Chapter Eight
The library at Greystone Hall had become Serena’s sanctuary.
She had discovered it during her first week at the estate, wandering the corridors in a rare hour of solitude.
She had opened a heavy oak door, expecting another unused parlour or perhaps a storage room, and instead found herself standing in what could only be described as a tribute to the written word.
The room was two stories tall, with shelves reaching from floor to ceiling on every wall.
A rolling ladder provided access to the upper reaches, and a gallery ran around the perimeter, offering a second level of exploration for those brave enough to climb.
The furniture was old but well-maintained—deep leather chairs positioned near the windows, a massive desk in one corner, and a chaise longue upholstered in faded green velvet that looked as though it had been designed specifically for the purpose of lying down with a good book and forgetting that the world existed.
Serena had fallen in love with the room instantly.
She had returned most evenings since, after the children were in bed and her duties were complete.
Lord Greystone, she had learned, made little use of the library himself, preferring his study and its ledgers and correspondence, and so the room had become hers almost entirely.
It was her refuge, the one place in the house where she could set aside the composed mask of the governess and simply exist.
This evening, she had chosen a volume of poetry. Byron, whose brooding verses seemed particularly suited to her unsettled thoughts. Curled into her favourite chair by the window, with rain streaking the glass and the fire murmuring softly in the grate, she ought to have been content.
Instead, she found herself unable to attend to the page.
Her eyes kept drifting from the page, her thoughts wandering to places they had no business going. The corridor that afternoon. The intensity of Lord Greystone’s gaze. The sound of her name on his tongue.
She told herself firmly that she was indulging nonsense. He had spoken to her as an employer speaks to an employee, nothing more. If she had imagined something else, that was a failing of her own discipline rather than any fault of his.
She turned the page with more force than necessary and resolved to give Byron her full attention.
She had scarcely settled into a particularly sombre stanza when a sound reached her from among the shelves. A faint rustling, cautious and furtive, as though someone were striving very hard not to be noticed.
Serena set aside her book and rose. The sound came again, from the far corner of the library, near the shelves that housed, if her memory served her, the less suitable volumes of the Greystone collection.
She made her way between the shelves, her steps silent upon the thick carpet. Another rustle followed, and then a small, startled sound that could only be—
“Miss Ella.”
The girl turned sharply, colour flooding her face, her hands moving too late to conceal the book she held. Serena caught the title before it vanished behind her back.
The Sins of Lady Sinclair.
Oh dear.
“Miss Collard,” Ella exclaimed, her voice pitched far higher than usual. “I was just— I mean— I was looking for—”
“You were looking for something to read,” Serena said calmly, schooling her expression into mild interest. “Which is a perfectly reasonable activity in a library.”
Ella’s colour deepened. “Yes. Exactly. I was merely browsing.”
“And what, precisely, were you browsing?”
“Nothing. Just a book.”
“May I see it?”
“I would rather you did not.”
Serena considered the moment. Authority would be easy. Trust, far less so, and far more valuable.
“Miss Ella,” she said instead, lightly, “I am going to hazard a guess as to the nature of that book, based upon your location and the remarkable enthusiasm of your complexion. I suspect my guess would be accurate.”
Ella said nothing, though her grip tightened.
“I shall also tell you something that may surprise you.” Serena leaned against the opposite shelf with an ease she only partly felt.
“When I was not much older than you, I discovered a similar volume in my father’s library.
It was concealed behind a row of encyclopaedias, a strategy that proved ineffective, as I was the only person who ever consulted them. ”
Ella stared. “You read— you mean—”
“I was curious,” Serena said simply. “As you are. Curiosity is not a fault. It is merely inconvenient.”
A choked sound escaped Ella, half laughter, half shock. “Miss Collard.”
“I am merely stating facts, Miss Ella. Society’s approach to instructing young women on certain realities is, in my opinion, deeply unsatisfactory. But that discussion may wait.” Serena’s tone softened. “For now, we must address the matter of the book.”
Ella hesitated. “Are you going to tell Uncle Nate?”
“That depends upon what you choose to tell me.” Serena met her gaze. “What prompted this exploration? You have no shortage of suitable reading. Why this?”
