Chapter 11
Edward had not intended to begin the morning in the nursery.
He had risen early, as he always did, with the intention of reviewing correspondence before the household fully stirred. But the sound—low at first, then unmistakable—had drawn him from the corridor like an unwelcome summons.
Laughter.
Not loud. Not unruly. But real.
It carried down the passage in brief bursts, punctuated by Julian’s voice—animated, eager—and the calmer, steadier cadence of Miss Fenton’s replies. Edward slowed as he approached the open door, irritation tightening his jaw.
The nursery had not sounded like this in years.
Julian sat at the table near the window, a scattering of books spread before him.
But he was not reading. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows planted, listening with intense focus as Miss Fenton gestured animatedly toward a rough sketch she had drawn on a slate—something that resembled a map, though not one Edward immediately recognized.
“If we follow the tree line,” she was saying, “we can practice keeping our bearings. North will be there—see? And you can learn which plants grow better in shade and which prefer the open.”
Edward cleared his throat. Both of them looked up.
Julian stiffened at once, color rising in his cheeks. Miss Fenton straightened more slowly, her expression shifting from animated to composed in a heartbeat.
“Your Grace,” she said evenly.
Edward stepped into the room, his presence altering the air as surely as a change in weather. His gaze swept the table—unopened primers, the slate, the absence of order he expected.
“What is this?” he asked.
“A lesson,” Miss Fenton replied.
Edward lifted a brow. “It does not resemble one.”
Julian opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Miss Fenton’s chin lifted a fraction. “I was suggesting we take part of the morning outside. Near the forest. Julian could learn basic navigation and identify local plants and insects. It would reinforce observation, memory, and—”
“No,” Edward said flatly.
The word landed with finality.
Miss Fenton’s eyes flashed. “You did not allow me to finish.”
“I do not need you to,” Edward replied. “Julian requires structure. Discipline. Not rambling walks through the woods disguised as instruction.”
Julian’s shoulders slumped.
Edward noticed—and ignored it.
“Children,” he continued, “are adept at manipulation. Particularly intelligent ones. You would do well not to mistake enthusiasm for obedience.”
Miss Fenton’s composure cracked—not entirely, but enough for him to see the strain beneath it.
“With respect, Your Grace,” she said, carefully controlled, “Julian is not manipulating me. He is engaging. There is a difference.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “You are new to this household.”
“And Julian is new to being expected to grieve in silence,” she replied before she could stop herself.
The words hung between them.
Edward felt something sharp twist in his chest.
He forced his voice to remain even. “You will adhere to the schedule.”
Miss Fenton held his gaze, frustration plain now. “An hour,” she said. “That is all I ask. An hour outside, with supervision. Clara Bennet and one of the other maids will accompany us. If it proves unproductive, I will not raise the matter again.”
Edward hesitated.
He did not like conceding ground, least of all in matters concerning his son. And yet Julian’s eyes had lifted, hopeful and wary all at once, fixed not on Edward, but on the promise in Miss Fenton’s voice.
“One hour,” Edward said at last. “No more.”
Miss Fenton exhaled, relief softening her features. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Julian brightened instantly.
“Come,” Miss Fenton said, gathering her things. “We should make the most of it.”
As they turned toward the door, voices echoed from the hall beyond.
Edward recognized one immediately.
“Still terrorizing the staff, Averleigh?”
Christopher appeared first, coat immaculate, expression bright with mischief. At his side walked Lady Amelia Carrington, elegant as ever in pale blue silk, her posture effortless, her smile sharpened by familiarity.
Edward inclined his head. “Christopher. Lady Amelia.”
“Edward,” Amelia said warmly, her gaze lingering a beat too long. “Ashford looks well.”
“It survives,” he replied.
Julian shifted closer to Miss Fenton.
Edward cleared his throat. “Julian. You have guests.”
Julian straightened. “Good morning.”
Christopher grinned. “There he is. Growing taller every time I see him.”
Amelia bent slightly, assessing Julian with customary ease. “You are as handsome as your father,” she said lightly—then softened it at once. “A young lord must always mind his posture.”
Julian flushed.
Miss Fenton inclined her head politely. “Good morning.”
Amelia’s gaze flicked to her briefly—cool, dismissive—before she turned back to Edward. “Shall we have tea in the gardens? It’s such a rare, clear morning.”
“As you wish,” Edward said.
Miss Fenton took Julian’s hand. “We should go.”
Edward met her eyes for a brief moment. Something unreadable passed between them—acknowledgment, perhaps. Or challenge.
She did not look away.
Then she turned, leading Julian toward the entrance, Clara Bennet and another maid falling into step beside them.
Edward noticed, distantly, Christopher’s gaze following Clara for a moment longer than courtesy required. He said nothing.
Instead, he offered Lady Amelia his arm and followed her toward the gardens, the sound of Julian’s voice fading behind them.
