Chapter 25
The children were supposed to adore their new governess, and for the first two days, they performed this duty with the terrifying commitment of born actors.
Henry addressed her as “Miss Mercer,” and Clara pretended to be too exhausted for further mutiny after their daily recitation of Greek gods.
If Miss Mercer noticed the sudden, unnatural peace, she did not betray it—she sat in the drawing room on a walnut-framed chair, her needlework held at the precise angle to catch the weak, rain-dampened light from the window, her face a study in serene benevolence.
Nancy watched all this from her station at the hearth, not quite sure if she should intervene.
There was nothing wrong, precisely, but the atmosphere was somehow…
staged. Henry and Clara chased each other around the settee, bickering in half-whispers, careful not to disturb the sanctity of Miss Mercer’s embroidery circle.
“Don’t be rude to your sister, Henry. Be a gentleman. I know you’re a good boy. So show us all how precious you are,” Edith said, her voice cutting through the air like a sugar knife.
Clara, stung but not cowed, whispered, “He’s not rude, we’re just playing,” at a volume that made it very clear she meant Nancy to hear, and possibly the next county.
Nancy bit down on a smile. She glanced at Miss Mercer, searching for any crack in that glacial tranquility, but Edith’s expression did not move a single muscle. Her lips remained parted in the same sweet curve, her eyes steady on her work.
She must practice in the mirror, Nancy thought. How else does a person look so perfectly pleasant for so long?
The sky outside pressed down with the color of a wet dishcloth.
The rain had been unrelenting, and Nancy suspected Edith had deliberately chosen this day to give the children a “free afternoon.” Kids would have begged to go outdoors, rolled in the mud, or hounded the staff into an early grave.
Instead, they were trapped in this room, their energy sparking off the carpets and mirrors, with nothing to do but wind each other up and hope for a small disaster.
Henry finally dropped to the carpet, legs sprawled, and sighed with the drama of a prince awaiting execution. “Where is Uncle Oscar?” he asked, voice pitched to the grown-ups now.
The question landed like a brick through the window.
Nancy sat up straighter. “Uncle Oscar?” she repeated.
Henry nodded. “Yes. He was here yesterday. He played chess with Clara. I want to ask if he’ll teach me to win.” The boy’s face wore a seriousness that would have gotten him elected to Parliament.
Clara pounced on the opportunity. “We want to chase him around the house.”
Miss Mercer glanced up, her smile briefly tightening. “The Duke is in his study, I believe,” she supplied, “but I expect he will be down for tea.”
“Can we go find him?” Henry’s voice was plaintive, but in that calculated way children use when they sense a Yes in the air.
Nancy set her book aside, stood, and smoothed her skirts. “You may,” she said, “so long as you do not break anything expensive or living.” She eyed them both. “Do you promise?”
“Promise,” said Clara, already at the door. “Come on, Henry!”
Miss Mercer rose, dusted imaginary lint from her skirt, and nodded to Nancy. “Would you like me to supervise, Your Grace?”
Nancy shook her head, smiling. “I think I’ll manage the chaos this time. If you want a respite, feel free to stay and stitch.”
Edith inclined her head, that unwavering smile never once shifting. “As you wish, Duchess.”
Henry and Clara pelted into the hallway, their footsteps thunderous on the runner. Nancy followed at a more dignified pace, pausing only long enough to hear Edith resume her measured, perfect breathing behind her.
She is too good to be true. Or perhaps too good to be harmless.
The hallway outside was empty. Not a sign of either twin.
“Clara?” Nancy called.
There was a giggle from somewhere above, then silence.
“Henry?”
A crash, followed by a thud. “I’m fine!” Henry shouted, in the universal language of boys who have just attempted and failed to invent flight.
Nancy’s heart thumped, but she heard no scream, so she let it pass. The children knew the house better than she did, by now.
She had just reached the stair landing when the twins materialized at her elbow.
“Uncle Oscar is in the library,” Clara said, clutching her sleeve. “We saw him through the glass.”
“I want to ask if he’ll play the blindfold game,” Henry whispered, but not quietly enough.
Nancy snorted. “You think you can trick a duke?”
“He’s not a duke when he’s blindfolded,” Henry explained, as if this were the simplest logic.
They were at the library doors now. Nancy knocked, out of habit, then opened it.
Oscar was at his desk, surrounded by books, pen in hand. He looked up, startled, as if three banshees had just materialized from the ether.
“Hello,” Nancy said, stepping in. “You have company.”
He set his pen down. “I see that.” He regarded the children, who stood at rapt attention. “What is it this time? A mutiny, or a request for sweets?”
“Neither,” said Clara, boldly. “We want to play hide-and-seek.”
Oscar’s eyebrows arched. “Here? In the house?”
Nancy glanced at him, then at the twins. “We promise not to break anything irreplaceable,” she said.
