Chapter Six #2
“Not always,” she said. “But I became less helpless.”
His hand stilled.
Outside, a rook called from somewhere beyond the lawn. The sound was harsh and ordinary, and for that reason, it seemed to make the silence more bearable.
Ashbourne set the paperknife aside. “Two afternoons a week. Dry weather only. The kitchen garden and the lower park, not the rose beds, not the stable yard, not the stream beyond the south wall. You will inform Mrs Holroyd before taking them out, and Pritchard will assign a footman to remain within calling distance.”
Petalia inclined her head. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“This is a trial, not a permanent alteration.”
“Most useful arrangements begin as trials.”
“If Mary runs beyond your control, the experiment ends.”
“If Lady Mary runs, I shall bring her back. If she runs because the arrangement is failing, I shall end it myself.”
“And Declan?”
“I suspect Lord Declan will pretend indifference for several minutes and then correct my map of the lower park.”
Ashbourne looked almost reluctantly interested. “You will make a map?”
“He will make one. I will make a poorer one first, so that he is morally compelled to intervene.”
“That is manipulative.”
“It is pedagogy.”
“The two are not always distinguishable.”
“No, Your Grace. But pedagogy sounds better in reports.”
The almost-smile appeared then, not fully, but enough to alter his face before he looked down at the desk.
Petalia pretended not to see it. They were both becoming skilled in pretending not to see things.
“Was there anything else?” he asked.
“No. I am grateful for your permission.”
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her before she reached the door.
“Miss Winthrop.”
“Your Grace?”
He had picked up the correspondence again, though he held it at an angle that would make reading difficult. “The cloak you wore on the journey is not sufficient for the Devonshire wind. Mrs Holroyd will provide a heavier one from the household stores before you take the children out.”
Petalia kept her hand near the door latch. “That is not necessary.”
“It is necessary if you are to stand in the lower park explaining leaves before spring has decided whether to arrive.”
“I can manage with my own cloak.”
“I did not suggest you were incapable of managing discomfort. I suggested the discomfort was avoidable.”
The distinction left her without an immediate answer. He did not look up. His attention remained fixed upon the letter he was not reading.
“Then thank you,” she said. “I shall accept the cloak.”
“It is not a gift. It belongs to the household.”
“Of course. I shall endeavour not to form an emotional attachment to it.”
His eyes lifted.
For one brief moment, the air between them held the same dangerous possibility as the corridor at the inn, the garden at night, the first recognition in the drawing room. Then he returned his gaze to the paper.
“Good day, Miss Winthrop.”
“Good day, Your Grace.”
She left before either of them could complicate the matter further.
In the corridor, Pritchard looked at her as if expecting evidence of injury. “Will there be anything, miss?”
“No, thank you. His Grace has approved outdoor lessons on a trial basis.”
Pritchard blinked. “Has he?”
“He has.”
“I shall inform Mrs Holroyd.”
“Please do. And perhaps the footman assigned to us should be one who does not object to maps, mud, or Lady Mary.”
“That may narrow the field.”
“Then choose the bravest man available.”
For the first time since she had met him, Pritchard’s mouth curved. “I shall do what I can, miss.”
***
When Petalia returned to the schoolroom, Mary was standing on a chair and Declan was attempting, with no visible success, to persuade her that ships did not require flags larger than their sails.
Mary looked down at Petalia. “Were you gone long?”
“Long enough to have a conversation with His Grace.”
Mary immediately climbed down from the chair. “About what?”
“About improving your education.”
That earned her two pairs of eyes.
“His Grace has agreed that we may spend two afternoons each week outdoors, weather permitting. We shall begin with the kitchen garden and the lower park. Lord Declan will make a map. You, Lady Mary, will keep a nature journal.”
“I do not want a nature journal.”
“You have not seen it yet. It may be a very tyrannical journal and entirely to your taste.”
Declan bent to retrieve his pencil, but his voice came clearer than usual. “May I mark the old wall?”
“From a distance. His Grace was specific about the south wall and the stream beyond it.”
“There is a stream?” Mary asked.
“Apparently.”
“Can we go there?”
“Not unless you wish the outdoor lessons to end before they begin.”
Mary climbed down from the chair with new purpose. “Then we shall not go there yet.”
“That final word concerns me.”
“It should,” Declan said quietly.
Petalia looked at him. He looked back, and this time the smile was unmistakable, even if it lasted only a second.
***
Later, after the children had gone up and the schoolroom had settled into evening, Ashbourne stood alone in his study.
He had meant to return to his correspondence after Miss Winthrop left. Instead, he found himself at the window.
Below, the lower lawn stretched towards the dark line of the garden.
In the distance, the disturbed earth of the rose bed had not yet settled.
It looked raw in the grey light, a scar upon the grounds.
He had told himself the roses were dead, which was almost true.
He had told himself that clearing them was practical, which was less true.
He had told himself many things over the years and had discovered, too late, that repetition did not make a falsehood obedient.
From somewhere in the house came Mary’s voice, raised not in rage this time but in argument. A moment later, Declan answered. Ashbourne could not hear the words, but he heard the change. His son was speaking.
Miss Winthrop had been in his house one week.
One week, and she had altered the schoolroom, drawn Declan out with a fictional sailor, persuaded Mary to write sentences about ships, noticed the tea, noticed the wind, noticed the grounds, and asked him for permission as if she expected him to produce reasons rather than commands.
He did not know whether he disliked her presumption or depended upon it.
Ashbourne looked towards the rose bed again and understood, with considerable irritation, that he was no longer entirely sure who in this house he was hiding from.