Chapter Eighteen #2
A different world. One in which social station held no power. In which a governess might marry a marquess without consequence. In which love was not something to be concealed, but something to be claimed.
In that world, Serena was his wife. She sat beside him in this library each evening, disputing books and ideas, laughing softly at his dry remarks. She slept in his bed, woke in his arms, greeted each morning with a smile meant for no one else.
In that world, the children called her Mother—not by blood, but by devotion. They were a family in truth, bound by affection rather than obligation.
In that world, Lady Crane’s disapproval meant nothing. Society’s whispers meant nothing. The only thing that mattered was that they were together—and happy.
It was a beautiful dream.
And it was not the world he inhabited.
He opened his eyes, dispelling the fantasy, and found that he was not alone.
Serena stood in the doorway.
She wore her nightgown and wrapper, her hair loose over her shoulders, her feet bare against the carpet. There were shadows beneath her eyes, a tension in her bearing that spoke of sleeplessness and unrest.
She was, Nathaniel thought with a painful clarity, beautiful.
“I could not sleep,” she said quietly. “I came for a book.”
“So did I.”
They stood facing one another across the length of the library. The fire burned low, casting restless shadows across the walls. The house lay silent around them.
They were alone.
The distance they had so carefully maintained suddenly felt unbearable.
“Serena.” Her name escaped him before he could restrain it—a plea, a confession, a surrender.
“We should not—” she began.
“I know.”
“The children—Lady Crane—”
“I know.”
Yet neither of them moved. Neither looked away.
“I miss you,” Nathaniel said at last, the words torn from somewhere deep and unguarded. “I see you every day, and still I miss you. I miss talking to you. I miss the way you look at me when you think no one is watching. I miss—” His voice faltered. “I miss everything.”
Her eyes shone with unshed tears. “I miss you too. More than I know how to say.”
“This distance—this pretence—it is impossible. The harder I strive for propriety, the more improper my thoughts become.”
“Nathaniel—”
“I am sorry.” He rose abruptly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I should not be saying this. I asked you for restraint, and now, here I am, making everything harder—”
“You are not making anything harder,” Serena said, crossing the room toward him, her steps soundless. “You are only giving voice to what I have carried in silence since the moment you spoke to me in your study.”
She stopped a few feet away.
“But we cannot forget what is at stake,” she continued quietly. “Lady Crane is coming. The children’s future hangs in the balance. We must not do anything—anything—that might endanger them.”
“I know.”
“And so we endure.” Her smile was fragile, sorrowful. “We endure the distance. We endure the restraint. We endure the ache of loving and not touching. Because sometimes love demands sacrifice.”
Love.
“You love me,” he said, scarcely above a breath.
“Of course I love you.” The tears finally fell. “I have loved you for weeks—perhaps longer than I can properly reckon. It has altered everything.”
Something long-buried broke open in his chest—something that had been locked away for years, something he had thought he would never feel again.
“Serena.” He reached for her, then checked the motion, his hands falling to his sides. “If I touch you now, I will not stop. And if Elspeth were to discover—if she were to find any evidence—”
“I know.” Serena brushed the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand. “That is why we should not be here. Why we agreed to keep our distance. Because when we are alone together, the rules seem suddenly so much less important than what we feel.”
“And yet they are important. The rules. They are the only thing protecting us right now.”
“Yes.” She drew a steadying breath, visibly composing herself. “And so we observe them. We endure the Cranes’ visit. And then—” She hesitated, uncertainty clouding her expression. “What happens then, Nathaniel? When Lady Crane has gone—when the danger has passed—what are we to do?”
It was the question he had been avoiding. The one for which there was no easy answer.
“I do not know,” he admitted. “I know only what I want. I want to marry you, Serena. I want you as my wife, whatever the cost. But I do not know whether it is possible—or whether you would wish it, even if it were.”
“You would marry me?” Her voice was scarcely more than a breath. “A governess?”
“I would marry you,” he said steadily. “The woman I love. The woman who gave my family back to itself.” He held her gaze, willing her to see the truth there.
“Your position signifies nothing to me. Nor your birth, nor your fortune—or lack of it. What matters is who you are. What you have given. What we might yet build, if we were brave enough to attempt it.”
Tears slid silently down her cheeks, unheeded.
