

Glancing down at the other woman's sodden clothing, she raises a brow almost impishly. "Once we see you changed into warmer clothing and set before a fire."