Chapter Sixteen
Dawn came slowly, the storm gradually wearing itself out as the sky began to lighten. By the time the first pale rays of sunlight broke through the clouds, the thunder had faded to a distant rumble, and the rain had gentled to a soft patter against the windows.
Nathaniel had dozed fitfully in the chair beside Rosie’s bed, jerking awake every time the thunder crashed, checking on his niece each time before allowing himself to drift off again.
He was exhausted in a way that went beyond mere physical tiredness—a bone-deep weariness that came from a night of high emotion and vigilance.
But he also felt, strangely, more alive than he had in years.
Rosie stirred as the morning light strengthened, her eyes fluttering open to find Nathaniel still in the chair beside her.
“Uncle Nate?” Her voice was sleep-thick and confused. “You stayed.”
“I promised I would.”
She sat up, Marianne still clutched in her arms, and looked around the room as though reassuring herself that everything was as it should be.
“The storm is over,” she said.
“It is.”
“And you didn’t go out. You didn’t leave.”
“I didn’t leave.” Nathaniel reached out and smoothed a strand of hair from her face. “I told you, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”
Rosie’s lower lip trembled, and for a moment Nathaniel thought she might cry again. But instead, she launched herself from the bed and into his arms, hugging him with a fierce strength that took him by surprise.
“I love you, Uncle Nate,” she mumbled against his shoulder.
The words hit him like a blow—not painful, but powerful. His eyes stung with sudden tears.
“I love you too, Rosie,” he said, his voice rough. “So much.”
They held each other for a long moment, uncle and niece, survivor and survivor. And when Rosie finally pulled back, there was something different in her eyes—a trust that had not been there before. A security.
“Is Miss Collard better?” she asked. “Ella said she was poorly yesterday.”
“She is feeling much improved, I believe. But we should let her rest this morning, to make sure she recovers fully.”
“Can I bring her breakfast in bed? Mrs McConnor lets me help carry the tray sometimes.”
Nathaniel smiled despite his exhaustion. “I think that would be a lovely idea. Miss Collard would appreciate it very much.”
Rosie beamed, her fears of the night apparently forgotten in the face of this new mission. She scrambled out of bed and began planning what should go on the tray—toast, and tea, and perhaps some of Cook’s special preserves, and definitely a flower from the garden if any had survived the storm.
Nathaniel listened to her chatter, his heart full of an emotion he could barely name.
This was what it felt like, he realised. This was what being a family felt like—not the cold formality of duty and obligation, but this. This warmth. This connection. This willingness to sit through storms and fetch hot water bottles and hold small hands in the darkness.
This was what Serena had given him.
Not just healing for the children—though she had done that too. Not just order and routine, and educational progress. She had given him back his family. Had shown him that he was capable of love, of presence, of being the guardian his nieces and nephew needed.
She had given him back himself.
And he had no idea how he would ever be able to repay her.
***
Later that morning, after a breakfast tray had been ceremoniously delivered to Miss Collard’s room by a proud Rosie, after the children had been reassured and settled into their routines, after the household had returned to some semblance of normalcy, Nathaniel found himself standing outside the library door.
He was not sure why he had come here. Miss Collard was still resting—he had checked on her earlier and found her looking considerably better, if still tired—and the children were occupied with Mrs McConnor. He should be in his study, catching up on the work he had neglected during the night.
Instead, he pushed open the library door and stepped inside.
The room was quiet, filled with the soft grey light of an overcast morning. The fire had been built up by some industrious servant, and its warmth reached out to embrace him as he crossed to his brother’s desk.
Edward’s desk. The desk where his brother had sat and written letters and managed the estate and lived his life before tragedy had stolen him away.
Nathaniel ran his fingers along the worn leather of the chair, remembering.
Edward had always been the better of them.
The responsible one, the reliable one, the one who knew how to be a husband and father without even trying.
Nathaniel had watched him from the outside, had admired and envied him in equal measure, had never imagined that he would one day be called upon to fill his brother’s shoes.
