Chapter Seven
“You cannot possibly expect me to believe that you have never climbed a tree.”
Serena looked up from her embroidery, a pursuit she had never greatly enjoyed but which afforded an excellent excuse to sit quietly and observe, and found Ella standing before her with an expression of profound scepticism.
“I assure you, Miss Ella, I have climbed a great many trees in my lifetime. I was, in fact, something of an accomplished climber as a child.”
“Then why will you not climb the oak in the garden?” Ella demanded. “Samuel insists the view from the top is magnificent, and I should very much like to see it. But Mrs McConnor says young ladies do not climb trees, and Uncle Nate would have an apoplexy if he saw me attempting it.”
“Your uncle would not have an apoplexy,” Serena said calmly. “He would merely adopt a very severe expression and make some pointed remarks about propriety, which is far less dramatic but considerably more tedious.”
Ella’s lips twitched. Over the past fortnight, Serena had learned that the surest way to earn the girl’s respect was to address her plainly.
Not indulgently, not with false cheer, but with the same dry honesty one might extend to an adult.
Ella, who had spent two years being managed and softened and spoken to as though she might shatter at the slightest pressure, responded to directness like a plant turning toward the light.
“So you say that climbing the tree would be improper,” Ella said.
“I say nothing of the sort,” Serena replied.
“I merely observe that your uncle has certain expectations regarding suitable behaviour for young ladies, and that defying them would create complications neither of us wishes to untangle.” She set aside her embroidery and met Ella’s gaze.
“I would also observe that your uncle is presently engaged with estate matters and is unlikely to appear in the garden before teatime.”
Ella’s eyes widened. “Miss Collard. Are you suggesting—”
“I am suggesting nothing at all,” Serena said, picking up her embroidery once more with an air of perfect innocence. “I am merely remarking upon your uncle’s habits. What use you make of that information is entirely your own concern.”
For a moment, Ella could only stare at her. Then a grin spread across her face, bright and mischievous and wholly childlike.
“You are not like other governesses,” she said.
“So I have been told,” Serena replied. “Seldom as a compliment.”
“I mean it as one.” Ella hesitated, then added more quietly, “I am glad you came here, Miss Collard. Even if I did not behave as though I were, at first.”
Something warm stirred in Serena’s chest, something she immediately suppressed. Warmth was dangerous. Attachment was foolish. She had rules, after all, even if they were becoming increasingly difficult to uphold.
“I am glad I came too, Miss Ella,” she said. “Now run and climb your tree before I remember that I am meant to be a responsible adult and put a stop to the whole affair.”
Ella was gone before Serena had finished speaking, her steps pounding down the corridor with all the elegance of a small elephant. Serena listened to her go, smiling despite herself.
She had been at Greystone Hall a fortnight now, and in that time something had shifted.
The children were still wounded, that was certain, and perhaps always would be, but the sharpest edges of their grief had begun to soften.
Ella smiled more readily. Samuel had begun to speak in full sentences rather than single words.
And Rosie no longer asked for her mother every night, though Marianne was still clasped with unwavering devotion.
It was progress. Small and fragile, but progress nonetheless.
And if Serena found herself thinking rather more often than was prudent of the master of the house—of the way his brow furrowed when he was deep in thought, of the unexpected warmth in his voice when he spoke to Rosie, of the keen intelligence that lay behind those guarded grey eyes—that was merely the result of proximity.
It meant nothing. It could mean nothing.
She was a governess. He was a marquess. The distance between them was measured not in rooms or corridors, but in centuries of custom and expectation, and no amount of… whatever this feeling was… could hope to bridge it.
Serena pushed her needle into the embroidery with more force than strictly necessary and resolved, for the hundredth time that week, to put Lord Greystone from her thoughts entirely.
The resolution endured for approximately ten minutes.
That was when she heard his voice in the corridor.
***
Lord Greystone, as it turned out, did not remain occupied with estate business until teatime.
Serena was now helping Rosie practise her letters, when his voice drifted through the half-open door—low, clipped, and distinctly displeased.
“What do you mean, she is in the garden? She is meant to be at her lessons.”
Mrs McConnor’s reply was too muffled to be made out, though Serena could readily imagine the housekeeper’s expression: that long-suffering patience she reserved for the Stone family in moments of exasperation.
“And Miss Collard?” Lord Greystone demanded. “Where is she?”
Serena’s stomach tightened. She set aside Rosie’s slate and smoothed her skirts, schooling her features into an expression of calm competence.
