Chapter Twelve #2
“Uncle Nate.” She stepped inside with the composed assurance that was so characteristic of her. “May I speak with you?”
“Of course.” Nathaniel gestured toward a chair, grateful for the interruption. “What is it, Ella?”
She did not sit. Instead, she regarded him with an expression far too discerning for an eleven-year-old.
“You were rude to Mr Fairfax this morning,” she said.
Nathaniel blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mr Fairfax. The vicar’s son. You were rude to him, and you upset Miss Collard, and I want to know why.”
“I do not believe that is any concern of yours—”
“Miss Collard has been very quiet all afternoon,” Ella continued, unperturbed. “She says nothing is wrong, but I can tell that she is upset. Samuel said he also caught you looking at her oddly earlier. And after Mr Fairfax left, Miss Collard returned to the schoolroom and seemed… sad.”
A pang of guilt struck Nathaniel. He had not considered the effect his behaviour might have had beyond the moment itself—had not thought of Miss Collard carrying the weight of his ill-temper back to the children.
“I regret it if my manner caused her distress,” he said carefully. “That was not my intention—”
“Do you not wish Miss Collard to have friends?” Ella asked, her grey eyes—so very like his own—fixed steadily upon his face. “Is that why you told Mr Fairfax she was too busy? Because you want her to remain here with us, and nowhere else?”
The question came uncomfortably close to the truth. Heat rose to Nathaniel’s face, and he turned away.
“It is not so simple, Ella.”
“Then explain it to me. Because from where I stand, it appears you are attempting to keep Miss Collard entirely to yourself—and that is not fair to her.”
“I am not attempting to—” He broke off, frustrated by his inability to articulate feelings he scarcely understood himself. “There are complications, Ella. Adult considerations. Matters you are too young to comprehend.”
“I am eleven and three-quarters,” Ella said with dignity. “And I am not stupid. I notice things.”
“What things?”
“The way you look at her.” Her tone was matter-of-fact, as though she were commenting on the weather. “The way you watch her when you believe no one observes you. The way your voice changes when you speak to her—softer. Kinder.”
Nathaniel’s heart thudded heavily. Had he truly been so transparent?
“Ella—”
“I am not saying it is wrong,” she continued.
“Miss Collard is wonderful. She is the best governess we have ever had. She makes Samuel speak again, and she makes Rosie laugh, and she makes you—” She hesitated.
“She makes you leave your study. She makes you be with us instead of hiding. So if you care for her, I do not think that is a bad thing.”
Nathaniel sank into his chair, suddenly weary. “It is still not so simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am a marquess, and she is a governess. Because society has rules—rules that exist for reasons, rules meant to prevent mistakes that cannot be undone.”
Ella was silent for a moment. Then she said quietly, “Mama was a gentleman’s daughter, not a lady of rank. Papa married beneath him—everyone said so. It caused a scandal, and some people ceased speaking to him. But he did not care. He said she was worth more than all the approval of society.”
Nathaniel closed his eyes. He remembered that scandal well—the whispered censure, his father’s fury, the doors that had closed to Edward. But Edward had not regretted it. Edward had been happy—utterly, profoundly happy—until the day the carriage overturned.
“Your father was braver than I am,” Nathaniel said softly.
“Perhaps.” Ella stepped closer, her expression gentler now. “But Miss Collard says you are braver than you believe.”
“Does she?”
“She says you have carried a terrible burden alone, and that you have done better than anyone might expect. She says you love us, even when you do not know how to show it.” Ella paused.
“She said that in her first week here—when I was being quite dreadful. She defended you, even though you were hiding in your study and ignoring everyone.”
Something gave way in Nathaniel’s chest. Miss Collard had defended him—had seen the love beneath his failures, had understood him when he had scarcely understood himself.
“Thank you, Ella,” he said hoarsely. “But I must ask you not to speak of this again—particularly not to Miss Collard. These are matters I must resolve for myself.”
