CHAPTER THREE
“Mr. Langford, I presume?”
The voice was calm, composed, and entirely without the flutter that Rhys had come to expect from women meeting him for the first time.
He turned from his position by the study window to find Miss Grace standing in the doorway, her hands clasped before her and her expression arranged into one of professional neutrality.
She was, he realised now that he saw her up close, even more unremarkable than she had appeared from a distance.
There was a quiet composure in her features that defied any claim to striking beauty, yet her hazel eyes held a depth of intelligence.
Her attire was a simple morning dress of grey kerseymere, devoid of any frivolous lace or ribbons, and her chestnut tresses were pinned back with a neatness that spoke more of utility than of vanity.
And yet there was something about her that commanded attention.
Perhaps it was the steadiness of her gaze, which met his without flinching or looking away.
Perhaps it was the economy of her posture, the way she stood as though every muscle had been arranged for maximum efficiency.
Perhaps it was simply that she looked at him as though she were assessing his worth, rather than waiting for him to assess hers.
“Miss Grace.” He inclined his head in greeting.
“I apologise for arriving unannounced. I had business in the area and thought I would take the opportunity to see how the children were settling in with their new governess.”
It was a thin excuse, and he suspected she knew it. There was no business in this part of Cornwall that would concern the children’s mysterious benefactor, and the timing of his arrival, barely a fortnight after her own, suggested an inspection rather than a coincidence.
But Miss Grace gave no sign of scepticism. She simply nodded and stepped further into the room, her movements precise and unhurried.
“The children are finishing their afternoon rest, Mr. Langford. They’ll be delighted to see you when they wake. In the meantime, perhaps I might give you a report on their progress?”
“Please.”
She did not sit, though he had gestured toward the chairs by the fireplace. Instead, she remained standing, her hands still clasped, her posture suggesting that this was a professional consultation rather than a social call.
“I have been at Hartfell House for two weeks,” she began. “In that time, I have had the opportunity to assess each child’s educational needs, temperament, and particular challenges. I shall summarise my findings, if that would be useful.”
“It would.”
“Very well.” Her voice was crisp, organised, the voice of a woman who had given many such reports and had learned to strip them of unnecessary sentiment.
“Annabelle is advanced in reading and arithmetic. She has leadership instincts that, properly channelled, will serve her well. Improperly channelled, she will be running a small country by the age of twelve.”
Rhys felt the corner of his mouth twitch. It was not meant to be a jest, he could tell, but the accuracy of the assessment was undeniable. Anna had been organising her sisters since she could walk, and the household since she could talk.
“And Viola?” he asked.
“Viola reads at a level far beyond her age. She has taught herself, largely through observation and imitation, which suggests considerable native intelligence. She is shy but not anxious.” Miss Grace paused, as though selecting her words with particular care.
“She simply prefers to observe before participating. She needs patience, not pushing. I have found that giving her space to emerge on her own schedule produces better results than any attempt to draw her out forcibly.”
“I see.” Rhys kept his voice neutral, though something in his chest ached at the description.
Viola had always been the quietest of the three, the one who watched from corners and communicated in whispers.
He had worried, over the years, that her shyness was something he had caused, some failure of his intermittent presence that had taught her not to trust.
But Miss Grace spoke of her shyness as a temperament rather than a wound, and there was something reassuring in that.
“And Thistle?” he asked.
Miss Grace paused.
It was a brief pause, barely a heartbeat, but Rhys noticed it. Something flickered across her composed features, something that might have been amusement or might have been the memory of recent chaos.
“Thistle is a force of nature,” she said finally.
“She has no fear, which is admirable and terrifying in equal measure. She requires boundaries delivered with firmness and humour. She will not respect an authority she can outwit, and she is alarmingly clever.”
“That sounds like her mo…” Rhys stopped. The word had almost escaped before he could catch it, rising from some unguarded place in his chest where Celeste still lived.
That sounds like her mother.
He cleared his throat.
