Chapter Ten
The village fair arrived on a day of brilliant sunshine—a rarity in Derbyshire, and a gift that felt almost like an omen.
Serena dressed with particular care that morning, choosing her best gown—a deep blue muslin that flattered her complexion, though she told herself no one would remark upon it—and arranging her hair with more attention than usual.
She assured herself this was merely prudent.
She would be in public, representing the Greystone household.
It had nothing whatsoever to do with Lord Greystone, nor with the way he had looked at her in the garden three days earlier, nor with the conversation that had lingered in her thoughts ever since.
The children were beside themselves with excitement.
Ella had abandoned all pretence of maturity and could scarcely keep still.
Samuel, emerging from his customary reserve, peppered Serena with eager questions about what they might see.
And Rosie had dressed Marianne with a tiny ribbon provided by Cook, insisting that her doll must look her very best for such an important occasion.
“Uncle Nate is coming with us,” Ella announced, as though this were the most astonishing development imaginable. “He never attends the fair. He says crowds give him headaches.”
“Perhaps he has reconsidered,” Serena said evenly.
“Perhaps he has other reasons,” Ella replied, with a knowing look that brought unwelcome warmth to Serena’s cheeks.
Eleven years old, Serena reminded herself firmly. Entirely too young for such insinuations.
They assembled in the entrance hall; the children dressed in their finest and scarcely able to contain themselves. Lord Greystone descended the stairs, and Serena—quite unnecessarily—looked away quickly, her heart stuttering.
He looked well. That was all. Well, in his dark coat and pale waistcoat, his cravat tied with unaccustomed precision, his hair neatly arranged. There was nothing remarkable in it, nothing to justify the sudden quickening of her pulse.
“Are we ready?” he asked, his gaze passing over them all and lingering—only for a moment, so brief she might have imagined it—upon Serena.
“Ready!” Rosie declared, bouncing on her toes.
“Then let us be off.”
The carriage ride to the village was filled with cheerful disorder. Serena sat opposite Lord Greystone, acutely aware of the confined space and of his presence within it. He answered Samuel’s questions with genuine attention, recalling the fairs of his own childhood.
“Edward and I used to compete in the sack race,” he said, a faint smile touching his mouth. “He always won. Longer legs.”
“I could win the sack race,” Samuel said, with a confidence Serena had not heard from him in weeks. “I’m very fast.”
“I do not doubt it,” Lord Greystone replied. “We shall see that you are entered.”
Samuel beamed outright, and Serena felt a quiet warmth spread through her chest. This—this ease between uncle and nephew—was what she had hoped for. Whatever confusion she felt on her own account, this alone made her efforts worthwhile.
The fair itself was everything such an occasion ought to be: lively, crowded, and agreeably chaotic.
Stalls ringed the village green, offering ribbons, sweetmeats, and roasted chestnuts.
Music rose from a makeshift platform, competing with laughter and the calls of vendors.
The scent of baking pies mingled with fresh hay, and everywhere there was colour and motion.
The children dispersed at once—Ella pulling Samuel toward the games while Rosie insisted upon the pony rides. Serena moved to follow, but Lord Greystone spoke her name.
“Miss Collard. Might you walk with me?”
It was phrased as a request, yet carried a weight that made her hesitate. Walking alone with her employer—even here—was hardly proper.
“The children—”
“Are attended by Mrs McConnor,” he said, indicating the housekeeper, who followed at a discreet distance. “I thought you might wish to see the fair for yourself, rather than merely supervise it.”
Serena should have declined. She should have cited duty or propriety or any of a dozen sensible reasons.
“That would be very pleasant,” she heard herself say. “Thank you, my lord.”
They walked together through the press of people, Lord Greystone unconsciously shortening his stride to match hers.
He pointed out familiar sights with the air of a man revisiting old ground—the puppet show long established in the village, the baker famed for his pies, the ancient oak beneath which, legend claimed, a knight had once proposed to his lady.
“Do you credit the story?” Serena asked.
“Not in the least. But it is a pleasing fiction.” He glanced at her. “Do you?”
“I think people have always relied upon such stories to give shape to their hopes,” she said. “Whether they are literally true matters less than what they allow us to believe.”
“A romantic, then.”