Ella nodded. “Very well.” Then, with a final glance at him, she added, “Just do not be rude to any more vicars’ sons. It makes you appear jealous.”
She departed before he could reply, which was perhaps a mercy, as he had nothing suitable to say.
Jealous.
An eleven-year-old had named the truth he had resisted.
He was jealous—of Andrew Fairfax, of a letter from London, of anyone who might claim even a fragment of Miss Collard’s attention, her time, her regard.
It was unbecoming. Undignified. Entirely unworthy of his position.
And it was not going to abate.
***
Dinner that evening was a subdued affair.
Miss Collard was present, as she had been for most meals since her arrival, but there was a reserve in her manner that had not been there before. She answered questions politely, engaged with the children appropriately, but something had shifted. Some warmth had been withdrawn.
Nathaniel watched her across the table and knew he was the cause.
The children seemed to sense the change in atmosphere. Ella kept glancing between Nathaniel and Miss Collard with a look of knowing concern. Samuel had retreated into his habitual silence. Even Rosie was quieter than usual, picking at her food and casting worried glances at the adults.
When the meal concluded, Miss Collard rose to escort the children to their evening routine.
“Miss Collard.” Nathaniel heard himself speak before he had decided to. “Might I have a word? In private?”
She paused, her expression guarded. “Of course, my lord.”
He turned to the children. “Ella, please take your siblings upstairs. Miss Collard will join you shortly.”
Ella nodded, herding Samuel and Rosie toward the door with the efficiency of long practice. When they were gone, Nathaniel found himself alone with Miss Collard for the second time that day—and more uncertain of what to say than ever.
“Miss Collard.” He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture he had never quite managed to break. “I owe you an apology.”
“My lord—”
“Please, let me finish.” He took a breath, gathering his thoughts. “My behaviour this morning was inexcusable. I had no right to interfere with Mr Fairfax’s invitation, no right to suggest that your social engagements were somehow inappropriate. I was… I was not myself.”
Miss Collard was silent, waiting.
“The truth is—” Nathaniel stopped, then started again.
“The truth is, I have become accustomed to your presence here. The children have thrived under your care, and I have…” He searched for words that would convey his meaning without revealing too much.
“I have come to rely on you, perhaps more than I should. The thought of you forming connections outside this household—connections that might eventually take you away from us—it was... unwelcome.”
He was not being entirely honest, and they both knew it. But it was as close to the truth as he dared to venture.
Miss Collard’s expression softened slightly. “My lord, I am not planning to leave Greystone Hall.”
“Are you not?”
“No.” She hesitated, then seemed to come to a decision. “The letter I received yesterday—the one that seemed to concern you—it was from a former colleague. A governess I worked with at my previous position. She wrote to tell me that she has accepted a position abroad and wished to say farewell.”
Relief flooded through Nathaniel—sweet, overwhelming relief that he tried desperately not to show.
“I see,” he said, keeping his voice neutral. “I apologise if I seemed… curious about your correspondence. It was not my place.”
“You are my employer, my lord. You have some right to be aware of my connections and communications.”
“Nevertheless. Your private letters are your own affair.”
Another silence stretched between them. Miss Collard seemed to be weighing something, considering whether to speak.
“My lord,” she said finally. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“This morning, when Mr Fairfax was here... you seemed... troubled by his interest in making my acquaintance. Was there some particular concern? Some reason you felt his attention was inappropriate?”
Nathaniel’s pulse quickened. How to answer that? How to explain that his concern had nothing to do with propriety and everything to do with the fact that he could not bear the thought of another man looking at her the way Fairfax had looked at her?
“I merely thought he was being rather... presumptuous,” Nathaniel said carefully. “You are a member of my household. Any gentleman wishing to pay attention to you should apply to me first.”
It was a weak excuse, and from the look on Miss Collard’s face, she knew it.
“I see,” she said. “So if Mr Fairfax were to apply to you for permission to call on me, you would... what? Grant it?”
The question hung in the air, sharp and challenging.
Nathaniel felt something twist in his chest. “I would... consider it.”
