Chapter 9
Roman made his way up the stairs toward the nursery. Two weeks had passed since the morning the basket had appeared on his front steps, and somehow the household had folded itself around the child’s presence.
He told himself he came each morning before breakfast only to check on Liliana. Nothing more. Yet his feet knew the path well now.
He paused just outside the half-open door. A soft voice drifted into the corridor.
“...the formal parterres at Hampton Court were designed not only for beauty, but to impress upon every visitor the power and order of the crown. Notice how the hedges guide the eye...”
Roman pushed the door open quietly and stepped inside. Miss Hartley sat in the wide armchair by the window, Liliana nestled securely in her lap. The baby’s small hands were busy tugging at the pages of the large book, determined to claim it for herself.
Rather than pause her reading, Miss Hartley simply shifted the volume and continued, turning the page around the child’s busy fingers with calm patience.
He crossed the room and lowered himself into the chair by the window, watching them. Miss Hartley’s voice carried a natural warmth as she read, her tone rising and falling with the descriptions of clipped yew and blooming roses.
When she reached a particularly vivid passage about fountain designs, the corner of her mouth lifted slightly, as though she were smiling at the words themselves.
The moment she sensed his presence, the warmth in her voice retreated. She glanced up, her posture straightening.
“Your Grace,” she said, one finger marking her place in the book. “Good morning. I did not realize you had come in.”
“Please do not stop on my account, Miss Hartley,” Roman replied, settling back in the chair. “I find the subject rather more interesting than I expected.”
She hesitated for the briefest second, then resumed reading. Liliana, undeterred by the audience, continued pulling at the pages and babbling softly. Miss Hartley gently pried a corner from the baby’s mouth and turned another page.
Roman listened in silence, his gaze moving between the child and the woman holding her. When Miss Hartley finally reached the end of the chapter and closed the book, he spoke again.
“Where did you find that volume?”
“In the library, Your Grace. Last evening. I hoped it would not be an imposition to borrow it.”
“The library is open to the entire household,” he said simply. “You need not ask permission for any book you wish to read, Miss Hartley.”
She looked mildly surprised, her fingers tracing the embossed cover. “Thank you. I have always been drawn to gardens. Something is calming about them.”
Roman nodded. “And what draws you most to English gardens in particular?”
Miss Hartley adjusted Liliana on her lap before answering. “The sense of intention, I suppose. The way designers took wild land and gave it structure. At Hampton Court, for example, every path and hedge serves both beauty and purpose. One feels... anchored when walking through such places.”
She paused, then continued with genuine curiosity. “The east garden here at Langley seems to follow a different style than the formal beds nearer the house. Was that intentional?”
Roman found himself leaning forward slightly, intrigued by the specificity of her question. “It was my grandmother’s influence. She preferred a softer, more natural approach in that section. My father favored stricter lines elsewhere, but he indulged her there.”
Miss Hartley’s eyes brightened with interest. “Does the soil in the east garden drain well? I noticed the rose arbor sits on slightly higher ground. That must help during wet seasons.”
“Indeed, it does,” Roman replied. “Though we still lose a few plants to rot some years. The stream at the bottom of the slope helps with irrigation, but it can become troublesome after heavy rain.”
She tilted her head. “Have you considered adding more gravel paths through that lower section? It might improve drainage without disturbing the wilder plantings.”
Roman raised an eyebrow, surprised by the practical suggestion. “That is a thought worth considering. You seem to have an eye for these matters, Miss Hartley.”
A faint flush touched her cheeks. “I simply spent many hours in my family’s garden as a girl. One learns what works through trial and error.”
Liliana chose that moment to lunge toward Roman with both arms outstretched, letting out a demanding little sound. Miss Hartley smiled and lifted her.
“It seems she would rather discuss the garden with you directly, Your Grace.”
Roman accepted the baby, settling her comfortably against his chest. Liliana immediately grabbed a fistful of his coat and held on. “She has strong opinions for one so small,” he murmured, rubbing the baby’s back in slow circles.
Miss Hartley watched them for a moment before speaking again. “The grounds here are beautiful. Do you spend much time walking them yourself?”
