CHAPTER SEVENTEEN #2
“Evidence item three: Papa has changed since you arrived. He visits more often and he stays longer. He reads us bedtime stories and takes us to the beach and talks to us about our mother. He did none of these things before you came.”
“Your father’s behaviour is his own choice.”
“His behaviour changed in response to you. That is correlation, which you taught us may indicate causation when other factors are controlled for.” Anna paused, glancing at her sisters for support.
“Evidence item four: Papa looks at you differently than he looks at anyone else. He thinks we don’t notice, but we do. Viola noticed first and she notices everything.”
Viola nodded, her quiet confirmation carrying the weight of hours of careful observation.
“Evidence item five: you are not leaving because of a family emergency. You are leaving because something happened between you and Papa, something that made you believe staying was impossible. But your conclusion is based on incomplete evidence. You are making an emotional decision rather than an empirical one.”
Mel stared at the child before her, at the fierce intelligence and the careful logic and the desperate affection that underlay every word. Anna was fighting for her, using the very tools Mel had given her, turning her teacher’s lessons into weapons against her teacher’s departure.
It was, she thought distantly, exactly what she would have done in the same situation.
“Your case is compelling,” she said slowly.
“But you are missing crucial evidence that changes the calculation.”
“What evidence?”
“Evidence I cannot share with you.”
“Why ever not?”
“Because it involves adult matters that are not appropriate for children.”
“We’re not ordinary children.” Thistle stepped forward, Brutus still clutched to her chest. “You’ve always said we were exceptional.
You said our minds worked differently from other children’s minds.
You said we could understand things that most adults underestimate children’s capacity to comprehend. ”
“I did say that.”
“Pray, grant us your confidence. Bestow upon us the same trust we so freely accord you, and disclose the particulars of what has transpired.”
Mel looked at the three of them, standing in their nightgowns in the cold entrance hall, refusing to let her go without a fight.
They were exceptional and extremely remarkable in ways that constantly surprised her, constantly challenged her and constantly made her believe that the future might hold something other than the disappointments of the past.
And they were right, she was making an emotional decision. She was running away from pain rather than confronting it, which was exactly what she had counselled Rhys against doing.
“I overheard your father,” she said slowly.
“Last night. He was speaking with Lord Benedict about me, about us, about the impossibility of any future between a duke and a governess.”
The words came out heavy, freighted with the hurt she had been carrying since she heard them. The children listened with the particular attention they gave to information they deemed important.
“He said he could not wed a governess,” Mel continued. “He said I was too far beneath his station for society to accept. He said that any connection between us would be used as a weapon against you, would add to the burden you already carry as…”
She stopped, realising too late what she had been about to say.
“As illegitimate children,” Anna finished calmly.
“We know what we are, Miss Grace. Papa told us about Mama, about how they cherished each other but couldn’t enter into matrimony…”
Of course they understood, their father had told them the truth, had given them the knowledge they needed to navigate a world that would judge them for circumstances beyond their control.
“Then you understand why I have to leave. Your father sees me as an obligation. My presence here creates complications that he is not willing to accept. Staying would only prolong the inevitable.”
“Did you hear him say he wanted you to leave?” Viola’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the question cut through the air like a blade.
“I heard him say he could never enter into matrimony with me.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
Mel opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. Viola was right. She had heard Rhys say that matrimony was impossible, that her station made her unsuitable, that society would use any connection between them as ammunition against his daughters. She had not heard him say he wanted her to go.
“He was explaining why he couldn’t be with me,” she said. “The implication was clear.”
“Implications are not evidence.” Anna’s voice had softened slightly, losing some of its courtroom formality.
“You taught us that too. You said that people often assume they understand implications when they’ve only heard part of a conversation. You said that jumping to conclusions based on incomplete information is a logical fallacy.”
“I also taught you that when someone tells you who they are, you should believe them.”
