Chapter 5 #2
“What is the subject?” he asked.
“A treatise on child-rearing written by a man who has clearly never spent more than five minutes with an actual child. He recommends leaving infants to cry themselves to sleep so they learn independence early.”
“And you disagree with his approach?”
“I think a baby who is left to cry for long periods simply learns that no one will come when she needs them most,” Miss Hartley said, her voice firm. “That is not independence. That is abandonment. It teaches fear, not strength.”
Roman studied her carefully. “You feel strongly about this.”
“I feel strongly about a great many things, Your Grace. I simply do not usually say them aloud.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because most people do not actually want to hear honest opinions. They prefer comfortable answers.”
He considered her words for a long moment. “I want to hear them.”
She searched his face, clearly weighing whether she could trust that statement. After a pause, she gave a small nod and continued speaking about the books, offering thoughtful insights on each one.
Later, he steered the conversation in a different direction. “You mentioned you enjoy reading history. Why the Tudors in particular?”
She hesitated, choosing her words with visible care.
“Because every decision they made carried weight. Every choice, whether good or bad, outlived the person who made it. It affected generations of people who had not even been born yet. Centuries later, we are still living with the consequences of what they did. Something is sobering about that kind of power and responsibility.”
It was an unusually deep and thoughtful answer for someone in her position. Most people would have given a simple reply about enjoying the drama or the stories. Miss Hartley spoke about consequences and legacies as though she had spent real time considering them.
“That is a very thoughtful answer,” Roman said.
“It is an honest one.”
“I did not suggest otherwise.”
She smiled again and pulled another book from the shelf.
She turned it over. It was not a children's book. Someone must have left it there by accident, or perhaps not by accident. His Grace's name was written in the front cover in careful, precise handwriting.
He has been spending enough time in this room to leave his own books behind, she thought.
“This one is much better. It concerns the Plantagenets. The author has strong opinions and is not afraid to share them. I think you would enjoy it.”
“I will add it to my reading list.”
“You should. It is probably the most interesting thing in this room, aside from Liliana herself.”
Roman laughed out loud, a genuine sound that surprised even him. Miss Hartley looked at him with wide eyes, as though she had never heard the sound before. Perhaps she had not. He had not laughed easily or often in recent years.
“You are unusual, Miss Hartley,” he said.
“So I have been told before.” She tilted her head slightly. "Was that meant as a compliment, Your Grace?"
He considered it. "It was an observation."
"How fortunate," she said. "I prefer those to compliments. They tend to be more accurate."
He found he was beginning to enjoy the way she did that.
After lunch, Roman walked the grounds with Orson.
The day remained cold and gray, the kind of October weather that served as a stern reminder that winter was approaching fast. The trees stood completely bare, their branches skeletal against the heavy sky.
Damp grass lined the paths, and the gravel crunched loudly beneath their boots with every step.
“The new nursemaid,” Orson began in a casual tone. “How is she settling in?”
“Well enough,” Roman replied. “Liliana has taken to her far better than she did with anyone else who has tried to care for her.”
“That is good news.”
“Yes, it is.”
Orson kicked a small stone off the path and watched it disappear into the grass. “What else have you noticed about her?”
Roman glanced sideways at his longtime friend. Orson’s expression looked neutral enough, but Roman had known him for fifteen years and could easily hear the deeper question hidden beneath the surface.
“She is educated,” Roman said. “More so than one would typically expect from someone in her position.”
“Educated in what way?”
“She reads history. Particularly the Tudors. She speaks about consequences, legacies, and choices that continue to affect people long after the original decisions were made.”
Orson raised his eyebrows. “That is not the usual type of conversation one has with a nursemaid.”
“No. It is not.”
“And you find that interesting.”
“I find her interesting,” Roman admitted.
Orson gave him a long, searching look. “Be careful, Roman.”
“Of what exactly?”
“Of finding her too interesting. She works for you. She is in your employ.”
“I am well aware of that fact.”
“Are you?” Orson pressed. “You have always had a tendency to throw yourself fully into things without looking first. It served you well during the war, but it has also led to some spectacular mistakes in other areas of your life.”
Roman stopped walking and turned to face his friend. “She is a nursemaid, Orson. Nothing more.”
Orson held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I am not accusing you of anything. I am simply reminding you to keep your eyes open and your wits about you.”
They continued walking in companionable silence for some time, passing the kitchen garden, the stables, and the long meadow where Roman’s father had once exercised his favorite horses. The wind grew stronger, cutting through their coats, and Roman turned up his collar against the chill.
Later that evening, after a quiet dinner, Roman made his way back to the nursery. He told himself he was only checking on Liliana before she settled for the night. That much was true, but it was not the complete truth.
The door stood slightly ajar. He pushed it open gently.
Miss Hartley had fallen asleep in the chair beside the crib. Her head tilted at an awkward angle against the high back of the seat, her mouth slightly parted, and her hands rested loosely in her lap.
She still wore the same practical gray dress she had worn that morning. Her auburn hair remained pinned in its usual neat knot, but several strands had worked themselves loose and now fell softly across her cheek and forehead.
Her small bag sat on the floor right beside the chair. It was still packed.
Roman stood quietly in the doorway for a long time, simply watching her. She slept beside a baby she had known for only a short while as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
She held herself with Liliana with an instinctive protectiveness that went far beyond what one would expect from a hired nursemaid. The way she looked at the baby, the way she touched her, spoke of a deeper connection.
And yet her bag remained packed, as though she were still prepared to leave at any moment.
He knew he should wake her. He should tell her to go to her own bed and sleep in a more comfortable position. He should remind her to take proper care of herself so she can look after Liliana effectively. But he did none of those things.
Instead, he remained where he was, watching the gentle rise and fall of both their chests. The firelight cast a warm, flickering glow across their faces, softening Miss Hartley’s features and making Liliana look even smaller and more peaceful in her sleep.
Roman stood there for several long minutes, wrestling with thoughts and feelings he was not yet ready to examine too closely. Then, very quietly, he pulled the door closed behind him and walked back down the dimly lit corridor toward his study.