“A practical one,” she replied. “I prefer my ideals tempered by reality.”
He laughed—a brief, genuine sound. “You are admirably prepared for every argument, Miss Collard.”
“I find preparation useful.”
At the edge of the fair, they paused upon a small wooden footbridge. Lord Greystone rested his hands upon the rail, looking down at the water below.
“May I confide something, Miss Collard?”
Her breath caught, though she answered steadily. “Of course, my lord.”
“Before you came—before all this—I had forgotten what such moments felt like.” He gestured toward the green, the sunlight, the distant laughter.
“Ease. Contentment. I persuaded myself that to grieve my brother meant I must forgo them altogether.” He turned to her, his expression unguarded. “You reminded me otherwise.”
Serena did not know what to say. The moment felt fragile, significant, like a soap bubble that might burst at the slightest touch.
“I have done very little, my lord,” she said at last. “The children have done the greater part themselves. They merely needed leave to be happy again.”
“And who gave them that leave?”
“I only suggested that grief and joy need not be mutually exclusive,” she replied. “That loving those we have lost does not require perpetual misery.”
Lord Greystone was silent for a time. When he spoke, his voice was low.
“Did you learn that from experience, Miss Collard? Or from books?”
The question was too personal. It crossed lines that should not be crossed, asked for confidences that Serena had no business sharing. She should have deflected, redirected, returned to safer ground.
Instead, she said quietly, “My mother died when I was ten. My father when I was sixteen.”
His expression altered at once—not dramatically, but unmistakably.
“I am very sorry.”
“So am I.” Serena turned her gaze to the stream, watching the light scatter across its surface. “For many years, I believed that losing them meant I must never allow myself to care deeply again. It seemed the prudent course. One cannot lose what one never allows oneself to possess.”
“And now?”
“Now I think that was a mistake.” She drew a steadying breath. “Withholding affection does not spare one from pain. It only ensures that whatever sorrow comes must be borne alone.”
Lord Greystone said nothing, but she could feel the intensity of his attention like a physical weight.
“The children,” she continued, more firmly now, “have lost so much. But they have not lost their capacity for attachment. That remains. It only required reassurance that such feeling was not dangerous—that it was still permitted.”
“And you gave them that reassurance.”
“I endeavoured to.”
“You succeeded,” he said quietly. “Miss Collard, you must understand—”
A shrill cry cut through his words, bright with excitement.
“Uncle Nate! Miss Collard! Come quickly! Samuel won the sack race!”
Rosie came running toward them, her face radiant, Marianne bouncing at her side.
“He won?” Lord Greystone’s face transformed. “Truly?”
“He beat everyone—even the older boys! Ella says it’s because he has excellent balance, Mrs McConnor says it’s because he ate his porridge, and Samuel says it’s because he is the fastest boy in England!”
Lord Greystone laughed and lifted Rosie into his arms. “Then we must congratulate him at once. Lead on, my dear.”
Rosie pointed eagerly toward the green, and Lord Greystone set off with her perched on his hip, his stride long and eager.
Serena followed more slowly, her thoughts in quiet disarray. She watched him—Nathaniel, for he was Nathaniel in her mind now, whatever propriety might dictate—watched the ease with which he carried his niece, the pride already gathering in his expression as his nephew ran to meet him.
Something settled within her then, gentle but irrevocable.
She had known it for some time, though she had refused to name it. Now she could no longer deny its presence.
It was folly, of course. He was a marquess; she was a governess. The distance between them was not merely social but structural, immovable. Whatever kindness he showed her sprang from gratitude and shared concern for the children—nothing more.
The conversations, the glances held a moment too long, the sense of being seen—these were surely coincidences of proximity, nothing that could or should be given meaning.
And yet.
When they reached the green and Samuel rushed forward, flushed and breathless with triumph, Lord Greystone drew the boy into a fierce embrace. Over Samuel’s shoulder, his gaze lifted—and met Serena’s.
Something passed between them then, fleeting but unmistakable.
She told herself it was imagination. She told herself she must be mistaken.
But hope—quiet, treacherous hope—stirred all the same.
Perhaps she was not entirely alone in this most imprudent of inclinations.
Perhaps—only perhaps—he felt it too.