Chapter 15
Edward had read the same line three times without absorbing a word.
The figures blurred together on the page—rents, yields, repairs—familiar territory that should have steadied him. Instead, his attention kept straying, drawn back again and again to the library the night before.
To candlelight and stillness. To the unexpected ease with which Charlotte had spoken of her pain, as though it were a thing long carried and no longer needing disguise.
He shut the ledger with more force than necessary and rose from his chair, crossing to the window.
Outside, winter pressed close to the glass.
The gardens lay stripped and pale, hedges rimed with frost, the paths quiet but for the distant sound of work being done.
Somewhere beyond the trees, Julian would be walking—learning names of things Edward had never thought to teach him.
Learning, perhaps, how to breathe again.
Edward drew a hand through his hair and turned back to the desk.
This was absurd.
Charlotte was his governess. Nothing more. Gratitude, relief, respect—those were acceptable emotions. The rest were not. He had endured far worse temptations in war than a woman with kind eyes and a steady voice.
And yet.
When the knock came, he welcomed it for the interruption alone.
“Enter.”
Lady Amelia Carrington swept into the study with the usual grace of a woman long accustomed to being received. She wore dove-grey silk trimmed in pearl, her gloves immaculate, and her dark hair pinned with understated precision.
Eleanor’s world, Edward thought distantly. A world he had not stepped into for two years.
“Edward,” she said warmly. “You look well.”
He inclined his head. “Lady Amelia. I was not aware you were in the county.”
“I arrived this morning,” she replied, seating herself without waiting to be asked. “The Winter Solstice gathering has drawn half the countryside back into circulation. It seemed … foolish to remain absent.”
Absent. The word carried weight.
They spoke, at first, of familiar things. Of the family hosting the Winter Solstice gathering—friends of Eleanor’s, people Edward had once dined with often enough to know their habits by heart.
Amelia reminisced about past winters, about candlelight and music, and the peculiar strangeness of returning to society after a prolonged absence.
“I am asked often enough why you never attend,” she said lightly. “I tell them you prefer solitude.”
Edward’s mouth curved faintly. “And do they believe you?”
“They believe what suits them,” she replied.
A pause followed. Edward found his gaze drifting toward the window, toward the gardens beyond.
“I have been considering,” he said at last, “whether Julian might attend this year. Or at least be seen.”
Amelia’s brows lifted in genuine surprise. “Julian?”
“Yes.” Edward folded his hands loosely on the desk. “He is of an age where absence begins to mean something. I thought it might do him good—to see people. To remember the world does not end at Ashford’s gates.”
“That would be … unusual,” she said reservedly.
“I know.” He hesitated. “He would not go alone.”
“No,” Amelia agreed softly. Her gaze sharpened, thoughtful. “Of course not.”
“I would have Charlotte accompany him,” Edward continued, his tone deliberately even. “She has earned his trust. He is at ease with her.”
Amelia studied him now, more intently. “The governess.”
“Yes.”
Something unreadable flickered across her expression—interest, calculation, and a faint tightening at the corners of her mouth.
“You speak of her warmly,” Amelia observed.
“She is competent,” Edward said at once. “Attentive. Julian responds to her. That is all.”
“And you?” Amelia asked, her voice mild but probing.
Edward did not answer immediately. His silence stretched just long enough to acknowledge the question without granting it ground.
“She serves her purpose,” he said finally.
Amelia leaned back in her chair, her gloved hands resting lightly in her lap as she surveyed the room. Her gaze lingered not on the furnishings, but on the absences—the spaces where life should have been louder.
“A child requires more than instruction,” she said at last. “He requires stability.”
Edward did not respond. He already knew where this was leading.
“A woman who belongs here,” she continued, her tone softening, turning deliberate. “A wife. A mother.”
The words settled heavily between them.
Edward felt the familiar tightening in his chest—the old reflex, half guilt and half resignation. “I am aware.”
Amelia smiled, as though she had expected nothing else. “You need not decide at once,” she said gently. “But you should not delay forever, either. Julian will grow whether you are ready or not. And children notice what is missing long before we believe them capable of such things.”