The morning, Edward suspected, would not be as orderly as he had planned.
And worse—he was no longer certain he wanted it to be.
The garden lay quiet beneath a pale winter sun, trimmed hedges casting long, orderly shadows across frost-stiff grass. Edward welcomed the symmetry. It soothed something in him that the nursery—and Miss Fenton’s disruption of it—had unsettled.
Christopher, however, looked far too entertained.
“You know,” he said lightly, hands clasped behind his back as they strolled, “most men at least attempt to disguise their interest. You looked as though you might follow the governess straight out the door.”
Edward shot him a warning glance. “Mind yourself.”
Christopher only grinned. “I am. You, on the other hand, looked positively undone. Spirited women do tend to have that effect.”
Edward stopped walking. “She is my employee.”
“And very much alive,” Christopher replied cheerfully. “Which already puts her leagues ahead of those ledgers you keep such devoted company.”
“Enough,” Edward said, irritation flaring despite himself.
Lady Amelia halted as well, turning with a sharpness that cut cleanly through Christopher’s amusement. “If we are speaking of governesses,” she said coolly, “it would be wise to remember that women of low rank often mistake familiarity for opportunity.”
Edward’s brows drew together. “Miss Fenton has shown nothing but propriety.”
Amelia smiled thinly. “So they always do—until they do not. I recall a viscount not three counties away who ran off with his maid. A most unfortunate business. Bastard child. Ruined prospects. The woman thought affection might elevate her position.”
The air shifted.
Edward felt heat rise beneath his collar—not anger exactly, but discomfort sharp enough to make him want to escape it. Christopher sensed it at once.
“Yes, well,” Christopher said briskly, clapping his hands together. “Scandal does have a way of clinging to the dullest stories. Speaking of which—have you given any more thought to the season?”
Amelia brightened instantly, the chill in her voice replaced with enthusiasm. “The Winter Solstice Ball is in a week,” she said. “Everyone will attend. It would be quite the moment for your return, Edward. Two years is long enough to be absent.”
“I have no intention of attending,” Edward replied.
Christopher scoffed. “You will attend.”
Edward gave him a look.
“You need not enjoy it,” Christopher added. “Just appear. Smile once. Remind the county that you’re not a ghost.”
Amelia nodded. “There will be many eligible ladies. Widows, daughters, and cousins all very eager to make your acquaintance.”
Edward felt the old instinct to retreat rise swiftly. “My mourning is not a spectacle.”
“No,” Amelia said gently, though her eyes were intent. “But neither should it become a prison.”
Christopher leaned closer. “She’s right, you know. You can’t hide behind grief forever. Julian will notice.”
Edward’s jaw tightened.
Amelia excused herself soon after, gliding away with the promise of calling again before the ball. When she was out of earshot, Christopher exhaled.
“She wastes no time,” he remarked.
Edward said nothing.
“She would make an excellent match,” Christopher continued. “Respectable. Educated. Sensible. Exactly what Julian needs.”
“And what of you?” Edward countered, seizing the distraction. “You nearly toppled a maid on the stairs and looked pleased about it. Perhaps you should consider seriousness before advising me on it.”
Christopher laughed. “Oh, I am serious.”
Edward arched a brow.
“About changing,” Christopher clarified. “I’m tired of the game. And I think you are too—whether you admit it or not.”
Edward hesitated. “Eleanor has only been gone two years.”
Christopher’s voice softened. “And Julian has been without a mother for both of them.”
Silence fell.
“There are many women who would gladly take on that role,” Christopher added. “Even if none of them possess the … enthusiasm of your pretty young governess.”
Edward stiffened. “She is too young.”
Christopher burst out laughing. “Ah. There it is.”
Edward flushed. “Do not be absurd.”
“You’re already absurd,” Christopher said lightly. “At least be honest about it.”
Edward looked away, gaze drifting toward the path Julian and Miss Fenton had taken. Even at a distance, he could hear the boy’s laughter—free, unguarded. A sound he had not heard often enough.
“She makes him happy,” Edward admitted quietly.
Christopher’s tone gentled. “That matters.”
Edward nodded once. “It does.”
That evening, he summoned Mrs. Channing.
“Inform Miss Fenton,” he said evenly, “that I will dine with Julian tonight. She is to be present.”
Mrs. Channing blinked but inclined her head. “Yes, Your Grace.”
As she left, Edward stood alone, the garden stretching before him—orderly, controlled, safe.
A practical match, he told himself. Someone like Amelia. Duty, not desire. Stability for Julian. Distance from temptation.
And yet, unbidden, his thoughts returned to a governess with wind-tangled hair and a laugh that had awakened the house.
Perhaps Christopher was right.
Or perhaps Edward was simply very tired of silence.
Either way, he resolved, he would begin—with his son.
And leave the rest for later.