CHAPTER TWO #4
By the time Hartfell House appeared on the horizon, grey stone rising against the grey Cornish sky, he was no longer the rake.
He was simply Rhys, a man on his way to see his children, carrying in his saddlebags the small presents he always brought: ribbons for Anna, who liked to organise them by colour; a new sketchbook for Viola, who filled them faster than he could supply them; and a small jar with holes punched in the lid, suitable for the temporary housing of whatever creature Thistle had most recently befriended.
The grounds of Hartfell were well-maintained, as they always were.
Grieves managed the estate with the same efficiency he applied to everything, and the income from the property’s farms more than covered the expenses of the household.
They possessed every luxury that wealth might command, yet were denied that singular liberty of spirit which the poorest creature might claim as her own.
Rhys dismounted in the stable yard and handed his horse to the groom, who knew better than to ask questions about the master’s comings and goings.
The servants at Hartfell had been selected for their discretion as much as their competence, and they guarded the family’s secrets with the loyalty of people who were paid extremely well to be loyal.
He entered through the side door, as he always did, and made his way toward the study where Mrs. Kemp would be waiting with her quarterly report and her carefully neutral expression.
But the study was empty when he arrived, and a moment later Mrs. Kemp appeared in the doorway with her cap slightly askew and something that looked almost like hope in her eyes.
“Your Grace. We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“I made better time than anticipated.” He crossed to the window, looking out over the gardens where the late-summer roses were fading into autumn.
“The children?”
“Out walking, Your Grace, with the new governess.”
“Ah. Miss Grace, yes? Grieves mentioned her in his last letter.”
“She arrived a fortnight ago.” Mrs. Kemp moved into the room, and Rhys noticed that she was standing straighter than usual, her hands clasped before her with something other than their customary anxiety.
“She’s competent, Your Grace. More than competent. She hasn’t cried once.”
“That is a standard of the most pitiful insignificance, Kemp.”
“The standard is buried in the very dust, Your Grace. Yet Miss Grace has managed to step over it with room to spare.”
Rhys turned from the window to look at his housekeeper properly.
In the three years since the girls had come to Hartfell, he had watched Mrs. Kemp age a decade.
The stress of managing three small children and a rotating cast of fleeing governesses had taken its toll, and he had grown accustomed to seeing exhaustion in every line of her face.
Today, she looked almost optimistic.
“Tell me about her.”
“She’s quiet, Your Grace. Practical and doesn’t flutter or fuss.
The girls tested her, of course, as they test everyone, but she didn’t bend.
Anna tried to take over the lessons on the third day, and Miss Grace put her in charge of an attendance register and gave her real responsibility. Anna has been cooperative ever since.”
“And Viola?”
“Still shy, still hiding. But she’s started leaving drawings on Miss Grace’s desk. Little sketches of flowers and such. She’s never done that with the other governesses.”
“Thistle?”
Mrs. Kemp’s expression flickered. “Thistle released Brutus in the kitchen twice, and attempted to ride Mr. Whiskers.”
“Good Gracious! Did the cat survive?”
“Mr. Whiskers is hiding under the stove. He’s refused to come out for three days.” Mrs. Kemp allowed herself a small, tight smile.
“But Miss Grace managed it. Sat Thistle down and asked her what she’d learned. No shouting, no threats. Just… conversation. And Thistle listened.”
“Thistle listened?”
“I was as shocked as you are, Your Grace.”
Rhys turned back to the window, processing this information. A governess who gave Anna responsibility instead of fighting for authority. Who earned Viola’s trust slowly rather than forcing it. Who managed Thistle through conversation rather than discipline.
Either Miss Grace was a saint, or she was a skilled manipulator of children who had figured out that the standard approaches would never work with his daughters.
Either way, he wanted to see her in action before he introduced himself.
“Where are they walking?”
“The garden path, most likely. They should return within the quarter hour.”
“Splendid. I’ll wait here. Don’t announce me yet.”
Mrs. Kemp nodded, understanding without explanation.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
She withdrew, and Rhys positioned himself at the window where he could observe the garden approach without being easily seen from outside.
It was a cowardly way to meet his daughters’ new governess, lurking behind curtains like a spy, but he had learned over the years that first impressions told you more when the person being observed didn’t know they were being watched.
***
A sudden movement in the garden caught his eye. A small figure appeared on the path, marching with the purposeful stride of a tiny general leading troops to battle.
Behind her came Viola, walking more slowly, her hand clasped in the hand of a woman in grey.
The new governess, presumably. Viola was looking up at her, and though Rhys couldn’t see his daughter’s face from this angle, something in her posture suggested she was speaking.
Viola, who barely spoke to anyone, who hid behind furniture and communicated in whispers when she communicated at all.
Then Thistle tripped.
It happened fast. One moment Thistle was ambling along behind her sisters, mud-covered toad clutched to her chest; the next, her foot caught on an uneven stone and she pitched forward with the inevitability of a child who had not yet learned to anticipate obstacles.
Miss Grace moved.
She did not lunge or cry out or release Viola’s hand.
She simply shifted, catching Thistle with her free arm before the girl could hit the ground, righting her in a single fluid motion that suggested this was not the first time she had performed this particular rescue.
Without breaking stride, she checked Thistle’s knee, produced a handkerchief from somewhere about her person, dabbed at a scrape Rhys couldn’t see from this distance, and returned the handkerchief to its hiding place.
Rhys watched this, and something in his understanding of the world shifted slightly.
Miss Grace looked up toward the house, and for a moment Rhys thought she had seen him watching from the window.
But her gaze passed over his hiding place without pause, surveying the grounds with the assessment of someone checking for hazards, and then she returned her attention to the children and continued walking.
He stepped back from the window, his heart beating faster than it should.
She was the new governess. Nothing more, a practical woman hired to educate his daughters, no different from the ones who had come before except that she had, apparently, figured out how to stay.
But as Rhys straightened his coat and prepared to introduce himself as the children’s benefactor rather than their father, he found himself thinking about the handkerchief appearing from nowhere.
About Viola’s hand held with such easy certainty and the way Miss Grace had looked at his daughters, as though they were puzzles she had already solved and problems she had no intention of abandoning.
Where did Grieves find this woman?
And, more troublingly, What am I going to do about her?