“That sounds about right.”
Miss Grace’s eyes moved to his face with a sharpness that made him certain she had heard the stumble. For a long moment, she simply looked at him, her expression unchanged but her attention suddenly, intensely focused.
She did not ask and she did not press. She simply filed the information away, as a clerk might file a document that would prove important later, and continued as though nothing had occurred.
“The three of them together present particular challenges,” she said.
“They have developed their own hierarchy, their own communication patterns, their own methods of managing adults. The previous governesses, I understand, were unable to adapt to these dynamics. I have found it more effective to work within their existing structure than to attempt to dismantle it.”
“Hence the attendance register.”
“Mrs. Kemp told you about that.”
“She mentioned it. With considerable relief.”
The ghost of something that might have been satisfaction passed across Miss Grace’s face.
“Annabelle needed responsibility, not rules. Once she had a legitimate role to play, she stopped fighting for illegitimate power. It is a principle that applies to most children, in my experience. They want to matter. Give them a way to matter that serves everyone’s interests, and the battles become unnecessary. ”
Rhys absorbed this, thinking of the way Anna had been when she was younger, before the governesses had started cycling through.
She had been bossy even then, ordering her sisters about with the confidence of a small empress, but there had been joy in it rather than desperation.
Somewhere along the way, the joy had curdled into control, the play-acting had become genuine grasping.
Miss Grace had identified the problem and solved it in a fortnight. The previous governesses had not managed it in months.
“Would you like to see the schoolroom?” she asked. “I have made some changes to the organisation that might interest you.”
“Please.”
She led him through the corridor and up the stairs, her footsteps nearly silent on the carpet. Rhys followed, observing the straightness of her spine, the efficiency of her movement and the way she navigated the familiar house with the confidence of someone who had already memorised its layout.
The schoolroom was transformed.
When he had last visited, it had been a pleasant but disordered space, books piled haphazardly on shelves, papers scattered across the main table, the detritus of three active children accumulating in corners.
The previous governesses had made attempts at organisation, but their systems had not survived contact with Thistle.
Miss Grace’s system, apparently, had.
The books were arranged on shelves by reading level, each shelf labelled in neat handwriting. The main table was clear except for the materials currently in use, and those materials were organised into distinct stations: arithmetic in one corner, writing in another, reading in a third.
Against one wall, a small cabinet held what appeared to be a natural history collection.
Rhys moved closer and found himself looking at a display of specimens that Thistle had clearly gathered: feathers, interesting stones, dried flowers, the shed skin of a snake.
Each item was labelled in the same neat handwriting, accompanied by its Latin classification where applicable.
Turdus merula, read the card beneath a glossy black feather. Quartz, rose variety, announced another beside a pink stone.
“She brings me treasures,” Miss Grace said, from her position near the door.
“I thought it wise to give them context. Science channels curiosity more effectively than prohibition.”
“You’ve given them Latin names.”
“Accurate Latin names. Thistle can now identify most common bird species by their proper classification. She is particularly proud of her knowledge of amphibian nomenclature, given Brutus’s presence in the household.”
Bufo bufo, Rhys thought, and had to suppress a smile.
He turned to the opposite wall, where a small gallery of drawings had been pinned to a board. Viola’s work, he recognised immediately. Her style had developed remarkably in the months since he had last seen her art; the lines were surer, the proportions more accurate, the subjects more varied.
There were flowers, rendered with botanical precision. There was Brutus, captured in characteristic grumpiness and there was Mr. Whiskers, depicted looking particularly offended about hiding under a stove.
And there, at the centre of the collection, was a drawing of three figures walking through a garden. Three small girls, their features suggested rather than detailed, and a taller figure in grey holding the hand of the smallest.
The depiction was clearly Miss Grace and his daughters.
Rhys’s hands tightened at his sides.
She had been here for a period of two weeks and already Viola was drawing her as part of the family, as a fixed presence in their lives rather than another temporary figure passing through.
“Mr. Langford?”