Chapter 10 #2
Magnus sat back in his chair, a long breath leaving him as though he had reached the end of some private battle.
He turned to Eugenia, who paid attention only to her plate.
“Very well,” he said at last. “It is… reasonable. An hour each day, as you say. Lessons and freedom, both in balance.” His gaze, sharp and steady, lingered on her a moment longer before he added, almost as an afterthought, “But for now, the lake is off limits. Eugenia will not be allowed there. Not under any circumstances.”
Dorothy straightened, her lips pressing together, but she did not argue. “That is fair,” she said simply. “I can agree to that.”
The words hung between them, a truce drawn not on equal footing, but one she accepted, nonetheless. For Magnus, it was enough. He leaned back further, the faintest shadow of satisfaction crossing his face.
He reckoned that he was glad he had come down to have luncheon with them that day.
Dorothy drew the tall sash window open, letting in a soft rush of summer air. She lifted Eugenia carefully onto the cushioned seat, so she might see more clearly, then leaned beside her, pointing toward the elm tree just beyond.
“Do you see that bundle of twigs, Eugenia?” Dorothy asked, her voice bright with excitement. “That is a bird’s nest. The mother bird weaves it together with twigs and bits of grass, sometimes even scraps of ribbon if she is lucky enough to find one.”
Jenny clambered up beside them, rising on her toes to look out. “Oh! I see it, Your Grace. There, just where the branch splits! I never noticed it before.”
Eugenia tilted forward, her little hands gripping the window frame, eyes wide and fixed on the nest. The breeze caught her hair, lifting it about her face, but she did not stir. Her parted lips and steady gaze told Dorothy she was wholly absorbed.
“It is a safe little home,” Dorothy went on softly. “The mother bird lays her eggs there, and when they hatch, the babies are sheltered until they are strong enough to stretch their wings.”
Jenny gave a delighted gasp. “Will we see them fly away?”
“Perhaps,” Dorothy replied with a smile, though her attention had shifted to Eugenia.
The child leaned farther still, her small body teetering dangerously close to the open space.
Dorothy’s arm shot round her waist at once.
“Careful, little one,” she murmured, drawing her back against her side.
“We may look, but never lean out, all right?”
Eugenia nodded instantly and nestled against Dorothy’s arm, still gazing outward with that deep, wordless curiosity. Dorothy smoothed the child’s hair as they watched the nest.
“Do you know...” she said softly. “... that nest is more than just a home to the birds? It is a kind of lesson. The mother bird builds it high, away from harm, and lines it with feathers so her young are safe. Yet she does not keep them there forever.”
Jenny tilted her head. “She pushes them out, does she not? I once heard so.”
Eugenia gasped and looked to Dorothy for an answer.
Dorothy smiled. “Not pushes, guides. She feeds them until their wings are strong enough, and then, little by little, she urges them to try. They may stumble, they may falter, but in the end, they take flight. Safety first, then courage. Boldness that is born from being well cared for.”
Eugenia’s small hand pressed against the window frame, her gaze never wavering from the swaying branch. Dorothy traced a calming circle upon the child’s back.
“Do you see, Eugenia?” she continued. “One may be brave without being reckless. The bird does not leap before her wings are formed, yet she does not cling forever to her nest either. She chooses her moment and trusts it. That is how she soars.”
The breeze stirred again, and the leaves shifted, revealing a faint glimmer of eggshell blue within the nest. Jenny gave a cry of delight. “Oh! Your Grace, there are eggs!”
Dorothy’s smile softened as she followed Jenny’s finger. “So there are. Those eggs shall one day be fragile little birds. For now, they are kept hidden, cherished until the time is right. When it comes, they shall not be afraid to meet the sky.”
“What are you three about, so near the window?” Magnus’s voice cut across the air with such suddenness that Dorothy flinched. Jenny gave a small gasp, and Eugenia turned wide eyes toward the doorway, her small fingers tightening around Dorothy’s sleeve.
Dorothy turned too, and despite the startlement, her lips curved into a smile.
These past days had not been free of friction.
.. far from it, but ever since their agreement concerning Eugenia’s safety, there had been a sense, however delicate, of progress between them.
She could not deny that she had begun to feel as though they were moving, if not toward perfect understanding, at least toward some gentler footing.
“Only looking at the nest, Your Grace,” she replied.
Yet the expression faltered almost as soon as it came, for Magnus was not calm. His face was set like stone, and his voice, cold, sharp, cut through the air again.
“Get her off the window this instant.” His tone was steel, his words bitten off between breaths as though he had run a great distance. “Are you in your right mind, Dorothy, to place Eugenia so near the edge? Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Dorothy blinked, astonished, rising at once as she drew Eugenia gently toward her.
Magnus’s chest rose and fell, each word dragged out almost on a pant, his eyes fixed upon the child with such intensity it sent a strange chill through Dorothy.
It was not merely anger there, though his anger was plain.
It was something else, something rawer, more unsettling.
Fear. Or what seemed like fear. Yet she had never known Magnus to fear anything, and so she could not reconcile what she saw in his face with the man she knew.
It was as if he warred with a ghost only he could see.
Magnus did not need to glance at Jenny for her to know he was speaking to her. “Take Eugenia down to her chamber. At once. She is not to come to this drawing room again.”
