Chapter Fifteen #2
“The tea is raspberry leaf,” he said, because silence felt worse.
“Mrs McConnor assured me it would assist with the—symptoms. I cannot pretend to understand the properties of raspberry leaves, but she spoke with conviction, and she knows infinitely more than I do, which is to say she knows something, whereas I know nothing, as must be abundantly clear—”
“My lord.”
He stopped, his mouth still half-open.
“You are rambling,” Miss Collard said, though there was warmth—almost fondness—in her tone.
“Yes. I am inclined to do so when nervous.”
“Are you nervous?”
He considered prevarication, then abandoned it.
“Extremely. I have no notion what I am doing. I have never found myself in circumstances remotely resembling these, and I am guided entirely by instinct—which, as we have established, is not always trustworthy.” He scrubbed a hand over his face.
“I am likely making matters worse. I should go. I should certainly go.”
“My lord.”
He halted again, half-turned.
“You are not making matters worse,” she said softly. “You are, in fact, improving them considerably. I cannot recall the last time anyone took such trouble on my behalf.”
He faced her fully. She watched him with an expression he could not readily interpret—layered, thoughtful, vulnerable.
“You deserve care,” he said quietly. “Everyone does.”
“That is a gracious belief. It is not, however, the common reality for those in my position.” Her gaze dropped to the bottle in her hands. “Governesses do not receive care, my lord. They provide it. That is the nature of the role.”
“It ought not to be.”
“Perhaps not. But it is.” She looked up again, something like sadness in her eyes. “You should return to Rosie. She may wake again.”
She was right. He knew it. And yet every instinct urged him to remain.
“Is there anything else you require?” he asked. “Anything at all?”
She hesitated. Then, very quietly: “Would you see to the fire before you go? I let it burn low and meant to send for assistance, but the storm—”
“Of course.”
He crossed to the hearth, where the fire had dwindled to embers. A coal basket stood nearby, and Nathaniel—who had never once laid a fire himself—set to work with earnest clumsiness.
“You are using too much coal.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. It will stifle the embers rather than feed them. Here—” She began to rise, wincing.
“Stay. Tell me.”
She settled back, a flicker of gratitude crossing her face. “Begin with the smaller pieces. Set them around the edges, not atop the embers. Let the fire draw breath.”
He followed her guidance, adjusting his efforts as she murmured quiet corrections. It was unexpectedly intimate—her voice steadying him, the warmth slowly returning to the room.
“There,” she said at last, as the flames took hold. “You have managed it.”
Nathaniel sat back on his heels, surveying the fire with absurd pride. “I have never done that before. There were always servants.”
“Then you have acquired a useful skill—for the eventual collapse of civilisation.”
“I should fare poorly. My wits are serviceable at best.”
“That is untrue,” she said quietly. “You are far sharper than you allow. You merely choose to hide it beneath humour and doubt.”
Nathaniel looked at her then—truly looked.
Miss Collard looked back at him, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled softly. The storm raged on outside. And something shifted in the space between them—some barrier thinning, some distance closing.
“My lord,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “You should go.”
“I know.”
“The children—”
“I know.”
He did not move.
“This is...” She stopped, started again. “This is not appropriate. You in my room, in the middle of the night—”
“I know that too.” Nathaniel rose to his feet, but still did not move toward the door.
“Miss Collard, I want you to know... whatever is happening between us, whatever this is... I would never do anything to compromise you. To put you in an awkward position. Your reputation, your security—those are more important than—”
“Than what?” she asked, when he did not finish.
Than what I feel for you. Than what I want. Than the fact that I am falling in love with you and I have no idea what to do about it.
He could not say any of that. Not now. Not like this.
“Than anything,” he said instead. “Your well-being matters to me. More than I can explain.”
Miss Collard’s eyes were bright in the lamplight—too bright, he realised. As though she were fighting back tears.
“You are a good man, my lord,” she said quietly. “Whatever you believe about yourself, whatever failures you think you carry—you are a good man. I knew it the first day I arrived. I know it even more now.”
Nathaniel felt something crack open in his chest. “I am trying to be.”
