Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“It’s beautiful,” Eliza said one afternoon, accepting a particularly abstract piece from Philip. “Is this me?”
After the incident on the beach, Arthur and Philip became Eliza’s shadows. They brought her drawings, like sketches of baskets of fruit, flowers, or what might have been a horse—or a very large dog.
“Yes! See, that’s your dress, and that’s your hair!”
“Of course,” Eliza said as she smiled, tucking the drawing carefully into her apron pocket. “I’ll treasure it always.”
They brought her gifts, too. A smooth stone from the beach. An acorn from a nearby tree. A button they’d found in their room that they insisted looked like a tiny shield.
“You’re a Valkyrie, a brave warrior maiden,” Arthur explained seriously. “Because you saved us!”
“I’m not a Valkyrie,” Eliza said, her throat tight. “But thank you.”
They followed her through the house, tugging at her skirts and asking her to play games during her breaks. Mrs. Dawson tsked and shooed them away, but Eliza knew that her reprimands lacked real heat.
“They’ve taken quite a shine to you,” Miss Winslow said later that afternoon. She and Eliza were folding linens together in the laundry room. “I think you remind them of Her Grace, the Duchess of Welton.”
“I’m honored,” Eliza said softly. “What makes you say that?”
“From what I’ve been told, she has a soft but confident disposition. You have that… and they trust you.” Miss Winslow’s smile was warm. “So do I.”
Over the weeks, their friendship had deepened and it filled a small hole in Eliza’s heart.
Helen, as she’d insisted Eliza call her when they were alone, was kind, intelligent, and blessedly free of judgment.
She didn’t pry into Eliza’s past or question her carefully constructed lies.
They simply enjoyed each other’s company.
“You’re so good with them, Helen,” Eliza said. “The boys adore you.”
“They’re wonderful children. I only wish,” Helen paused. “I wish they didn’t have to hurt so much.”
“They’re resilient. They’ll be all right.”
“I hope so.”
Morgan had adopted the new habit of leaving small tasks undone in his study.
He would set papers slightly askew, books stacked haphazardly, knowing she would straighten them.
He pretended to read in the library while she dusted, watching her from behind his book.
Once, he called her to his study specifically to rearrange his correspondence, a task he could easily have done himself.
“Miss Graham,” he said as she entered, rising to his feet as if receiving the Queen herself. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” She curtsied. “How may I help?”
“These letters need to be organized by date. Would you mind?”
“Not at all, Your Grace.”
She moved to the desk and began sorting through the papers.
Morgan watched her, noting her graceful efficiency, the way she bit her full, pink lower lip when concentrating and the delicate tips of her fingers.
She leaned over for a moment, and like a hawk he was drawn to her backside as he watched her move.
His gaze fell on the book beside his elbow, a volume of poetry he’d been reading that morning.
“Have you read Byron, Miss Graham?” he asked.
She glanced up, startled. “I… why yes, Your Grace. Some of his work.”
“What did you think of it?”
“I found it… passionate. Perhaps too much so, for some tastes.”
Morgan smiled. “And for yours?”
“I appreciated the honesty of it. The rawness.” She hesitated. “Though I think he is a deeply troubled man.”
“Most great artists are.”
“That’s rather sad, don’t you think? That brilliance so often comes with suffering? Hardly seems fair.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps the suffering gives them something to say that the rest of us can’t articulate.”
Ellie tilted her head, clearly considering his words. “That’s a generous way of looking at it.”
“You’re welcome to borrow it, if you like. Or anything else from the library.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. That’s very kind of you.”
She returned to the letters, and Morgan returned to his book, though he found himself reading the same line three times without absorbing a word.
He was treading dangerous ground. He knew it.
And yet, he couldn’t seem to stop.
The next morning at breakfast, Morgan announced that he would be taking the boys to a village fair. Arthur and Philip nearly leaped out of their seats with excitement, sending toast flying in the air.
“A harvest fair!” Philip shouted. “With games?”
“And sweets?” Arthur added.
“Both,” Morgan confirmed, hiding his amusement. “But you must promise to behave yourselves.”
“We promise!”
Arthur’s eyes lit up suddenly. “Can Miss Ellie come?”
Morgan paused, his teacup halfway to his lips. “Miss Graham is a member of the staff, Arthur. She has duties to attend to—”
“But she saved us!” Philip insisted. “And she’s fun. Please, Uncle Morgan?”
Miss Winslow cleared her throat gently. “Boys, it wouldn’t be appropriate. Please do listen to His Grace.”
“Actually,” Morgan interrupted, surprising himself as he set down the cup on the saucer. “Miss Graham could assist you with the boys, Miss Winslow. An extra pair of hands might be useful.”
The governess’ eyes widened. “If you think it’s appropriate, Your Grace.”
“I do. It is settled then.”
The boys cheered and immediately ran off to find Miss Graham and tell her the news. Once alone, Morgan caught Miss Winslow’s gaze across the table, her eyebrow raised but countenance polite and composed. Morgan felt she looked concerned but said nothing.
He knew what she was thinking, because it was the very thought he had been fighting since the moment he made the suggestion.
This will surely be a mistake. The temptation of having Miss Graham in such close proximity continues to be an impossible problem.
Unfortunately, it was a problem he had already created.
