Chapter 7 #2
He nodded. “And birds. And hedgehogs. I know where they hide.”
She returned to her chair, eyes alight. “You must show me sometime.”
Julian blinked. “Really?”
“Of course.”
He studied her as though reassessing the entire shape of her existence.
“No governess ever wanted to see them,” he said slowly. “They said it was improper. Or dirty.”
Charlotte shrugged. “Nature rarely concerns itself with propriety.”
That earned her a small, startled smile.
He began to talk then—tentatively at first, then with growing enthusiasm. About animals he’d seen. About pranks he’d played. About governesses who left after a week, or two, or less. About afternoons spent hiding in the gardens when lessons felt unbearable.
Charlotte listened.
She did not interrupt. Did not correct. Did not scold.
By the time the clock chimed the quarter hour, Julian had forgotten to test her again.
When he finally fell silent, he looked at her expectantly, as though waiting for judgment.
Charlotte smiled. “Shall we begin?”
Julian nodded.
Something had shifted.
Not obedience. Not compliance.
Curiosity. Trust.
Neither of them would have named it then. But as Charlotte opened her book and Julian leaned closer, the distance between them quietly disappeared.
It was the beginning of something that neither had known they were searching for.
And in the nursery at Ashford Manor, amid frost and quiet and the memory of a frog’s cool weight, a bond began to form—slow, improbable, and real.
***
Luncheon brought a natural pause to the morning, though Charlotte felt reluctant to leave the nursery when the time came.
Julian departed with only mild protest, glancing back at her once as if to be certain she would still be there when he returned.
The look stirred something hopeful in her chest. She gathered her book and followed the sound of voices toward the passage beyond the schoolroom, where Clara Bennet waited with a tray balanced carefully in her hands.
“You look pleased,” Clara said, offering a small smile as she set the tray down on a side table.
Charlotte laughed softly. “I believe I am.”
Clara’s brows lifted. “Already?”
“He tried to frighten me with a frog,” Charlotte said, unable to keep the amusement from her voice. “It did not go as planned.”
Clara’s eyes widened. Then she covered her mouth, clearly torn between horror and delight. “Oh.”
“He is clever,” Charlotte went on, more serious now. “And curious. He only needed to be met where he was.”
Clara nodded slowly. “That’s what her grace used to say.”
Charlotte stilled. “The duchess?”
“Yes, miss.” Clara folded her hands together, gaze drifting toward the windows as though seeing something beyond the present walls. “Lady Eleanor was … different. She filled the house with music. Even in winter, even when things were difficult.”
“What sort of music?” Charlotte asked.
“The pianoforte, mostly,” Clara said. “She was gifted. Truly so. The house used to hum with it. Mornings. Evenings. Sometimes late at night if she could not sleep.” A faint smile touched her lips. “She taught Julian herself.”
Charlotte’s heart tightened. “He plays, then?”
Clara nodded. “Exceptionally. For his age.” Her expression softened. “It was the one thing that calmed him after she passed. His grace had the lessons continue for a time, but …” She hesitated. “Well. Things changed.”
Charlotte thought of the piano she had glimpsed in the nursery—closed, polished, silent.
After luncheon, she returned alone.
The nursery was empty when she arrived, sunlight pooling across the floor in pale winter bands. Charlotte crossed to the pianoforte and lifted the lid, fingers hovering uncertainly above the keys.
She winced.
“I am very sorry in advance,” she murmured to no one at all.
When Julian returned, she did not greet him at once. Instead, she placed her hands on the keys and pressed down.
The sound that followed could only loosely be described as music.
Julian stopped short.
Charlotte frowned in concentration and tried again. The melody—if it could be called that—lurched awkwardly, notes colliding rather than flowing. She grimaced and kept going.
Julian stared at her as though she had lost her senses.
“That’s wrong,” he said at last.
“Yes,” Charlotte agreed cheerfully. “I know.”
“You missed that one,” he added, pointing.
“And that one,” she said, nodding. “And probably several more.”
Julian’s mouth twitched despite himself. “You’re supposed to do this first.” He moved closer, reaching past her to demonstrate.
Charlotte obediently followed his instruction. The sound improved only marginally.
Julian huffed. “No—like this.”
He guided her hand, small fingers precise and confident. Charlotte watched him with open admiration.
“You are very good,” she said.
“I know,” he replied, without arrogance—only fact.
She laughed. “Naturally.”
She tried again. Missed another note.
Julian groaned. “Miss Fenton.”
“I did warn you.”
He shook his head, clearly torn between exasperation and amusement. “You can’t rush it.”
“I am not rushing,” she protested. “I am simply … failing.”
That did it.
Julian laughed—a sharp, surprised sound that seemed to escape before he could stop it. Charlotte joined him at once, the pair dissolving into helpless laughter that echoed brightly off the walls.
It felt—astonishingly—easy.
Then the door flew open and both of them froze.
Edward stood in the doorway, coat immaculate, expression thunderous.
Charlotte jumped to her feet at once, heart leaping into her throat. Julian straightened, hands clasped tightly in his lap.
“Is the pianoforte,” Edward asked coolly, “now part of Julian’s curriculum?”
Charlotte swallowed. “No, Your Grace.”
“I did not think so.” His gaze flicked to the open lid. “Julian’s schedule is quite clear. It is to be followed.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said—and then, before she could stop herself, “but children are not.”
Silence fell.
Edward’s eyes sharpened. “I beg your pardon?”
Charlotte steadied herself. “Children require structure, certainly. But they also require joy. Play. Music.” She gestured toward Julian. “It is essential to their growth that they are allowed to express themselves.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “My son’s education is not a matter for improvisation.”
“No,” Charlotte agreed. “But neither is it a matter for rigidity alone.”
Julian glanced between them, tension coiling visibly.
Edward turned his attention fully to her now. “You will adhere to the schedule provided.”
Charlotte lowered her gaze. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The dismissal was unmistakable.
Edward left as abruptly as he had entered, the door closing behind him with finality.
For a brief moment, Charlotte remained still, her pulse beating a shade too quickly for a simple exchange. She exhaled once, steadying herself.
Then she noticed Julian.
His shoulders had slumped, his gaze fixed on the closed door, as though he were listening for something that never came.
It struck her then that father and son occupied the same house the way strangers occupied the same inn—bound by proximity, but not by familiarity.
Charlotte knelt beside him at once. “Your father is not wrong,” she said gently. “Routine is important.”
Julian nodded, subdued.
“But,” she continued softly, “there are many ways to learn. And I will do my best to speak with him.”
Julian looked up. “Really?”
“Yes.”
He considered this, then nodded once. “Alright.”
She smiled and closed the piano. “We shall make scholars of ourselves yet.”
Julian smiled back—small, but real.
As they returned to their lessons, Charlotte felt something settle within her.
This mattered.
And she would not give it up easily.