CHAPTER SIX
“You’re early.”
Anna stood in the entrance hall of Hartfell House with her arms crossed and her expression arranged into the particular configuration of suspicion she reserved for unexpected developments.
Behind her, Viola peered around the doorframe of the drawing room, her book clutched to her chest like armor, and somewhere deeper in the house, Rhys could hear the rapid approach of footsteps that could only belong to Thistle.
“I am,” he agreed, setting down his saddlebag and bracing himself for impact.
“Is that allowed?”
Anna gave the question due consideration, her expression serious and deliberate. Her attendance register, he noticed, was tucked under her arm, ready to record this deviation from established protocol.
“It’s irregular,” she said finally.
“I shall permit it.”
“I appreciate your flexibility.”
“I am noting it in the register. Under ‘anomalies.’”
“Very thorough.”
The footsteps resolved into Thistle, who launched herself down the corridor and into his arms with the force of a small cannonball. He caught her easily, from long practice, absorbing the impact and lifting her off her feet in a single motion.
“You came back!” She wrapped her arms around his neck with the fierce grip of a child who had learned not to take presence for granted.
“Miss Grace said you’d written letters. She read them to us. Mine was the best.”
“They were all excellent letters,” Viola whispered from the doorway.
“Mine said you missed my quiet presence.”
“I did miss your quiet presence.” Rhys shifted Thistle to one arm and extended his free hand toward Viola. “I missed all of you. That’s why I came early.”
Viola emerged from her hiding spot and took his hand with the careful deliberation that characterised everything she did. Her fingers curled around his with quiet confidence, and she pressed close to his side as though afraid he might vanish if she released her grip.
Anna was making notes in her register, recording the time and date and circumstances of his arrival with the meticulous attention to detail that would serve her well if she ever pursued a career in military logistics.
“The letters arrived four days ago,” she reported without looking up.
“I have been tracking your expected arrival based on standard postal delivery times and estimated travel duration. You are approximately six days ahead of schedule.”
“I took a faster route.”
“There is only one route from London to Cornwall.”
“I rode harder.”
Anna looked up from her register and met his eyes with an expression that was equal parts satisfaction and assessment.
“Excellent,” she said simply, and then turned and walked toward the stairs.
“I shall inform Mrs. Kemp that you’ll need your usual room prepared. The sheets are already aired. I anticipated a possible early arrival and made contingency plans.”
She disappeared up the stairs, and Rhys found himself smiling despite himself. His eldest daughter was a force of nature, and watching her deploy her considerable organisational powers in his service was unexpectedly moving.
“She made charts,” Thistle informed him, still clinging to his neck.
“Big charts. With lines and dates and probabilities. Miss Grace helped her with the mathematics.”
“Did she?”
“Miss Grace says probability is a useful skill for managing expectations. I don’t know what that means, but Anna seemed very excited about it.”
“I can imagine.”
Movement caught his eye, and Rhys looked up toward the schoolroom window on the second floor.
Mel Grace stood there, framed by the glass, her grey dress and practical posture unmistakable even at a distance.
She was watching the reunion below with an expression he could not quite read from this angle.
She did not come down to greet him. She did not wave or smile or acknowledge his arrival with any of the flutter that might have characterised another governess witnessing her employer’s return.
She simply nodded.
And somehow, that small gesture felt like something earned.
***
The first three days of the visit established a pattern that Rhys had never before experienced at Hartfell.
He ate meals with the children in the dining room, but breakfast in the nursery and lunch on the grounds and tea in the schoolroom, surrounded by small voices and spilled milk and Brutus croaking from his terrarium in the corner.
He learned that Viola preferred her eggs soft-boiled and her toast cut into triangles.
He learned that Anna maintained a strict schedule for mealtimes and would not tolerate deviations of more than fifteen minutes.
He learned that Thistle ate like a soldier refueling between battles, shoveling food into her mouth with efficiency rather than enjoyment.
He joined their lessons.
This was Mel’s doing. On the second morning, she had appeared at the nursery door while he was reading to Thistle and announced that the schoolroom was expecting him at nine on the hour.