“Remain here, my dear,” she said gently. “Practise your M’s while I speak with your uncle.”
“M is for Marianne,” Rosie announced cheerfully, already absorbed in her task.
Serena stepped into the corridor just as Lord Greystone rounded the corner, his expression decidedly thunderous.
He was dressed for riding—boots polished to a fine shine, coat fitted close across his shoulders, cravat tied with the effortless precision of a man long accustomed to the attentions of an excellent valet.
His dark hair was slightly dishevelled, as though he had been running his hands through it, and there was a tension in his jaw that spoke of barely contained frustration.
He looked, Serena thought with unwanted awareness, rather magnificent when angry.
She immediately scolded herself for the observation.
“Miss Collard,” he said tightly. “I have just been informed that my niece is presently perched at the top of the oak tree in the garden, apparently with your approval.”
“Not precisely my approval, my lord,” Serena replied evenly. “More a… tacit non-objection.”
His eyes narrowed. “Is there a distinction?”
“A meaningful one. Approval implies encouragement. Tacit non-objection merely indicates that I did not physically restrain her from an activity which, while perhaps unconventional, presents no serious danger to her health or safety.”
He exhaled sharply. “She could fall.”
“She could,” Serena agreed. “Children do, on occasion. It is part of learning how to move through the world.”
“And if she breaks an arm? Or worse?”
Serena met his gaze directly now. “Then we shall send for a physician and address the consequences. But I think it far more likely that she will descend unharmed and considerably pleased with herself, having accomplished something she was told she ought not attempt.” She paused. “May I speak candidly, my lord?”
Something in his expression shifted—wariness, perhaps, or reluctant curiosity. “You have shown little inclination to do otherwise.”
“Very well.” Serena folded her hands before her, adopting the posture of one long accustomed to delivering unwelcome truths.
“For two years, Ella has been treated as though she were made of glass. Shielded from every difficulty, protected from every risk. The result is not a child who feels secure, but one who believes the world is dangerous and that survival depends upon avoiding it entirely.”
Lord Greystone was silent. Serena wondered, briefly, whether she had gone too far.
“You think I have been overprotective,” he said at last.
“I think you have been afraid,” she replied, more gently than she had intended.
“And that is understandable. But fear cannot be the foundation of a child’s life.
They must be allowed to test themselves, to fail now and then, and to learn that failure is not ruin.
They need to discover their own strength. ”
He studied her closely, his gaze intent in a way that made Serena acutely aware of herself. Colour rose, unbidden, to her cheeks, and she looked away.
“And if something does happen?” he asked quietly. “If she falls, and I lose her as well?”
The rawness of the question struck her hard.
This was not a man worried about propriety or the impropriety of tree-climbing. This was a man who had already lost too much, who lived in constant terror of losing more, who had built walls around himself and his household in a desperate attempt to keep the world’s cruelties at bay.
“You cannot protect them from every harm,” she said softly. “I know how much you wish to. But keeping them safe by keeping them afraid does its own damage. One that lingers far longer than a broken bone.”
The silence that followed was heavy. When Lord Greystone spoke again, his voice was carefully controlled.
“You speak as though you know this from experience.”
Serena thought of her father in those last years after her mother’s death.
How he had tried to keep her safe, keep her close, keep her wrapped in the cocoon of his grief until she could barely breathe.
How she had loved him and resented him in equal measure, grateful for his protection and suffocated by it.
“I have some familiarity with the subject,” she said, and offered nothing more.
He regarded her for a moment longer, then inclined his head in a gesture not quite a bow.
“I shall observe this tree-climbing expedition,” he said. “If only to satisfy myself that my niece has not come to serious harm.”
“That seems prudent, my lord.”
He turned to go, then paused.
“Miss Collard,” he said without looking back, “I find your candour… instructive. If occasionally inconvenient.”
Before she could respond, he was gone, striding toward the garden with the determined air of a man accustomed to decisive action.
Serena remained where she was a moment longer than necessary, her heart beating faster than was reasonable, her cheeks still warm beneath the memory of his gaze.
This was becoming troublesome.
She could not afford such awareness. Could not indulge thoughts of the way his voice softened when he spoke of his brother, or the fierce restraint with which he loved his nieces and nephew.
She pressed her palms briefly to her face, drew a steadying breath, and returned to Rosie.
If her attention wandered somewhat for the remainder of the afternoon, that was merely the consequence of a disrupted routine.
It had nothing at all to do with Lord Greystone.
Nothing whatsoever.