Jenny’s hands fluttered in nervous haste as she helped Eugenia down from the seat.
The little girl glanced once at Dorothy, uncertain, then slipped her hand into Jenny’s and allowed herself to be led away.
The door closed softly behind them, leaving the room hushed but for the sound of Magnus’s heavy breathing.
His gaze, dark and fixed, did not waver from Dorothy.
Ordinarily, she would not cower under any man’s scrutiny, least of all his, but the way he looked at her now, his eyes like tempered steel, his jaw tight as if carved from stone, made her heart stumble.
She straightened her back, refusing to let him see her falter, though the pit of her stomach trembled.
“Your Grace,” she said at last, her voice steadier than she felt. “You are scaring me. I was holding her. She was not so near the edge as you think.” She stepped forward, almost in appeal, her hands clasped before her. “Pray, do not imagine recklessness in me. I had her firmly; she was safe.”
His chest rose and fell as though he had come running, his breath sharp. “Safe?” His voice thundered, though he spoke low, the words weighted with fury. “Do you call it safe to set a child upon an open casement? Do you not see what might have happened? What if she had fallen, Dorothy?”
Dorothy flinched but lifted her chin. “I was not careless. I know how to mind a child. I swear she was in no danger.”
Magnus’s hand flexed at his side, as though he had to master the urge to seize her shoulders and shake sense into her.
“You know nothing,” he bit out. “Nothing of what danger is or how swiftly it steals what one cannot reclaim. Do not—” He broke off, his voice tightening, his composure fraying at the edges.
“Do not dare tell me you were careful when I saw her perched where one misstep... one slip…”
His words faltered, but the storm in his eyes did not.
Dorothy opened her mouth, ready to argue again, but her words tangled and fell apart.
She stared at him, at the rigid line of his shoulders, the tautness in his jaw, and the way his breath seemed to come harsher than usual.
Something was not right. A man like him was not supposed to look shaken, and yet she could swear he did.
Before she could stop herself, her hand lifted and brushed against his sleeve, sliding up as if to test his forehead for heat. “Are you quite well, Your Grace? You look—”
But before she could finish, he caught her hand in his.
Not roughly, not to wound, but with such deliberate certainty that the breath caught in her chest. His palm was warm, his grip strong, too strong, and yet she swore she felt a tremor in his fingers, a faint betraying shake that did not belong to the Duke of Walford.
“Do not stray from the point, Dorothy,” he said, his voice taut, measured. “You are responsible for Eugenia’s safety now. You are her guardian. Recklessness is no longer a luxury you may afford.”
His words were meant to chastise, but she scarcely heard them.
All she could register was the heat of his hand enclosing hers, the steady thrum low in her belly, and the way her pulse quickened with every second he refused to let go.
It was maddening, intimate... dangerously so.
She had the absurd urge to turn her hand and lace her fingers with his, to soothe that subtle trembling she felt against her skin, to offer him comfort he would never ask for.
Almost without thought, she stepped closer, her skirts brushing the edge of his boots, her hand still caught in his. Her lips parted before she could stop them, and for the first time, softly, like a secret she was not meant to utter, she whispered, “Magnus… calm down.”
The moment hung between them, fragile, daring.
He had been looking at her all along, but now, he truly looked; every ounce of his focus narrowed upon her, as though the rest of the world had dissolved.
His voice faltered mid-rebuke, the words dying unfinished on his tongue.
For a heartbeat, two, he simply stared at her, searching her eyes for something.
His chest rose sharply then steadied, as though her whisper had reached some corner of him she did not know she could touch.
But before any notion could take form, he released her abruptly, as though the touch itself had burned him. The air between them seemed emptier for it, and she folded her hands tightly in her lap, praying he had not noticed the flush that had spread across her cheeks.
“See that it does not happen again,” he said in a lower baritone. “I do not want to find Eugenia in this room or any room upon this floor of the manor. You are too high above the ground. From this day, you are to keep her to the lower floors. Do you understand me?”
Her hands tightened at her sides, but she kept her composure.
“Yes, Your Grace,” she whispered, biting down on her lower lip as though the pressure might smother the dangerous thoughts still burning in her mind.
It was foolish, yet she tried to quickly bury the memory of his hand holding hers and the sound of her own daring whisper of his name.
She lowered her gaze, hoping the ground would swallow her whole, when suddenly his hand was there again, fingers firm, tilting her chin upward, tugging gently at her jaw until she was forced to look at him.
“Why do you keep biting your lip?” he rasped. “Are you trying to draw blood?”
Her breath caught, her heart beating wildly against the trap of his touch. His eyes searched hers with unsettling intensity before he muttered, almost to himself, “Why do you upset me so?”
Frustration flared through her at last, sharp and unguarded. “I cannot even bite my own lip?” she whispered, her voice trembling with defiance and bewilderment alike.
His expression darkened. He released her at once, flexing his fingers as though burned. A sound escaped him, a low grunt, half anger, half restraint, before he turned abruptly and strode from the room.
The door closed with a decisive thud, leaving Dorothy rooted to the spot, her chin still tingling where his hand had been. She stared after him, lips parted, utterly puzzled by the storm that had just swept through and vanished, leaving her standing alone, bewildered and breathless.