Chapter Fourteen
Something was wrong with Miss Collard.
Nathaniel had noticed it at breakfast—a pallor to her complexion that had not been there the day before, a tightness about her eyes that suggested discomfort she was endeavouring to conceal.
She had eaten very little, pushing her food about her plate with mechanical precision, and when Rosie asked her a question regarding their planned nature walk, her reply had come a moment too late, as though her thoughts had been drawn back from some distant place.
He had almost spoken then. Almost asked whether she was feeling quite herself, whether she ought to rest, whether the children’s lessons might be postponed for a day. But Miss Collard had caught his look and immediately straightened, her expression smoothing into one of professional composure.
“The weather looks rather threatening,” she had said, neatly forestalling any inquiry before it could be voiced. “I think we shall conduct our nature studies indoors today. The library contains several excellent botanical volumes that will serve our purposes admirably.”
And that had been that.
Yet Nathaniel continued to observe her throughout the morning—discreetly, he hoped, though discretion had never been his strongest quality where Miss Collard was concerned.
He found reasons to pass the library door, to linger briefly in corridors, to be present in rooms where he might catch some glimpse of her.
What he saw troubled him.
She moved more cautiously than usual, her steps measured rather than fluid.
Twice he saw her press a hand briefly to her lower back—a gesture so swift it might have been unconscious.
And there was something in the set of her shoulders, a bracing tension, that spoke of someone enduring discomfort she did not wish to acknowledge.
By luncheon, the pallor had deepened to something approaching grey, and Nathaniel could no longer pretend he had not noticed.
“Miss Collard,” he said, as the children chattered among themselves about the increasingly ominous clouds gathering beyond the windows. “You appear… unwell. Perhaps you would benefit from an afternoon of rest.”
She looked up, and for just a moment, he glimpsed the fatigue behind her careful composure. Then the mask was firmly in place once more.
“I am perfectly well, my lord. Merely a slight headache. It will pass.”
“You are not perfectly well. You have scarcely eaten, you are pale as marble, and you have been holding yourself as though—” He broke off, suddenly uncertain how to finish. As though what? He did not know what was wrong with her, only that something clearly was.
“As though I have a headache,” Miss Collard finished, her tone firm. “Which I do. And which I am quite certain will be gone by evening.”
“Miss Collard—”
“My lord.” Her voice was quiet but unyielding. “I appreciate your concern, but I assure you I am more than capable of fulfilling my duties. The children require supervision, and I am here to provide it. A headache is hardly sufficient cause to abandon my responsibilities.”
It was a dismissal—courteous, but unmistakable. Nathaniel recognised it for what it was: a request, rendered in the politest terms possible, that he mind his own affairs.
He ought to respect that. Ought to accept her assurance and return to his study, trusting her judgment and observing the proper boundaries between employer and governess.
But propriety had rarely been Nathaniel’s strongest instinct—particularly where Miss Collard was concerned.
“Very well,” he said, rising. “But if your… headache… worsens, I must insist you inform Mrs McConnor at once. The children will survive an afternoon without lessons, if need be.”
“That will not be necessary, my lord.”
“Nevertheless. I shall check on you later.”
He withdrew before she could object further, though not before he caught the flicker of something in her eyes—surprise, perhaps, or gratitude, or some complicated blending of the two.
In the corridor, he encountered Mrs McConnor, who was directing two maids in the placement of candles—a precaution against the storm that seemed increasingly likely to descend upon them before nightfall.
“Mrs McConnor. A word, if you please.”
She turned at once, her expression settling into attentive professionalism. “Of course, my lord.”
Nathaniel drew her aside, lowering his voice. “Miss Collard appears indisposed. She insists it is merely a headache, but I am not persuaded.”
Mrs McConnor hesitated—just long enough to confirm his suspicions.
“Miss Collard is indeed somewhat indisposed today, my lord,” she said carefully. “Nothing serious. A recurring indisposition common to many women. It will pass within a day or two.”
Nathaniel stared at her.
A recurring indisposition. Common to many women.
Oh.
Understanding dawned, followed swiftly by heat at his cheeks.