“Less than I should, perhaps,” Roman admitted. “Estate matters keep me occupied. But I find the east garden peaceful in the early morning.”
They continued talking as the conversation moved naturally from the gardens to the wider estate. Miss Hartley asked about the orchard’s placement and the age of the beech trees lining the main drive. Roman answered readily, surprised at how easily the exchange flowed and how much he enjoyed it.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Patricia entered carrying a large tray. “Breakfast, Your Grace,” she announced, her eyes taking in the scene with quiet amusement. “I thought the three of you might be hungry.”
“Thank you, Patricia,” Roman said. “That is most thoughtful.”
The cook set the tray on the low table and withdrew with a small nod, leaving them once more. Roman stayed longer than he had planned, sharing the meal while Liliana gnawed happily on a piece of softened bread. The domestic scene should have felt strange. Instead, it felt surprisingly right.
That afternoon, after Thelma had gone to rest for a short while as he had insisted, Roman carried Liliana out to the gardens himself.
The baby was growing bolder by the day; her small body filled with restless energy.
He walked slowly along the paths, one hand supporting her as she looked around with wide gray eyes.
“Well, little one,” he murmured. “What shall we discuss today?”
Liliana responded by grabbing a fistful of grass from the lawn and offering it to him with grave seriousness, as though presenting the finest treasure.
Roman accepted the clump of grass with equal solemnity, examining it closely.
“An excellent choice. Green and vibrant. You have fine taste in vegetation.” He tucked the grass into his pocket with care.
“Now, tell me. Where did you come from before you arrived on my doorstep? Who wrapped you in that old shawl and trusted you to my care?”
Of course, she did not answer, but she babbled happily, patting his cheek with grass-stained fingers. Roman found himself smiling.
“And your nursemaid,” he continued softly, adjusting her in his arms as they walked. “Miss Hartley. Why do you reach for her as though she hung the moon? I bet it’s because she reads you stories so beautifully.”
Liliana made a contented sound and rested her head against his shoulder, her small hand still clutching his lapel. Roman’s steps slowed. He looked down at the child who had upended his carefully ordered life.
She loves her with such certainty, he thought. As though they have always belonged to one another.
The afternoon light warmed the garden around them.
Roman continued his one-sided conversation with the baby, asking questions he knew she could not answer, yet feeling strangely soothed by the ritual.
For the first time in many months, the weight of the dukedom felt lighter, shared in these quiet moments with a child who asked nothing of him except to be held.
He stayed outside longer than he planned, walking the paths while Liliana dozed against him, her trust complete and uncomplicated.
Roman continued along the garden path with Liliana nestled securely on his hip.
The baby had woken from her brief doze and now gazed about with renewed interest, her small head turning at every rustle of leaves or distant bird call.
The afternoon sun had warmed the air pleasantly, and he found himself in no particular hurry to return indoors.
A set of familiar footsteps fell into rhythm beside him. Orson Mercer appeared at his side, hands clasped behind his back, his blonde hair slightly tousled from the breeze.
“Taking the young lady for an airing, I see,” Orson remarked, falling easily into step. “She appears to approve of the excursion.”
“She does,” Roman replied, adjusting his hold as Liliana reached for a passing branch. “Though I suspect her approval has more to do with the novelty of being outdoors than my company.”
Orson chuckled softly. “You sell yourself short, my friend. I have seen grown men less content in your presence.”
They walked in companionable silence for a moment, the gravel crunching beneath their boots. Liliana babbled happily and patted Roman’s shoulder with one grass-stained hand. Roman found the small weight surprisingly grounding.
Orson glanced sideways at him. “How are things progressing with the nursemaid? Miss Hartley, was it?”
Roman kept his tone even. “She is very good with Liliana. The child has settled considerably since her arrival. The household feels calmer overall.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Orson said. He left it at that, offering no further comment, which Roman appreciated more than he could say. Orson had always known when to press and when to simply walk beside him in silence.
After another stretch of path, Orson cleared his throat. “I have been going through your father’s financial records as you requested. Most of it is straightforward enough, but I came across something rather odd.”