“I know.” She smiled, and it was the saddest, most beautiful smile he had ever seen. “Now, please, go back to Rosie. She needs you more than I do.”
He wanted to argue. Wanted to say that Rosie was sleeping peacefully, that Miss Collard needed him too, that he could not bear to leave her alone in pain.
But he knew she was right. Knew that staying longer would only make things more complicated, more impossible, more painful for both of them.
“I shall check on you again before morning,” he said.
“That is not necessary—”
“I shall do it anyway.” He moved toward the door, then paused at the threshold. “Miss Collard?”
“Yes?”
“Is there anything else? Anything I can bring you, anything that would help?”
She seemed to consider the question. Then, very softly: “There are some rags in my washstand drawer. I shall need them before morning.”
Nathaniel felt his face flush, but he did not look away. “Should I bring you more? Is there a supply somewhere?”
“There is a closet at the end of the corridor. The maids keep linens there, and there should be some cloths that would serve.”
“I shall bring them.”
“My lord—”
“Miss Collard.” He met her eyes, willing himself not to feel embarrassed, not to treat this natural function of her body as something shameful. “You are in pain. You need supplies. I am perfectly capable of fetching linens from a closet, regardless of their intended purpose.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, incredibly, she laughed—a small, surprised sound that lit up her tired face.
“You are,” she said, “the most peculiar man I have ever met.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.”
He left before he could say anything else—before he could confess all the things building in his chest, all the feelings he did not know how to name or contain.
In the corridor, he paused and leaned against the wall, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.
What was he doing? What was he becoming?
A marquess fetching cloths for his governess. Standing in her bedroom in the middle of the night, building fires and delivering hot water bottles and tea. Breaking every rule of propriety, every social convention, every expectation of his rank and position.
And feeling, for the first time in years, as though he were exactly where he was supposed to be.
He pushed away from the wall and went to find the linen closet.
***
The rest of the night passed in a strange, suspended state.
Nathaniel moved between Rosie’s room and Miss Collard’s door, keeping vigil over both, unable to rest despite the exhaustion that tugged at his bones.
He brought Miss Collard the cloths he had found, leaving them discreetly outside her door with a soft knock.
He refreshed the hot water in her bottle twice more, carrying it to the kitchen and back without complaint.
Each time he knocked on her door, she opened it a little wider. Each time, they exchanged a few words, their conversation growing more natural, less stilted.
At some point past midnight, she stopped calling him “my lord.”
“You should sleep,” she said, the fourth or fifth time he appeared at her door. “You look exhausted.”
“I am well.”
“You are lying. Your eyes are half-closed, and you nearly walked into the doorframe just now.”
“I am conserving energy by keeping my eyes at partial capacity.”
“That is not a thing.”
“I am a marquess. I can make it a thing.”
She laughed—that small, surprised laugh that made his chest warm—and for a moment, despite the storm and the pain and the impropriety of the situation, Nathaniel felt something very close to happiness.
“Go and sleep,” she said, more gently this time. “I am feeling much better. The tea helped, and the warmth, and...” She paused, as though uncertain how to complete the sentence. “All of it. Everything you’ve done. It helped.”
“You are certain you do not need anything else?”
“I am certain. And you have been more than kind. More than anyone could have expected.”
Nathaniel wanted to tell her that kindness had nothing to do with it. That he was not being kind—he was being selfish, really, because being near her, being useful to her, was one of the very few things that had felt meaningful in longer than he could remember.
But that was too much to say. Too much to reveal.
“I shall be in Rosie’s room if you need me,” he said instead. “Do not hesitate to call.”
“I won’t.” She paused, then added, so quietly he almost missed it: “Goodnight, Nathaniel.”
His breath caught.
She had never called him by his given name before; she had always maintained that careful, proper distance between them.
He knew he should correct her; he should remind her of the boundaries that existed between them, the propriety they were supposed to maintain.
Instead, he said: “Goodnight, Serena.”
Her name felt strange and wonderful on his tongue.
She smiled at him—a real smile, tired but warm—and closed the door.
Nathaniel stood in the corridor for a long moment, listening to the storm, feeling something shift and settle in his chest.
Serena.
He had called her Serena.
And she had let him.