But he was filling them now. Slowly, imperfectly, with countless mistakes and missteps along the way—but he was trying. He was showing up. He was being present.
And that, he thought, was perhaps enough. Perhaps that was all anyone could really do.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” he said quietly, speaking to the empty room, to the memory of his brother that seemed to linger here among the books and the familiar furniture. “But I am trying, Edward. I am trying to be what they need. What you would have wanted me to be.”
No answer came, of course. He had not expected one. The dead did not speak, except in memory and dream.
But Nathaniel thought, just for a moment, that he felt something—a warmth, a presence, an approval that had nothing to do with the fire in the grate.
“I think I am falling in love with her,” he continued, the confession spilling out before he could stop it.
“Miss Collard. Serena.” He laughed softly, running a hand through his dishevelled hair.
“I know what you would say. That I’m being a fool, that it’s impossible, that society will never accept it.
But you married beneath you too, didn’t you?
You broke the rules for love, and you never regretted it. ”
He paused for a moment, then continued. “I think she might care for me too. I don’t know for certain. I might be imagining it, seeing what I want to see. But there’s something between us, Edward. Something real. Something that matters.”
He paused again, gathering his courage.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. I don’t have a plan, not yet. But I know I can’t keep hiding from this. I can’t keep pretending that she’s just the governess and I’m just her employer and there’s nothing more to it than that.”
Another pause. Another steadying breath.
“I’m going to try, Edward. I’m going to try to be brave, like you were. I’m going to try to build something real, something lasting, something worth having.”
He straightened, squaring his shoulders as though preparing for battle.
“Wish me luck,” he said. “I suspect I’m going to need it.”
And then, feeling lighter than he had in months—years, perhaps—Nathaniel left the library and went to find the woman he was beginning to admit he loved.
***
He found her in the garden.
She should not have been out of bed—that was his first thought, tinged with exasperation. It had been barely twelve hours since the worst of her discomfort, and here she was, walking slowly among the rain-soaked flower beds, her face lifted to the weak morning sun.
His second thought was that he had never seen anyone more beautiful.
She was wearing a simple day dress—not one of her usual dark, practical gowns, but something lighter, a soft blue that matched the sky now that the storm had passed.
Her hair was pinned up loosely, tendrils escaping to curl around her face, and there was a colour in her cheeks that had been absent the day before.
She saw him approaching and stopped, waiting for him to reach her.
“Miss Collard.” He fell back on formality automatically, though the name felt strange on his tongue after calling her Serena in the darkness of the previous night. “Should you be out of bed?”
“Probably not,” she admitted. “But I could not bear to stay indoors a moment longer. The storm has passed, and the garden is lovely after the rain.”
She was right—it was lovely. Everything washed clean, the air fresh and sweet, the flowers bowed under the weight of raindrops that sparkled like diamonds in the morning light.
“How are you faring?” he asked.
“Much better, thank you. The worst has passed.” She glanced at him, something uncertain in her expression. “I... I wanted to thank you. For last night. For everything you did.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was not nothing.” Her voice was quiet but firm.
“It was the furthest thing from nothing. You sat with Rosie through the storm. You brought me tea and hot water bottles. You fetched...” She paused, a faint blush colouring her cheeks.
“You fetched things that no gentleman should ever have to concern himself with. And you did it without complaint, without making me feel embarrassed or ashamed.”
“There is nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed about.”
“Perhaps not. But most men would not see it that way.” She met his eyes, and there was something vulnerable in her gaze—something he had rarely seen from capable, composed Serena Collard. “You are not like most men, my lord.”
“I begin to suspect that is a compliment.”
“It is.” She smiled, and it was like watching the sun break through clouds. “It most decidedly is.”
They stood there in the garden, the rain-wet world glistening around them, and Nathaniel felt something shift between them. Some barrier weakening. Some distance closing.
“Last night,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care, “I told you something. I said that your well-being mattered to me more than I could explain. Do you remember?”
“I remember.”
“I was not being entirely honest.” He took a breath, steadying himself. “The truth is, I can explain it. I simply was not ready to.”
Serena stared at him, waiting.