Roman’s interest sharpened. “Go on.”
“There is a private account, separate from the main estate ledgers. Regular payments went out from it for over twenty years. Substantial sums, though not enough to threaten the dukedom. The account was closed the very day your father died.”
Roman slowed his steps. Liliana, sensing the shift in his attention, patted his cheek as if to remind him she was still there. He absently rubbed her back. “Twenty years. Did you find any indication of where the money went?”
“Not yet,” Orson admitted. “The records are meticulous in some places and deliberately vague in others. I am still tracing the recipients. It may take time.”
“Keep looking,” Roman said quietly. “Whatever it was, I want to know.”
Orson nodded. They continued walking, the conversation turning naturally toward other estate matters. The boundary dispute with the neighboring Upperton property had been simmering for months, and Roman welcomed the distraction.
“Have you reviewed the latest survey maps?” Roman asked.
“I have. The line remains contested near the eastern stream. Miss Upperton maintains her family has grazed that section for generations.”
Roman’s mouth twitched. “And no doubt she has expressed this with her usual... directness.”
Orson gave a small, wry smile. “She sent another letter this morning regarding the matter. Quite detailed.”
“You seem to have become the primary recipient of her correspondence lately,” Roman observed, keeping his tone light. “Perhaps you would like to handle the negotiations yourself?”
Orson’s expression remained carefully neutral, though Roman caught the slight tension in his friend’s jaw. “That will not be necessary. I shall draft a reply this evening.”
Roman raised an eyebrow but chose not to press further. “As you wish.”
They spoke at length about drainage improvements, the upcoming harvest estimates, and several tenant requests that required attention.
Liliana grew heavier in Roman’s arms as she began to tire again, her head drooping against his shoulder.
He shifted her gently, surprised by how natural the motion had become.
By the time they returned toward the house, the sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the lawns.
Orson took his leave to attend to some letters, and Roman carried Liliana inside, taking her up to the nursery himself and leaving her with Miss Hartley with instructions to prepare her for bed..
***
That evening, as Roman made his way to his chambers, he found his steps slowing as he passed the nursery. The door stood slightly open, warm lamplight spilling into the corridor. He had intended only to glance inside, but the soft sound drifting out stopped him entirely.
Miss Hartley sat by the window in the near-dark, Liliana asleep in her arms. She was singing, her voice gentle, barely more than a murmur. The melody was simple and soothing, a lullaby he did not recognize.
Her head was bent slightly over the child, one hand stroking the baby’s dark curls in a slow, rhythmic motion.
Roman stood in the doorway, unwilling to break the quiet intimacy of the scene. For several moments, he simply listened, the gentle rise and fall of her voice wrapping around him like the evening itself.
Miss Hartley must have sensed his presence. She stopped singing mid-phrase and looked up, her eyes meeting his across the dim room.
“Your Grace,” she said softly, surprise coloring her tone. “I did not realize anyone was there.”
“I apologize for interrupting again,” Roman replied, keeping his voice low so as not to wake Liliana. “I was passing and heard... Please, do not stop on my account.”
She regarded him for a long moment, as though weighing something. Then, to his quiet surprise, she resumed the lullaby. Her voice was softer now, almost hesitant at first, but it gradually regained its gentle warmth.
The words were indistinct, more hum than lyric, but the tenderness in them was unmistakable.
Roman remained where he was, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe. He should have continued to his rooms.
There was correspondence waiting, ledgers to review, and the weight of the dukedom was never truly absent. Yet he stood there longer than he should have, listening to Miss Hartley sing to the child who had so completely altered the course of his days.
When the lullaby finally faded into silence, he gave a small nod. “Thank you, Miss Hartley. Good night.”
“Good night, Your Grace,” she murmured.
Roman turned and continued down the corridor, but the image lingered with him long after he had reached his chambers: Miss Hartley in the lamplight, holding Liliana like the baby were the most precious thing in the world, her voice weaving quiet magic in the dark.
He closed his bedroom door behind him, but sleep felt far away.