“You would face the scandal?” she whispered. “The whispers, the closed doors, the acquaintances lost?”
“I would face anything—for you.”
“And the children?” she asked quietly. “What of them, if society judges you disgraced for choosing a wife outside your station?”
That was the heart of it. The question that haunted him, that stripped him of certainty.
“I cannot know,” he said honestly. “I cannot predict what society may do, nor how far its disapproval might reach. But I know this: they love you. They thrive with you. And I believe a household founded on affection—even unconventional affection—is better than one upheld by propriety and emptiness.”
Serena was silent for a long moment. The fire murmured softly; somewhere outside, an owl called into the night.
At last, she spoke.
“We cannot decide this now. Not with Lady Crane’s visit so near. Not while so much remains uncertain.”
“I know.”
“But when this is over—if we endure it, if the children are safe—I want to speak of it again. Properly. Without haste or fear. I want to understand what such a marriage would mean—for me, for the children, for us all.”
“Is that a yes?” he asked quietly.
“It is… not a no.” A faint, tremulous smile touched her lips. “It is a promise to consider—to weigh what you offer against what it would cost, and to decide whether the reward is worth the risk.”
Hope stirred in his chest—fragile, tentative, but unmistakably real.
“That is enough,” he said. “For now, it is enough.”
They stood in the dim hush of the library, separated by only a few feet—and by a multitude of obstacles—while the love between them pressed insistently against restraint and circumstance.
“I should go,” Serena said softly. “Before anyone wakes and begins to wonder.”
“Yes.”
“And tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow, we resume our proper roles,” he said. “Employer and governess. Courteous. Distant. Nothing more.”
“Nothing more,” she echoed.
Yet neither moved.
“Serena.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever comes of the Cranes’ visit—whatever trials lie ahead—know that I am fighting. For you. For us. For the future I hope to claim.”
Her smile wavered, but it was sincere. “I know. And I am fighting too.”
She turned and moved toward the door, her bare feet soundless on the carpet. At the threshold, she paused, glancing back.
“Good night, Nathaniel.”
“Good night, Serena.”
And then she was gone, dissolving into the darkened corridor like a dream at dawn.
Nathaniel remained where he was long after, staring at the space she had left behind, feeling the lingering warmth of her presence in the air.
Three days until the Cranes arrived.
Three days of restraint, of pretence, of loving without expression.
He could endure three days.
He had to.
***
Thursday dawned grey and overcast, as though the weather itself was reluctant to welcome the Cranes to Greystone Hall.
Serena woke early, despite having slept poorly.
Her conversation with Nathaniel in the library two nights ago had haunted her, filling her dreams with images of a future that might never come to pass.
She had risen before the sun, dressed carefully in her most professional grey dress, and gone to check on the children.
Rosie was still sleeping; Marianne clutched to her chest as always. Serena stood in the doorway of her room for a moment, watching the rise and fall of the little girl’s breathing, feeling a fierce protectiveness surge through her.
These children. These precious, wounded, resilient children. She could not lose them. Would not lose them—not to Lady Crane, not to anyone.
Samuel was awake when Serena reached his room, sitting up in bed with a book in his hands. He looked up as she entered, his eyes wary.
“They’re coming today,” he said. It was not a question.
“Yes. Your aunt and uncle will arrive this afternoon.”
Samuel was quiet for a moment. Then: “Ella says they want to take us away. Is that true?”
Serena crossed to his bed and sat down on the edge. “I do not know what they want, Samuel. But I know that your uncle will do everything in his power to keep you here, where you belong. And I know that whatever happens, you are loved. You will always be loved.”
“By you?”
The question was so direct, so painfully vulnerable, that Serena felt something tightened behind her eyes.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “By me.”
Samuel nodded, absorbing this. Then, in a voice that was almost steady, “I don’t want to go to Bath. I don’t want to live with Aunt Elspeth. She’s... cold.”
Serena kept her voice calm. “What makes you say that?”
“She looks at us like we’re doing something wrong,” he said, frowning as he searched for the words. “Like we’re in the way.”
“You are not in the way, Samuel. Not ever.”
“I know.” He hesitated, then added more softly, “I just want to stay here. With Uncle Nate. And you. And Ella and Rosie.” He swallowed. “This is our home.”
“It is,” Serena said. “And we are going to do everything we can to keep it that way.”