Stalls lined the main street of the nearby village, overflowing with herbs, fresh apples, honey cakes, and ribbons. Musicians played cheerful tunes while children raced between the crowds. The air smelled of baked bread and sweet pastries.
Eliza had been nervous at first, scanning the crowd for anyone who might recognize her. But she quickly realized that His Grace was the only member of the ton present this far into the country, and he seemed determined to blend in. He was dressed in simple clothes rather than his usual fine attire.
I will relax. I will enjoy this day, she willed herself.
She watched Arthur and Philip dart from stall to stall, exclaiming over everything. Helen followed them patiently, with the Duke and Eliza trailing behind.
“Look at that!” Arthur pointed at a stall selling wooden toys.
“Can we try the ring toss?” Philip tugged at the Duke’s sleeve.
“Yes and yes,” the Duke said. “But one at a time. We stick together.”
Eliza watched as His Grace purchased wooden swords for the boys, then patiently showed them how to play ring toss.
He was good with them when he let himself be, she realized. Patient and kind, even when they lost three rounds in a row and demanded to try again.
At one point, the boys dragged Helen and the Duke toward a stall selling honeyed almonds.
Eliza spotted an antique bookseller nearby and drifted over.
The seller was an elderly man with spectacles perched on his nose.
His stall was crammed with volumes of all sizes and conditions.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of old paper.
“Looking for anything in particular, Miss?” he asked.
“Just browsing,” Eliza said, running her fingers along the spines. She pulled out a slim volume of essays and opened it carefully. “Oh, this is Montaigne. I haven’t seen this translation before.”
The seller’s eyebrows rose. “You’re familiar with Montaigne?”
“I’ve read some of his work. I find his thoughts on friendship particularly moving.”
“A young woman with taste. How refreshing.”
“The most certain sign of wisdom is cheerfulness,” she said proudly.
“Excellent quote, Miss. You are most impressive!”
Eliza smiled and continued browsing. She was examining a collection of Shakespeare’s sonnets when a familiar voice spoke behind her.
“She is indeed impressive.”
Eliza turned to find the Duke standing there, his expression warm and his smile wide.
The bookseller’s eyes opened slightly, recognizing quality when he saw it. “Your Grace! I didn’t realize you were in attendance! Please allow me to help you!”
“I’m just here for the fair,” His Grace said easily. “But I couldn’t help overhearing. You were discussing Montaigne?”
“The young miss here has excellent taste in literature,” the seller said.
“I’m not surprised.” The Duke picked up a leather-bound volume. “Have you read Rousseau then, Miss Graham?”
“Some of his work, Your Grace. Though I find his views on women rather… limiting.”
The Duke laughed, a genuine, delighted sound. “A fair criticism.”
“And what of Aristotle?” She asked.
“A logical man.”
“It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it,” she quoted.
“She is a wonder, Your Grace,” the bookseller said, a wide smile on his wrinkled face.
Eliza found herself relaxing, forgetting for a moment that she was supposed to be a maid, that he was a duke, that any of this mattered.
Her gaze fell on a particular volume then, a collection of Greek myths.
It was beautifully illustrated, with a crimson leather binding that had been lovingly maintained.
She picked it up and flipped through it carefully.
The illustrations truly were exquisite. But when she turned to the inside cover, her heart sank at the price.
Far too expensive.
She set it back carefully, but she sensed that the Duke noticed.
Of course he noticed.
“I’ll take that one,” he said to the bookseller, pulling out his coin purse.
“Your Grace, you needn’t—” Eliza protested.
“Consider it a thank you. For helping with the boys.”
“You already thanked me by taking me on this outing.”
“Then consider it… a gift.” He handed the coins to the bookseller and turned to Eliza, the book in his hands. “Please. I’d like you to have it. Will you do that for me?”
Eliza opened her mouth to argue, but the look in his sharp green eyes stopped her. This mattered to him, for some reason. And refusing would only draw more attention. The gesture was too much, yet she felt impossibly happy as her cheeks grew pink.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said softly. “It’s very generous. I cannot wait to read it.”
He handed her the book, and their fingers brushed as she took it. The touch was brief, barely a second, but Eliza felt it like a spark. It was a jolt that traveled up her arm and settled somewhere deep in her chest.
From the look in the Duke’s eyes, he’d felt it too. They stood frozen for a moment, the noise of the fair fading into the background.
Then Eliza stepped back, clutching the book to her chest. “We should return to the boys.”
“Yes,” the Duke said, his voice slightly rough as he clapped his hands together. “We should. Shall we?”
They found Helen and the twins at a stall selling ribbons and the rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of games and treats and laughter.
By the time they returned to Kirkhammer Hall, the boys were exhausted but happy. They thanked their Uncle profusely before Helen shepherded them upstairs to wash and go to bed. Eliza was about to follow when his voice stopped her.
“Miss Graham.”
She turned. “Your Grace?”
“Thank you. For today. You helped bring them closer to me, I think.”
“They are very fond of you, Your Grace. They just needed to see that you care.”
A hint of a smile ghosted on his lips. “I’m grateful anyway.”
They stood in the hallway, the house quiet around them. He looked as though he wanted to say something else, but instead, he simply nodded.
“Goodnight, Miss Graham.”
“Goodnight, Your Grace.”
Eliza climbed the stairs to her room, the book heavy in her hands and her heart beating far too fast. She knew that night she would read of gods and heroes, and all the while…
She would be picturing him.