Chapter Six
Serena became aware of Lord Greystone’s presence only when a shadow fell across the grass before her.
She had not heard his approach. His footsteps were softened by the turf, and she was too absorbed in the stillness of the moment to notice anything beyond the warm, trusting weight of Samuel against her side.
When she looked up, she found him standing a few paces away, watching them with an expression she could not read.
Samuel had fallen asleep. His head rested against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even, the letter still clasped in his small hand.
Lord Greystone did not answer at once. His gaze remained fixed on his nephew, on the peaceful slackening of his features, on the way his small body had settled without fear into the governess’s embrace.
“He hasn’t slept during the day since they died,” he said finally, his voice low. “Mrs McConnor says he often lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling, and then refuses to rest during the day because he insists he is not tired. She’s been worried about him. We all have.”
Serena looked down at the sleeping boy, her heart filled with something both tender and fierce. “He was tired,” she said simply. “He only needed to feel safe enough to let go.”
Lord Greystone moved closer, his motions careful and deliberate. He sat on the bench at Samuel’s other side, near enough that Serena was conscious of his presence, of the quiet steadiness of another adult in a moment that felt too fragile for words.
“What did you say to him?” he asked.
Serena hesitated. “Nothing remarkable. I listened. And I told him that his grief was not something to be ashamed of.”
“That is remarkable,” he said; his voice rough with emotion. “It is more than anyone else has done. Including me.”
“My lord—”
“I have been afraid of saying the wrong thing,” he went on, still not looking at her. “Of making matters worse. Of opening wounds I hoped might be closing. So, I said nothing. I did nothing. And all the while, he was carrying this entirely alone.”
“You could not have done much.”
“I should have tried. I am his guardian. I am meant to—” He broke off, his jaw tightening. “I am meant to be what they need.”
Serena thought of what she had said to Ella, about not needing to be the adult. She thought of her own words about modest standards and small victories. And she thought of this man—this complicated, wounded man—who was trying so hard to be something he had never been prepared to be.
“My lord,” she said gently, “may I speak plainly?”
He turned to her, and she saw something unguarded in his grey eyes. “You have spoken plainly since the day you arrived. I see no reason you should stop now.”
“You cannot replace their father,” Serena said carefully.
“Nor should you try. That path leads only to pain. But you are their uncle. You are the man who loved their father, who shared his history, who remembers their parents and misses them as they do. That is what they require. Not perfection. Not constant presence. Only you, as you are.”
He was silent for a long while. When he spoke, it was scarcely above a whisper. “I do not know whether I am equal to that. I do not know whether there is enough left of me.”
“There is,” Serena said without hesitation.
“I have seen it. In the way you spoke to Rosie about her doll. In the way you told Samuel that his father was proud of him. In the way you came to luncheon, though it cost you dearly.” She paused.
“You are not broken, my lord. You are grieving. And grief is not the same thing as being lost.”
He looked at her then as though seeing her clearly for the first time. For one brief, crystalline instant, something passed between them, wordless and undeniable, that made her breath catch.
“How do you do that?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“See things. Things that no one else sees. Things that I have been trying to hide from myself.”
Serena considered this. “Perhaps because I have lived long enough as an observer. Governesses exist on the edges of households. Neither servant nor family. We see much, because we are seldom seen.” She paused. “One learns a great deal when one belongs only partially.”
“That sounds… lonely.”
“It can be,” she said quietly. Then she looked down at Samuel. “But it also teaches one to recognise connection when it appears. And to value it.”
Lord Greystone followed her gaze. “He trusts you.”
“I think he wishes to,” she replied. “Which is not the same thing, but it is the beginning.”
“And you?” His voice was low, careful. “Do you trust your beginning here enough to continue it?”
The question lingered between them, carrying more weight than its careful phrasing suggested.
“I wish to help you,” she said at last. “All of you. That is why I am here.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“No.” She met his gaze steadily. “It is not.”
They regarded one another in silence, and Serena felt a subtle shift, as though a long-maintained distance had begun, at last, to close.
Then Samuel stirred, murmured something indistinct, and the moment was broken.
“We should take him inside,” Serena said, her voice less steady than she would have liked. “The air is cooling.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Lord Greystone rose and bent to lift the child, handling him with the utmost care. Samuel settled instinctively against his shoulder, his face relaxing even further in sleep.
Serena turned away, unable to bear the tenderness of it.
“Miss Collard.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Thank you,” he said, after a pause. “For all you have done in so short a time. It’s more than I have accomplished in two years.”