“Expecting me for what purpose?”
“Latin.” Her expression gave nothing away.
“The children are learning declensions. I understand your pronunciation could use improvement.”
“My pronunciation is perfectly adequate.”
“Your pronunciation,” she said, with the devastating precision he was coming to recognise as her particular weapon, “is atrocious. You learned from a tutor who learned from a tutor who had never actually heard Latin spoken aloud. The girls deserve better instruction.”
And so he had found himself seated at the schoolroom table, reading passages from Ovid while Mel corrected his vowel sounds with the resigned patience of someone accustomed to teaching the fundamentally resistant.
Anna observed these corrections with barely concealed delight, recording each mistake in her notebook for future reference.
Viola followed along in her own text, whispering the words under her breath.
Thistle had fallen asleep approximately fifteen minutes into the lesson with Brutus firmly perched on her shoulder like an amphibian guardian.
“The emphasis falls on the second syllable,” Mel said, for perhaps the fourth time that hour. “Amo, amas, amat. You’re stressing the first syllable, which makes it sound as though you’re speaking a different language entirely.”
“Latin is a dead language. Who is going to correct me?”
“I am correcting you repeatedly and with diminishing hope of success.”
Anna made another note in her notebook. Rhys caught a glimpse of the page and saw that she had created a tally system for his errors, categorised by type.
“Your pupil is documenting my failures.”
“Annabelle is documenting your learning progress. The failures are merely data points.” Mel’s expression remained composed, but something flickered in her eyes that might have been amusement. “Continue. Amamus, amatis, amant.”
“Amamus, amatis, amant.”
“Much better. Once more, please.””
He took them to the beach on the fourth day.
The walk from Hartfell to the shore which was approximately half a mile, through fields and along a cliff path that offered dramatic views of the Cornish coastline. Rhys had made this journey many times over the years, usually alone, seeking the particular solitude that the sea provided.
Today, he was surrounded by small people who had opinions about everything.
“The rocks here contain quartz inclusions,” Anna announced, examining a specimen she had collected from the path.
“Miss Grace showed me how to identify mineral formations. This one has a high probability of being sedimentary rather than igneous.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s basic geology. Everyone should understand basic geology.”
Behind them, Thistle was attempting to climb a fence post despite Mel’s repeated requests that she remain on the path. Viola walked beside Mel, holding her hand, occasionally pointing out interesting flowers and receiving quiet Latin names in response.
The beach, when they reached it, was everything Rhys remembered: grey sand and darker rocks, waves that crashed against the shore like a Cornish afternoon, intense and compelling, and the vast expanse of water stretching toward a horizon that promised nothing and everything.
Thistle immediately began collecting shells with the methodical intensity she brought to all forms of treasure-hunting.
Anna established a base camp near the cliff wall and began organising the expedition’s supplies with military precision.
Viola stood at the water’s edge, watching the waves recede and return with an expression of quiet fascination.
Mel remained on the path above the beach, observing but not participating.
“Miss Grace.” Rhys climbed back up the rocks to where she stood.
“You’re not joining us?”
“I’m supervising.”
“You can supervise from the sand.”
“The sand is wet, and full of sand.”
“That is generally true of beaches, yes.”
She almost smiled. He saw it this time, the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth that suggested genuine amusement beneath her composed exterior. It lasted only a moment before she suppressed it, but he had seen it, and something in his chest responded with unexpected warmth.
“Go play with your children, Mr. Langford. They have been waiting for this.”
He went, and he played.
He helped Anna construct an elaborate sandcastle that required, according to her specifications, a moat, three towers, and a defensive wall capable of withstanding tidal assault.
He helped Viola collect shells, carrying the ones she selected with appropriate reverence and listening to her whispered theories about each one’s origin.
He let Thistle bury him in sand up to his neck, lying perfectly still while she shoveled like a gravedigger who had finally found her purpose.
“You’re trapped now,” Thistle informed him, patting the sand around his shoulders with satisfaction.
“You can never leave.”
“I accept my fate.”