Edward looked away, his gaze drifting to the window, to the bare trees beyond it. “This house has functioned well enough.”
“It has endured,” Amelia corrected. “That is not the same thing.”
She rose and moved closer, stopping just near enough to be felt. “You are respected,” she went on. “Educated. Proper. You understand duty better than most men I know. You deserve a match that will restore balance—to your household, to your life.”
Practical. Sensible. Correct.
Words he had built his existence upon.
Edward breathed in slowly, as though bracing himself. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air too warm.
He told himself she was right.
He told himself that whatever unease stirred when he thought of Charlotte Fenton was irrelevant. A distraction. A passing disturbance easily remedied by resolve and reason.
And yet his pulse refused to settle, beating on as though it had not been consulted on the matter.
“Many would welcome the opportunity,” Amelia added lightly. “You need not look far.”
Edward inclined his head. “I will consider what you have said.”
Her smile deepened—not triumphant but satisfied. “That is all I ask.”
When she suggested a walk in the gardens, he agreed out of obligation more than inclination. Reflection, he told himself. Space to think.
The air outside was sharp, winter pressing in at the edges of the day. Frost crackled faintly beneath their steps, the hedges pale and rigid.
And then Julian appeared.
He came barreling across the path with a laugh torn straight from his chest, Charlotte close behind him, skirts muddied, hair escaped, her face flushed with exertion and joy.
For one brief, unguarded moment, Edward saw them as they were—untethered. Alive.
And everything Amelia had just said began, inexplicably, to feel insufficient.
Edward stopped short.
Charlotte’s cheeks were flushed from the cold, her hair escaped its pins, curls clinging damply to her temples. Julian held something behind his back, grinning with triumph.
Amelia stiffened as mud splattered perilously close to the hem of her dress.
“Oh—Julian,” she said, forcing a smile. “You are quite … energetic.”
Julian beamed. “We were in the fields!”
Charlotte dipped into a quick curtsy. “Your Ladyship.”
Amelia’s gaze flicked over her, cool and assessing. “Is this how the duke’s son is encouraged to present himself?”
Charlotte’s spine straightened. “Children are meant to play.”
“And to learn propriety,” Amelia replied, glancing pointedly at the mud.
Edward cleared his throat. “Appearances do matter, Miss Fenton. Particularly when guests are present.”
The words sounded measured. Reasonable. They tasted wrong all the same.
Charlotte inclined her head, every inch the composed governess. “If you will excuse us, Your Grace.”
She did not wait for his response. She simply took Julian’s hand and turned toward the house.
Edward watched them go, a weight settling low in his gut. He followed before he had quite decided on doing it.
“Charlotte,” he called softly.
She stopped just inside the terrace doors but did not turn at once. When she did, her expression was polite. Guarded.
“I did not mean to rebuke you,” Edward said. “Only to remind you that—”
“That Julian is watched,” she said evenly. “That the house must look a certain way. That grief is best kept tidy.”
Edward stiffened. “That is not—”
“You asked me to care for your son,” Charlotte said, her voice still quiet but no longer yielding. “To teach him. To guide him. Children learn through experience, Your Grace—not by remaining pristine.”
Charlotte looked at him, something shuttered but wounded flickering behind her eyes. “We were gathering flowers,” she continued, softer than before. “For the house. For his mother.”
Edward hesitated.
“The rain spoiled them,” she continued, her voice steady. “Julian wished to continue regardless.”
Julian nodded solemnly, mud streaked across his boots. “I liked the rain.”
Something twisted sharply in Edward’s chest.
Her gaze held his. Clear. Unflinching.
“And mud,” she added, “is not a failing of character.”
For a moment, Edward had no answer.
Then Amelia’s voice carried across the terrace. “Edward?”
The spell broke.
She led Julian away without another word, her hand firm around his, her back straight.
Edward stood there a moment longer, then turned.
Amelia regarded him with mild curiosity. “Order would do this house good,” she said lightly.
Before he could reply, she smiled and added, almost teasingly, “It must be distracting—to have such a pretty governess under your roof.”
Edward’s spine stiffened. “She is a remarkable governess.”