For a moment, Ella was silent. Then, quietly, “I found it last week. I was looking for something else. A book of maps Papa used to show me. This was hidden behind others, and I thought… well.” She faltered. “I thought it must be important.”
“And was it?”
“Yes.” Her voice dropped. “But it was also confusing. Some parts I did not understand. Others I did, and they made me feel… strange.”
Serena felt a familiar ache of sympathy for this girl who was caught between childhood and adulthood, trying to make sense of a world that offered her few honest answers.
“Shall we sit?” she asked, gesturing to a small settee tucked into an alcove nearby. “I find that conversations of this nature are better conducted while seated.”
Ella hesitated, then nodded. They moved to the settee together, and after a moment, Ella withdrew the book from behind her back and held it in her lap, her fingers tracing the gilt lettering on the spine.
“I am not going to take it from you,” Serena said. “Nor am I about to lecture you on propriety. I am, however, going to ask you some questions. And I should like honest answers. Can you manage that?”
Ella nodded, wary but attentive.
“Good. First: did you understand everything you read in that book?”
“No.” The admission seemed to cost her something. “Some of it made no sense at all. And some of it…” She hesitated. “Some of it felt as though it could not possibly be true. As though the author were inventing things.”
“That is a perceptive observation,” Serena said. “Books of that sort are written chiefly for amusement, not instruction. They exaggerate. They embroider. They present a version of certain… interactions… that bears little resemblance to real experience.”
Ella frowned. “So the book is lying?”
“Not lying, precisely. It tells a particular kind of story; one meant to stir feeling rather than to reflect reality.” Serena chose her words with care. “Such stories omit the awkward parts, the uncertain parts, the parts that require patience, trust, and a great deal of conversation.”
“Oh.” Ella glanced down at the volume in her lap. “So it is rather like a fairy tale—pretending at reality.”
“That is an apt comparison,” Serena said. “And just as one would not expect a fairy tale to govern the conduct of everyday life, one ought not to expect such books to describe it faithfully.”
Ella was silent for a moment. Then she looked up, her grey eyes searching Serena’s face.
“Miss Collard, may I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“The other governesses—when I asked them questions about matters like this—they always said I was too young, or that it was improper to know, or that I would understand everything when I was older.” Her voice was carefully steady, but frustration lay beneath it.
“But how am I supposed to learn if no one will teach me? And how am I to know what is true and what is not, if no one will explain the difference?”
It was, Serena thought, an excellent question.
“You are quite right,” she said. “And I shall make you a promise, Miss Ella. If you have questions, you may bring them to me. I will answer them honestly and suitably, according to your age and understanding. I will not dismiss you for asking, nor pretend that knowledge will arrive by magic at some later date.”
Ella stared at her. “Truly? You will not be shocked, or cross, or—”
“I have been a governess for quite some time,” Serena said mildly. “I assure you, very little surprises me. And I would much rather you ask me than rely upon novels such as that one for instruction.”
Something shifted in Ella’s expression—a softening, a releasing of tension that Serena had not even realised the girl was carrying.
“Thank you, Miss Collard,” Ella whispered. “I... thank you.”
“You are welcome.” Serena glanced at the book. “Now, what do you wish to do with it?”
Ella considered. Then she held it out. “I do not think I wish to finish it. The more I read, the more confused I felt. And the heroine behaves foolishly, and the hero—” She wrinkled her nose. “The hero is rather alarming. He takes liberties without asking, and she is meant to find it romantic.”
Serena accepted the book, suppressing a smile. “Your instincts are sound. A man who takes liberties without invitation is neither romantic nor admirable.”
“So that is not how it should be?”
“No,” Serena said firmly. “It should involve respect, understanding, and clear consent. Anything less is not something to be admired.”
Ella nodded slowly. “Then the book is not a very good guide.”
“It is not,” Serena agreed.
They sat quietly for a moment, the fire murmuring and the rain tapping softly at the windows.
“I ought to go to bed,” Ella said at last. “It is very late.”
“It is,” Serena agreed. “But I think we may excuse the hour, on this occasion.” She rose, the book tucked beneath her arm. “I shall return this to its shelf, and this conversation will remain between us.”
“You will not tell Uncle Nate?”