“You would consider it.” Miss Collard’s voice was carefully controlled, but he thought he detected a note of something beneath it.
Frustration? Hurt? “My lord, I am four-and-twenty years old. I have no family to speak of, no fortune, no prospects beyond my own abilities. If a respectable gentleman were to show interest in me, it would be... it would not be unwelcome. I cannot afford to dismiss such opportunities out of hand.”
The words hit Nathaniel like physical blows.
She was right, of course. She was entirely, devastatingly right.
She had no security, no protection, nothing but her position as a governess—a position that would end eventually, when the children outgrew her services, leaving her to start again somewhere else.
A marriage to a man like Fairfax would give her everything she lacked: stability, respectability, a home of her own.
And Nathaniel had no right—none whatsoever—to stand in the way of that.
“You are correct,” he said, and the words tasted like ashes. “I apologise. I should not have interfered with Mr Fairfax’s invitation. If you wish to call at the vicarage, you have my complete support.”
Something flickered in Miss Collard’s expression—disappointment? But surely, he was imagining that.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said quietly. “I appreciate your understanding.”
She turned to go, and Nathaniel knew he should let her. Knew that prolonging this conversation would only make things worse, would only increase the risk of him saying something he could not take back.
“Miss Collard.”
She paused at the door, turning back. “Yes, my lord?”
The words he wanted to say crowded in his throat, fighting to be spoken. Don’t go to the vicarage. Don’t smile at Andrew Fairfax. Don’t give anyone else what I want so desperately for myself.
But he could not say any of that.
“Goodnight,” he said instead. “Sleep well.”
She looked at him for a long moment—a look that seemed to search for something, to ask a question he did not know how to answer.
“Goodnight, my lord,” she said.
And then she was gone.
***
The night brought no peace.
Nathaniel lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of the day. The look on Fairfax’s face when he saw Miss Collard. The way Miss Collard had said “it would not be unwelcome”—speaking of marriage to another man, a life that did not include Nathaniel at all.
He should be happy for her. If Fairfax made an offer, if Miss Collard accepted, she would be secure and comfortable for the rest of her life. She would have a home, children of her own, a recognised place in the world.
She would have everything Nathaniel could not give her.
And he would have… what? An empty house. Three young charges who would one day grow up and leave him. The cold consolation of his title and his fortune.
He had never minded solitude before. He had cultivated it, even—retreating from society after Edward’s death, finding a certain grim order in his own company. But that had been before Miss Collard. Before she had entered his life and quietly shown him what he had been missing.
She had awakened something he had not known lay dormant. A longing for connection, for companionship, for the sort of partnership he had once observed between Edward and his wife. A wanting so acute it felt almost physical.
And he had no notion what to do with it.
The rules were clear enough. A marquess did not marry a governess. It was simply not done—not without scandal, not without consequence, not without risking everything he had been taught to protect. His title. His reputation. His family’s standing.
Yet lying there in the dark, with Miss Collard’s face sharp in his memory, Nathaniel found himself wondering whether any of it truly mattered.
What was a title worth if he was miserable? What use was society’s approval if it came at the cost of watching the woman he wanted give her life to another man?
Edward had faced a similar choice once. Edward had chosen love over propriety, had married beneath his station, and had borne the consequences without regret.
Could Nathaniel do the same?
He turned onto his side and stared at the wall, forcing himself to imagine it. Declaring himself. Asking for her hand. Enduring the inevitable scandal. He imagined her not in the governess’s quarters but at the heart of Greystone Hall, presiding over his household, bearing his children.
The image was so vivid it stole his breath.
And yet it terrified him.
For what if she refused? What if she met his declaration with gentle firmness and told him that his feelings were not returned? What if the connection he sensed between them existed only in his own lonely mind?
He could not bear to know.
Better to wonder. Better to preserve the fragile possibility—however unlikely—than to destroy it with a declaration that might be unwelcome.
Better, he thought bitterly, to be a coward than a rejected fool.
The night wore on.
And Nathaniel did not sleep.