Chapter Twelve
The following morning brought Andrew Fairfax back to Greystone Hall.
Nathaniel was in his study when the butler announced the visitor, and his first thought—ungenerous and entirely improper—was to have the man turned away with some polite excuse. He was occupied. He was indisposed. He had been called away on urgent business.
None of these evasions would withstand even casual scrutiny. Worse, Fairfax had been invited. Nathaniel himself had told him to return, had all but given him permission to pursue an acquaintance with Miss Collard.
He had no one to blame but himself.
“Show him in,” he said, rising from his desk with a distinct sense of impending calamity.
Fairfax entered with the same easy confidence he had displayed the day before—pleasant, smiling, entirely unthreatening. He was well dressed without ostentation, his manner warm but not presumptuous.
He was, Nathaniel thought with renewed irritation, precisely the sort of man mothers approved of.
“Mr Fairfax,” Nathaniel said, summoning something like cordiality. “I did not expect you quite so soon.”
“I hope you will forgive the intrusion, my lord,” Fairfax replied. “I was passing through on parish business and thought I might—if it were convenient—take the opportunity to meet Miss Collard, as we discussed.”
It was inconvenient. Profoundly so.
“Of course,” Nathaniel heard himself say. “The children will be at their lessons, but Miss Collard may spare a few moments. I shall have her sent for.”
He rang for the butler and issued the instruction, then gestured Fairfax to a chair. The intervening minutes were filled with stiff observations about the weather, the condition of the roads, and various parish concerns. Nathaniel contributed little, his attention fixed on the door.
When Miss Collard entered, he was unprepared.
She wore a dress he had not seen before—a soft green muslin that set off the colour of her eyes and fit her with devastating propriety.
Her hair was arranged as usual, neat and sensible, though a few escaped curls brushed the nape of her neck.
Nathaniel found his gaze caught there, absurdly reluctant to look away.
“My lord?” Her voice cut cleanly through his distraction. “You wished to see me?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Miss Collard, may I introduce Mr Andrew Fairfax, the vicar’s son. Mr Fairfax, Miss Serena Collard, the children’s governess.”
Fairfax rose and bowed—unnecessarily well, Nathaniel noted sourly.
“Miss Collard. I have heard a great deal about you. The village speaks of little else but the change you have brought to Greystone Hall.”
Her cheeks coloured faintly—that restrained, infuriating blush Nathaniel now had to watch another man provoke.
“The village is kind to exaggerate,” she said. “I have only done my duty.”
“From all accounts, you have done considerably more. My father was most impressed when he met you at church. He said you asked several perceptive questions regarding his sermon.”
“The Reverend Fairfax was generous. His reflections on the parable of the talents were particularly thought-provoking.”
“He would be pleased to hear it. Sermons are his passion—he labours over them for hours, hoping they may make some small difference.”
Nathaniel stood by the window, observing the exchange with what he could only describe as controlled restraint.
They were, predictably, getting on. Miss Collard always did.
But there was something in Fairfax’s manner—the slight forward inclination, the attentive gaze—that made Nathaniel’s temper fray.
“I wondered, Miss Collard,” Fairfax continued, “whether you might care to see the parish library. It is modest, but there are several volumes that might appeal to a mind of your evident curiosity. My father would be happy to lend them.”
Her expression brightened. “That is very generous, Mr Fairfax. I have been enjoying Lord Greystone’s library, but new reading is always welcome.”
“Then perhaps you might call at the vicarage some afternoon?” Fairfax said, his smile widening. “I could show you the collection myself, and my mother would be delighted to make your acquaintance.”
A perfectly respectable invitation. Entirely proper.
And intolerable.
“That sounds—” Miss Collard began.
“I’m afraid Miss Collard’s time is very fully engaged,” Nathaniel interjected, his tone firmer than intended.
Both turned to him in surprise.
“The children’s lessons require her close attention,” he continued. “I would not wish her to overtax herself with unnecessary engagements.”
“My lord,” Miss Collard began, puzzled, “I am quite certain I could manage—”
“They have grown particularly reliant upon your presence.” Nathaniel held her gaze, communicating what he could not articulate. “Their progress must not be jeopardised by distraction.”
A silence settled. Fairfax’s confidence faltered. Miss Collard’s expression became carefully neutral.