“That is not entirely just, my lord.”
“It feels so.”
“Then perhaps,” she said gently, “we might work to change how things feel. Together.”
His expression shifted. “Together?”
“If you are agreeable. I find I am more effective when I am not working alone.”
He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. “Together, then.” And the word carried a weight that felt very like a promise.
They returned to the house in silence, Lord Greystone carrying Samuel, Serena walking beside them.
She ought not to be feeling as she did. Ought not to be allowing such treacherous hopes to take root. She ought to remember her rule, the one that was meant to keep her safe.
But as she watched Lord Greystone carry the child into the house, as she saw the way his arms tightened around the boy’s small body, she knew that the rule had already been broken.
She had already begun to care. About the children. About this house. About the man who had tried so hard to close himself off from the world and was now, slowly, painfully, beginning to open again.
And she did not know if she had the strength to close her heart in defence.
***
The nursery was quiet when they arrived. Ella was in her room reading, Mrs McConnor informed them, and Rosie had been put to bed early after an afternoon of unusually energetic play.
“I will take him to his room,” Lord Greystone said, and Serena nodded, stepping aside to allow him to pass.
She watched him carry Samuel down the corridor, and something in her chest tightened at the sight. At the care with which he manoeuvred through the doorway, at the gentleness with which he laid the boy upon his bed.
She ought to leave. She ought to return to her own room and make use of the remaining hours to prepare the next day’s lessons. She had no business lingering in the corridor, observing a moment not meant for her.
Yet her feet would not move.
Lord Greystone emerged a few moments later, drawing the door nearly closed behind him. He paused when he saw her still there, his expression unreadable.
“He is settled,” he said quietly. “Still asleep.”
“That is good. He needed the rest.”
They stood facing one another in the narrow corridor, neither inclined to move, the air between them weighted with unspoken things.
“Miss Collard.” His voice was low, hesitant. “I wish to—that is, I ought—”
“Yes, my lord?”
He took a breath, seeming to steel himself.
“I have not been... I have not treated you as I ought. When you first arrived, I expected you to fail. I expected you to be like all the others—to find the children too difficult, the household too strange, and to leave as quickly as possible.” He paused. “I was mistaken.”
“You were protecting yourself,” Serena said quietly. “And the children. It is often easier to expect disappointment than to hope for something better.”
“That is a generous interpretation.”
“It is an accurate one.” She held his gaze steadily. “I am well acquainted with self-protection, my lord. I have practised it myself for many years.”
Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of recognition. “Is that why you spoke as you did to Rosie? I heard you that first night. You told her you would stay as long as she needed you. Not forever. Just... for now.”
A faint warmth rose to Serena’s cheeks. She had not realised he had overheard.
“It is not easy,” she said slowly, “to care for those one is not meant to keep. Children grow. Positions end. Governesses move on. I have learned that distance is… safer. It makes the parting less painful when it comes.”
“And does it work?” he asked quietly. “This keeping of distance?”
She thought of Rosie’s trust, of Samuel’s quiet reliance, of Ella’s watchful respect.
“No,” she said. “Not at all.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. “Then it appears we are both failing in self-defence.”
“So it would seem.”
They stood in silence, the moment stretched thin and fragile, weighted with possibilities neither was ready to name.
“I should—” Serena gestured faintly toward her room.
“Yes. Of course.” Lord Greystone stepped back, clearing the path for her. “Until the morrow, Miss Collard.”
“Until the morrow, my lord.”
She passed him, keenly aware of his nearness, of the quickened beat of her own heart. She had nearly reached her door when his voice stopped her.
“Serena.”
She turned, startled by the sound of her given name. “My lord?”
He stood where she had left him, his face half in shadow.
“I am glad you came to Greystone Hall,” he said. “I am glad you stayed.”
Something in her gave way, quiet and irrevocable.
“So am I,” she said. And she meant it.
She entered her room and closed the door behind her, resting against it for a moment until her breathing steadied.
She was in difficulty. Deep, intricate, and likely beyond remedy. She had come to Greystone Hall resolved to maintain her distance, to do her duty without entanglement, to protect herself from the pain she knew followed every farewell.
And instead, in the space of days, she had come to care deeply for three wounded children and found herself perilously close to feeling something equally dangerous for their guardian.
This was not what she had intended.
Yet as she sat on her bed listening to the quiet settling of the house, Serena found she could not summon regret.
For the first time in many years, she felt she might be precisely where she was supposed to be.
And that, she thought, might be worth whatever pain should follow.