“Papa told us who he is.” Thistle moved closer, close enough that Mel could see the earnest intensity in her eyes.
“He told us he cherishes us deeply. He told us he’s sorry for all the years he wasn’t here. He told us he wants to be better, wants to be the father we deserve.” She paused, adjusting her grip on Brutus.
“He told Viola that she has Mama’s eyes and that’s why he sometimes can’t look at her without crying. He told Anna that her stubbornness reminds him of himself and that’s why he worries about her. He told me that my wildness is like Mama’s fire and he hopes I never lose it.”
Mel felt tears threatening, hot and unwelcome behind her eyes. These were confidences she had not heard, private moments between father and daughters that revealed a depth of feeling she had not allowed herself to believe in.
“He cherishes you,” she said. “He always has.”
“He holds you in his deepest affections you too.” Viola’s voice was matter-of-fact, carrying the certainty of someone stating an obvious truth.
“We’ve seen it. The way he watches you when he thinks no one is looking. The way his voice changes when he talks about you. The way he came back from London looking like his heart had been removed.”
“That doesn’t change the facts of our situations.”
“The facts change all the time. You taught us that. Scientific understanding evolves as new evidence becomes available. What seems impossible today might be possible tomorrow. The only way to know for certain is to keep looking, keep questioning and keep refusing to accept that the current answer is the final answer.”
Mel stared at her students, at the three remarkable children who had taken every lesson she had ever taught them and turned it into an argument against her departure. They were using her own words, her own principles, her own philosophy of inquiry and evidence and open-minded investigation.
They were beating her with her own weapons, and she had never been prouder of them.
“Even if everything you say is true,” she said slowly, “Your father has made his position clear. He does not believe that a relationship between us is possible.”
“Have you asked him?”
“I overheard…”
“Overhearing is not the same as asking.” Anna’s interruption was swift and certain.
“You heard part of a conversation. You don’t know what came before or after. You don’t know the context or the nuance or any of the things that transform raw data into meaningful understanding.”
“She’s right.” The new voice came from behind Mel, deep and rough and achingly familiar. “You don’t know any of those things.”
Mel turned.
Rhys stood in the doorway that led to the back of the house, dressed in yesterday’s clothes, his hair disheveled and his eyes red-rimmed from what looked like a sleepless night. He had the appearance of a man who had been pacing the halls for hours, wrestling with demons he could not defeat.
He looked at the scene before him: Mel with her trunk, the three children in their nightgowns and the standoff in the entrance hall that his daughters had apparently orchestrated.
“Don’t go,” he said.
The words were simple, stripped of the eloquence that usually characterised his speech. They were the words of a man who had run out of clever phrases and charming deflections, who had been reduced to raw honesty by the prospect of losing something he could not bear to lose.
Mel felt her carefully maintained composure begin to crack.
“You said you couldn’t enter into a matrimony with a governess.”
“I said a great many things. Most of them were excuses dressed up as logic.” He stepped into the entrance hall, closing the distance between them but stopping short of reaching her.
“I was trying to explain to Benedict why pursuing you was impossible, why I should let you go rather than drag you into a scandal that would follow us both for the rest of our lives. I was building an argument against the very thing I wanted most.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m terrified.” The admission came out rough, as though it had been dragged from somewhere deep inside him.
“Because every time I’ve wanted something truly, it’s been destroyed. Because Celeste passed away waiting for me to be brave enough to make her my wife and I cannot bear the thought of making the same mistake with you.”
Mel heard the children’s breath catch, heard the shuffle of small feet as they drew closer to each other for comfort. This was adult territory, adult pain, and they were witnessing it with the wide-eyed attention of children who understood that something momentous was happening.
“You told Benedict I was too far beneath your station.”
“I told Benedict what I thought society would say. What the scandal sheets would print. What the whispers would sound like behind our backs.” Rhys took another step forward. “But you didn’t hear what I said after that.”
“What did you say?”