Chapter 13 #2
Nancy leaned forward, lowering her voice in a parody of conspiracy. “You may go where you like, provided you do not drown in the fountain or incite rebellion in the stables.”
“Is that a promise?” Clara demanded.
“It is a threat,” said Nancy, but she winked, and both children dissolved into giggles.
Oscar set down his paper, slow and deliberate. “I do not recall authorizing a field trip.”
“You need not recall it, Your Grace. I authorized it myself,” Nancy replied, slicing an orange with calculated precision.
Oscar regarded her with that blue, unblinking stare that she had come to know so well. “Are you trying to undo years of discipline in one morning?”
Nancy spread marmalade on a scone, then set it on his plate with a smile. “It appears that your years of discipline have not had the desired effect. I thought to attempt something new.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Instead, he drank his coffee and pretended to be unbothered as Henry attempted to balance a wedge of cheese on his nose.
Nancy took a scone herself, ate half of it, and watched the children. It was only when she reached for a second that she felt Oscar’s gaze. Not a glare, exactly; more a shadow at the edge of her awareness. She looked up and caught him watching.
“Is there something on my face?” she asked.
He blinked. “No. Only that you look—” He paused. “Different.”
“That would be the effect of sleep and a proper breakfast,” Nancy replied. “I recommend it.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched again, and he looked away.
Breakfast continued in this vein, punctuated by snorts and the occasional spat of clattering cutlery. Nancy permitted the children a second helping, then a third, and by the time they’d made a respectable dent in the table, the entire room smelled of sugar and victory.
It was at this precise moment that Henry, emboldened by the presence of his new guardian and the general mood of rebellion, lobbed a chunk of scone across the table. It hit Oscar’s coat squarely, leaving a streak of cream cheese on the blue wool.
Oscar looked down at his chest, then up at Henry, whose eyes went wide as coins.
Clara clapped both hands to her mouth to contain her laughter.
Nancy, refusing to betray emotion, said, “One must never play with their food, dear Henry, and certainly not toss it at a duke.”
Henry nodded, chastened, but Clara snickered, unable to help herself.
Oscar was not amused. He stared at Nancy with the intensity of a man plotting a murder. Then he rose, flicked the cream cheese from his coat with the air of a firing squad leader, and said, “My study. Now.”
Nancy wanted, deeply, to refuse. To laugh, to show the children that the world was not always ruled by men with blue coats and black moods. But she looked at their faces, Henry’s guilt and Clara’s dawning fear, and knew she could not abandon them to whatever dark cloud was gathering.
She kissed Clara’s head, squeezed Henry’s shoulder, and said, “I shall return shortly. Behave yourselves, or you will answer to me, not the Duke.”
Clara saluted. Henry began stacking scone crumbs into a pyramid.
Nancy followed Oscar down the hall and into his study, closing the door behind her.
He did not turn. He braced his hands on the desk and stared at the empty fireplace, shoulders tight.
“Is this how you intend to manage the children?” he said at last. “By encouraging chaos?”
“Chaos is preferable to despair,” Nancy replied. “They are children. They have suffered enough for a lifetime. If you wish them to grow into functioning adults, perhaps allow them a few days to simply be.”
He turned then, sharply. “You think I am cruel.”
She considered. “I think you are unpracticed. I also think you have no idea what children require.”
He glared, but she refused to back down. “I require them to grow up. Quickly.”
“That is the tragedy of your life, Oscar,” Nancy said, voice softer now. “You have never understood that people are not cattle to be driven toward efficiency. They must be shown, not herded.”
“They must be disciplined, not coddled,” he countered.
“Then perhaps you should marry a governess instead of a duchess.”
That caught him off guard. His expression shifted—anger to surprise to something that almost resembled amusement.
“I am doing my best,” he said.
“Try harder,” Nancy replied, and walked out before he could retort.
She returned to the morning room, found the children in a truce over the last orange, and poured herself a second cup of tea. Clara looked up, worried.
“Are you in trouble?”
“Always,” Nancy replied, and that was enough to send Clara into giggles again.
It was not five minutes later that Wilks, the butler, approached with a bouquet in one hand and a small envelope in the other. He presented both to Nancy with the air of a man performing open-heart surgery.
“These arrived just now, Your Grace.”
Nancy blinked. “Roses? At this hour?” The stems were still dewy; the color, deep and aggressive as blood.
She opened the note:
When the moon rises, I dream of nothing but your grace and beauty.
When it sets, I yearn to behold your emerald eyes.
Nancy frowned. She was not in the habit of receiving sonnets, and she was certainly not in the habit of receiving them at Scarfield Manor, signed only: Your devoted admirer.
She turned the card over, as if more sense might be found on the other side, but there was nothing. Then she looked up, caught Wilks studying her, and said, “Who delivered these?”
He cleared his throat. “A young boy, Your Grace. Not a servant I recognized. He said only that they were urgent.”
“Very well. Thank you, Wilks.” She placed the note face down and stared at the roses.
“Are they from the Duke?” Clara asked, climbing onto her lap for a better look.
Nancy laughed. “I doubt it. He is not much given to florid expressions of affection.”
Henry poked the petals with one finger. “Maybe they are from the gardener.”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Nancy chuckled, but the thought stuck. Who, in all of England, would dare send such a thing to the Duchess of Scarfield? And why now?