Amelia’s brows lifted a fraction. Then she laughed softly. “We shall see one another soon, then. At the gathering.”
She departed without waiting for an answer.
Edward remained where he was, staring at the path Charlotte and Julian had taken.
His earlier resolve—to be sensible, to choose what was practical—felt suddenly hollow.
And for the first time, he wondered whether the balance Amelia offered would come at a cost he was no longer willing to pay.
***
Later that afternoon, Edward found them in the lower garden.
Julian sat cross-legged on the cold stone path, a scrap of charcoal smudged between his fingers, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Charlotte knelt beside him, her skirts tucked carefully beneath her, watching with an attentiveness that did not hover, did not correct.
Edward stopped at the edge of the path.
“Hold your wrist looser,” he said before he quite realized he was speaking. “You’re fighting the line.”
Julian startled, then brightened. “Papa!”
He scrambled to his feet, thrusting the page toward him. It was rough—trees rendered as crooked shapes, the hedges more suggestion than form—but there was intention there. A patience Edward had rarely seen in his son.
Edward crouched, adjusting Julian’s grip gently, guiding his hand. “Like this,” he murmured. “Let the charcoal do the work.”
Julian nodded solemnly and tried again.
Something eased in Edward’s chest as he watched the boy settle—calmer, focused, content in a way that felt unfamiliar and precious. This was not the restless child who tested boundaries and chased disruption. This was a boy absorbed in the moment, secure enough to be still.
Charlotte rose quietly and drifted a little farther down the path, giving them space without being asked.
Edward noticed.
When Julian’s page was finished—when the charcoal was set aside, and the boy had run off toward the hedges in pursuit of something invisible—Edward straightened and followed Charlotte.
She stood near the old apple tree, her hands folded loosely before her, watching Julian with a softness that unsettled him.
“There is a Winter Solstice Ball,” Edward said, the words coming more quickly than he had intended. “At Pennington Hall.”
She turned, startled. “A ball?”
“The Penningtons are old friends,” he continued. “They wrote to invite Julian and me to stay for the day—and the night following. They wish us to remain after the festivities.”
Charlotte listened intently now.
“They suggested,” Edward added, his tone shifting almost imperceptibly, “that Julian’s governess accompany us. So he would have familiar care while I visit.”
The words hung between them.
“They were quite explicit,” he said more quietly. “They wished Julian to feel secure. And I … agreed.”
Her eyes widened. “I—Your Grace, that is highly irregular.”
“I am aware.” He exhaled slowly. “But Julian would benefit from the experience. And I would not subject him to it without someone he trusts.”
Something flickered across her face—surprise, uncertainty, something like awe. “You would take him? Into society?”
“Yes.” He met her gaze. “And I could only do so with you by his side.”
The admission stunned them both.
Edward felt it the instant the words left him—a line crossed, a truth revealed too plainly. He straightened instinctively, as though posture alone might repair the breach.
Charlotte did not speak at once.
Then she nodded. “If you believe it is right for Julian, I will, of course, attend.”
He watched her thoughtfully. “I trust you with him,” he said quietly. “You have given him something I could not. And I am … grateful.”
Her answering smile was gentle, unguarded. It caught him off balance.
Edward returned it before he quite realized he meant to. The expression felt unfamiliar —unused, tentative—but real.
“You should smile more,” she said lightly, then faltered, the impropriety of the remark dawning on her. “That is—entirely inappropriate advice for a governess to give.”
The smile lingered, despite himself.
She inclined her head, then turned back toward Julian, leaving him standing there with a foolish warmth in his chest he did not immediately recognize.
Later, in his study, Edward took up his pen and replied to the Penningtons’ invitation.
He accepted.
He confirmed Julian’s presence, the overnight stay, and added—after a moment’s hesitation—that Julian’s governess would attend to the boy’s needs.
The ink dried slowly.
Edward leaned back in his chair, staring at the letter.
For the first time in years, he was stepping forward instead of retreating.
And though he told himself it was for Julian alone, the image that lingered most vividly was not his son’s anticipation—but Charlotte’s smile, and the ease with which it had found him.
He folded the letter and rang for it to be sent.
The house felt different already.