“Of course,” she said at last. “The children must come first.”
“Indeed.” Nathaniel turned to Fairfax. “I trust you understand, Mr Fairfax. My nieces and nephew are my foremost concern.”
“Entirely, my lord.” Fairfax rose, recognising dismissal with admirable grace. “Perhaps another time.”
“Perhaps.”
The word hung in the air, offering nothing.
Fairfax bowed and departed, leaving the room charged with unspoken tension.
Miss Collard broke it first. “My lord, may I speak plainly?”
“You always do.”
She inhaled, meeting his eyes with composed directness. “Was there a particular reason you discouraged Mr Fairfax’s invitation? Beyond your concern for the children, which I confess seemed rather pointed in the moment.”
Nathaniel’s jaw tightened. He knew what she was asking. But he could not answer honestly. He could not say what was burning in his chest.
Because I cannot bear the thought of you spending time with another man.
Because I am consumed with jealousy over a perfectly pleasant vicar’s son who has done nothing wrong except notice how extraordinary you are.
Because I want to be the one who shows you libraries and finds excuses to spend time in your company.
“I thought him overly forward,” he said instead. “You have been here scarcely a month. There is no need for haste in forming social attachments.”
“Haste,” she repeated thoughtfully. “He invited me to visit a parish library in the company of his mother, my lord. It was hardly a proposal of marriage.”
The word marriage hit Nathaniel like a blow. He turned away, moving to the window so she would not see the effect her words had produced.
“Nevertheless,” he said, his voice tight. “I would prefer you to attend to your duties here rather than cultivating... outside attachments.”
Another silence. When Miss Collard spoke again, her voice was softer, more uncertain.
“My lord, have I done something to displease you? If my work has been unsatisfactory in some way—”
“On the contrary.” His voice came sharper than intended. “Your conduct has been exemplary.”
“Then what is the difficulty?”
Nathaniel closed his eyes, fighting for control. He could feel her gaze on his back, could sense her confusion and concern, and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to turn around and tell her the truth.
“There is none,” he said at last. “I spoke out of turn. You are, of course, free to accept whatever invitations you wish. I should not have interfered.”
He heard her take a breath, as though she were about to say something else. Then silence, followed by the rustle of fabric as she curtsied.
“Thank you, my lord. I shall return to the children now, if I may be excused.”
“Of course.”
She left.
Nathaniel remained at the window, gazing into the garden without truly seeing it.
He had managed that exceedingly ill. He had disclosed too much and explained too little; had been discourteous to a perfectly blameless young man and unduly authoritative toward a woman who merited neither censure nor control.
In short, he had behaved like a jealous fool—which, regrettably, he was—but that knowledge did nothing to excuse the conduct itself.
He must regain command of himself. He must remember that Miss Collard was his employee, not his possession; that she was entitled to accept the attentions of suitable gentlemen who might offer her a future he could not.
He must cease this absurd, ruinous attachment.
Yet even as the thought formed, he recognised its futility. He did care. He cared deeply—unwisely, hopelessly, and in defiance of every sensible consideration. And no measure of logic or self-reproach was likely to alter that truth.
***
The afternoon brought no relief from Nathaniel’s turbulent thoughts.
He attempted to work, but the figures in his ledgers blurred and swam, dissolving into images of Miss Collard laughing with Andrew Fairfax; Miss Collard calling at the vicarage; Miss Collard accepting the sort of respectable, sensible courtship a governess might reasonably hope for.
By three o’clock, he had abandoned all pretence of productivity and was pacing his study like a caged animal.
The letter continued to haunt him. Who had written to her? What news had it carried? Why had she blushed upon reading it, and why had she seemed so distracted afterwards?
And now there was Fairfax to consider as well.
The vicar’s son, with his agreeable manners, his parish library, and his evident admiration.
He would call again—Nathaniel was certain of it.
He would contrive opportunities to visit, to engage Miss Collard in conversation, to demonstrate his suitability as a prospective husband.
And what could Nathaniel do to prevent it? Nothing. Precisely nothing. He had no claim upon Miss Collard and no right—none whatsoever—to interfere in her private affairs.
The injustice of it burned sharply in his chest.
A knock at the study door cut short his pacing.
“Enter,” he called, expecting the butler with some piece of household business.
Instead, Ella appeared in the doorway.