He was not entirely ignorant of such matters—he had overheard enough guarded conversations in his youth to possess a general awareness—but knowing of such things in theory was quite different from confronting them directly.
From realising that Miss Collard—composed, capable, unfailingly self-possessed Miss Collard—was at present enduring something both intimate and decidedly uncomfortable.
He had no language for it—only the keen awareness that he had strayed into territory gentlemen were trained, from boyhood, not to name.
“I see,” he managed. “And is she… properly attended to? Does she lack for anything?”
Mrs McConnor’s expression softened, whether at his evident discomfort or his genuine concern, he could not say.
“She manages, my lord. She is not one to make a fuss. But I can see that extra coverings are sent to her room, and perhaps a warmed bottle for later—the heat is often of comfort.”
“Yes. Please do. And anything else you think may help.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Should she not be resting? Surely the children might forgo lessons for a single afternoon.”
“Miss Collard would not hear of it, my lord. She insists she is equal to her duties, and I did not feel it my place to contradict her.” Mrs McConnor paused. “She is a proud woman. Independent. She would not care to be thought weak or incapable.”
No, Nathaniel thought. She would not.
That fierce self-reliance was among the qualities he admired most in her—and the very one that now frustrated him beyond measure.
“Very well,” he said. “But keep an eye on her, if you would. And inform me if… if she should require anything.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Mrs McConnor returned to her work, and Nathaniel retreated to his study, his thoughts in hopeless disorder.
Miss Collard was plainly unwell—enduring more discomfort than she would ever confess—and yet she persisted, calmly instructing his nieces and nephew while bearing her own suffering in silence.
It was admirable. It was also, in his opinion, entirely unreasonable.
He paced the length of his study, unable to attend to accounts or correspondence, unable to think of anything but the woman in his library who was likely, even now, expounding upon botanical classifications while resolutely ignoring her own pain.
Why would she not allow herself rest? Why must she press on when anyone could see she was unwell? Did she fear for her position? Did she believe him so exacting, so unfeeling, that she dared not take a single afternoon to recover?
The thought was intolerable.
He would speak to her. He would make it plain that she was valued, that her position was secure, that she need not prove her worth through quiet endurance.
And yet he knew she would refuse. Would deflect his concern with that same polite, unyielding composure. Would not permit him to help.
The realisation struck him with painful force.
She would not let him help her.
***
The storm arrived shortly after four o’clock.
It came with little warning—one moment the skies were merely overcast, heavy and threatening; the next, they opened, and rain fell in sheets, driven nearly horizontal by winds that rattled the windows and made the old house groan.
Nathaniel was in his study when the first crack of thunder split the air—so loud and sudden that he nearly overturned his inkwell. He steadied it by instinct, his attention already drawn to the window, where lightning flickered across the darkened sky.
It would be a bad one. He felt it in his bones—the sort of storm that raged for hours, leaving broken branches and flooded lanes in its wake.
His first thought, absurdly, was of Miss Collard.
Was she still in the library with the children? Were they frightened? Was she managing to keep them calm while enduring whatever pain she had been concealing all day?
He ought to go to them. Ought to make certain they were all right.
Before he could move, however, lightning tore across the sky again, followed almost at once by a crash of thunder so violent it seemed to shake the very foundations of the house.
And then he heard the scream.
High. Terrified. Unmistakably childish.
Rosie.
Nathaniel was out of his study and running before the echo had faded. He took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding, his mind leaping ahead to every possible disaster. Had something broken? Had someone been hurt?
He reached the nursery wing to find chaos.
The door to Rosie’s room stood open, lamplight spilling into the corridor. Inside, Rosie was huddled on her bed, her small body shaking with sobs, her arms wrapped around Marianne so tightly the doll seemed in danger of losing what remained of her stuffing.
And seated on the edge of the bed was Miss Collard.
She was holding Rosie close, murmuring words of comfort that Nathaniel could scarcely hear above the storm and the child’s cries.
But even from the doorway, he could see that something was wrong.
Miss Collard’s face was grey—not merely pale, but grey, the colour of ashes—and her movements were careful, deliberate, as though governed by pain she refused to acknowledge.