He looked at Nancy, as if trying to divine the trap. “You’re joining us, Duchess?”
“Absolutely,” Nancy replied. “But you must be the first to seek. It is your house, after all.”
Oscar groaned, but with the air of a man secretly delighted. “Fine,” he said, rising. “But no hiding in the attics or outside. I don’t want to have to fetch a ladder or a bloodhound.”
Clara and Henry cheered, then began an animated discussion of where to hide first. Nancy caught Oscar’s eye and gave a conspiratorial smile. “They called you ‘Uncle’,” she murmured.
He looked away, as if embarrassed. “It is biologically accurate.”
“It is also very sweet,” Nancy said, a little too softly.
Oscar cleared his throat and addressed the twins. “If you’re hiding together, you must pick the spot wisely. I have an excellent memory for details.”
“You’re a grown-up,” said Clara. “You cheat.”
He shrugged, not denying it.
Henry looked to Nancy. “Will you help me find a really good spot?”
Nancy grinned. “The very best one.”
They conferred, the twins whispering elaborate stratagems in her ear.
Oscar closed his eyes and started to count. “One… Two… Three…”
The children squealed and scattered. Nancy followed Henry, who darted down the hallway and into the old music room, a place rarely used since Oscar’s mother died.
Dust floated in the air, settling over the battered pianoforte and the covered chairs.
Henry dived behind a stack of crates, pulling Nancy after him.
“Do you think he’ll look in here?” Henry whispered.
“He might,” Nancy replied, crouching down.
The room was cold and smelled of old paper and must. Nancy glanced at the piano, then at Henry, whose face was set in serious determination.
“Should I hide in the cupboard?” he asked.
“It’s a very fine cupboard,” Nancy said, “but the air is dreadful.”
He looked at her, big green eyes wide. “I want to win.”
“You will,” she promised.
She gave him a quick squeeze and sent him into the cupboard, then dusted herself off and surveyed the rest of the room. On a whim, she drifted to the old instrument and pressed a key. It gave a brittle, ghostly sound.
She lifted the lid. Inside were stacks of papers, bundled with string. Curiosity trumped her sense of urgency; she untied one bundle, revealing a sheaf of letters in Oscar’s unmistakable hand.
Private, private, private, said every warning bell in her head. But curiosity was a disease she’d never found a cure for.
She opened one, dated six years prior.
Peter—
I write this in the hope you will forgive me.
I was wrong to forbid you from marrying Teresa. She is a credit to you and to our family. I will not say I understand, but I accept.
When you are ready, bring her home. I would like to meet her and her children, if you have any by then.
—O
Nancy’s breath caught. She flipped through the stack. More letters, every one gentler than she would have believed possible, addressed to Peter and sometimes to Teresa herself. She read one dated the month before Peter’s death.
Teresa—
I do not know if I will ever make this right. I cannot forgive myself for what passed between us, but I want you to know that I do not blame you. Not for any of it. I was too proud, and Peter suffered for it. If you or the children need anything, please write.
I am sorry, for what little it’s worth.
Oscar
None of the letters bore a seal. None had been sent.
Nancy pressed them back in the bundle, heart thumping. She heard the echo of footsteps in the hallway. The game was still on. She hurried back to the crates, but something—compassion, maybe—drew her to the cupboard where Henry crouched, breathing in shallow pants.
“Henry,” she whispered. “If you’re quiet as a mouse, I’ll make sure no one finds you.”
He nodded, eyes enormous.
Oscar’s voice rang from the hallway. “Ready or not, here I come!”
Nancy ducked behind the curtains, the only place left.
The footsteps entered the room, stopped. There was a long pause.
“Hiding in the music room is very clever,” Oscar said. “It’s rarely used, but not too dusty to leave footprints.”
Nancy froze. She’d left a clear trail in the dust.
Oscar’s steps circled the room. “But the real question is—are you hiding together, or separately?”
He opened the cupboard. “Got you,” he said.
Henry groaned. “How did you know?”
“I always know,” Oscar replied. “But I’ll make you a deal: if you can find where the Duchess is hiding, I’ll declare you the winner.”
Henry, now free, scoured the room. He found her behind the curtain in seconds.
“Ha!” he shouted. “I win!”
Oscar folded his arms. “Very well. The winner gets to choose the next game.”
Henry conferred with Clara, who’d already wandered in, having grown bored of her own hiding spot.
“Blindman’s bluff,” they agreed.
Oscar made a show of protest, but submitted to the blindfold and let the twins lead him stumbling through the house, careening into furniture and occasionally pinching his ear for good measure.
Nancy watched, still thinking of the letters. Of the Oscar who wrote them, and the Oscar who now surrendered himself to childish games without complaint. She felt… something more dangerous: Her heart was stirring.