CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“I’ve made a decision.”
Rhys stood in the doorway of the schoolroom, watching his daughters look up from their morning lessons with expressions ranging from curious to calculating.
Mel sat at her desk, a Latin primer open before her, her posture carrying the particular alertness she displayed when she sensed something significant was about to happen.
He had been thinking about this moment for weeks.
Throughout Serena’s visit, through the endless correspondence with London solicitors and estate managers, through the quiet evenings in the study when he and Mel discussed the future they were building together.
The decision had been forming slowly, taking shape in the spaces between conversations, solidifying into something that felt less like a choice and more like an inevitability.
“What kind of decision?” Anna asked, her tone carrying the careful neutrality of someone who had learned not to let her expectations show.
“The kind that affects all of us.” Rhys moved into the room, taking the chair that had become his unofficial seat during the lessons he increasingly attended.
“I’ve been spending too much time travelling between London and Cornwall. It’s inefficient, and it means I’m never fully present in either place.”
“You’ve been present here,” Viola said softly.
“More than before.”
“I have, but not as present as I want to be.” He looked at each of his daughters in turn, then at Mel, whose expression remained carefully composed.
“I’ve decided to move to Cornwall permanently. Hartfell will be my primary residence. London will be for occasional visits when parliamentary business requires my attendance, nothing more.”
The silence that followed was brief but absolute.
Then Thistle screamed.
It was not a scream of distress or alarm but a scream of pure, uncontained joy, the kind of sound that emerged when a child’s excitement exceeded her capacity for more restrained expression.
She launched herself from her chair, crossed the room in three bounds, and threw herself at Rhys with enough force to nearly knock him from his seat.
“You’re staying! You’re really staying! Forever and ever and you won’t go away again!”
“Forever and ever is a very long time,” Rhys managed, his arms wrapping around his youngest daughter with the automatic protectiveness that had become second nature.
“But yes. I’m staying.”
Thistle clung to him with a ferocity that suggested she had no intention of letting go anytime soon. Her face was pressed against his chest, her words emerging muffled but fervent.
“You can help me with my specimens and you can read us stories every night and you can be here for breakfast and dinner and everything in between and Brutus will be so happy because he’s been wondering why you keep leaving and I told him it wasn’t because you didn’t cherish us but he doesn’t always believe me… ”
“Thistle.” Anna’s voice cut through her sister’s flood of words with characteristic precision. “Perhaps we should allow Papa to breathe.”
“He’s breathing fine. I can feel it.”
“Nevertheless.”
Thistle reluctantly loosened her grip, though she did not fully release him. She settled into his lap instead, her small body arranging itself as though this was the only place she belonged.
Anna remained in her chair, her posture studiedly casual, her expression arranged into something approaching indifference.
But Rhys had learned to read his eldest daughter, to see past the careful composure she maintained to protect herself from disappointment.
He could see the tension in her shoulders, the slight tremor in her hands and the brightness in her eyes that she was desperately trying to contain.
“This seems like a reasonable arrangement,” Anna said, her voice impressively level.
“The estate requires regular attention, and your parliamentary duties can be managed through correspondence for most matters. It’s a logical decision.”
“I’m glad you approve.”
“I neither approve nor disapprove. I simply observe that it makes practical sense.”
“Anna.” Rhys extended his free hand toward her, the one that wasn’t wrapped around Thistle.
“Come here.”
For a moment, she didn’t move. The composure held, the mask of indifference firmly in place.
Then something cracked, some carefully maintained wall crumbling, and she rose from her chair with a dignity that lasted exactly three steps before she was running across the room and throwing herself into the embrace alongside her sister.
“I’m glad,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“I know I shouldn’t admit it. I know it’s not proper to be too pleased about things. But I’m glad.”
“You should always be glad when good things happen. Proper is overrated.”
“Miss Grace says proper has its place.”
“Miss Grace is correct about many things. But I think she would agree that some occasions warrant improper amounts of gladness.”
He looked up to find Viola still standing by her desk, her quiet eyes fixed on the scene before her with an expression he could not quite read. She had not moved, had not screamed or run or thrown herself into the embrace. She simply stood there, watching, her small hands clasped before her.
“Viola?” He kept his voice gentle.
“Would you like to join us?”
She nodded, once, a small movement that carried the weight of everything she was not saying.
Then she crossed the room with measured steps, her approach careful rather than impetuous.
When she reached him, she did not throw herself into the embrace as her sisters had done.
Instead, she took his hand, the one that was not wrapped around Anna and Thistle, and held it with both of hers.
And she did not let go.
She simply stood there, holding his hand, her grip firm and deliberate. Her eyes were bright with tears she was refusing to shed, and her silence spoke more eloquently than any words could have.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Rhys said softly, directing the words to all of them but meaning them especially for her.
“Not anymore, this is home, you are home, and I shan’t be leaving anymore.”
Viola’s grip tightened. Still she did not speak. Still she did not cry. But she moved closer, pressing herself against his side, her small body fitting into the space her sisters had left for her.
They stayed like that for a long moment, the four of them tangled together in the schoolroom that had witnessed so many transformations.
Rhys could feel the weight of each of his daughters, could feel the fierce joy in Thistle’s embrace and the carefully maintained composure in Anna’s and the desperate, silent need in Viola’s.
They had been waiting for this, all of them, waiting for the permanence that he had finally found the courage to offer.
When he finally looked up, he found Mel watching from her desk.
She had not moved, nor risen to join them or offered words of congratulation or displayed any outward sign of the emotion that must be churning beneath her composed exterior.
She simply sat there, her hands folded on the Latin primer, her expression carrying the particular neutrality that he had learned to recognise as her defense against overwhelming feeling.
“Miss Grace,” he said, keeping his voice light despite the weight of the moment.
“You appear to have opinions about this development.”
“I have observations,” she corrected.
“Opinions require the expression of preference. I am merely observing that your announcement has produced a notable reaction among your daughters.”
“And does the reaction meet with your approval?”
“Their reaction is their own, my approval is irrelevant.”
“I disagree. Your approval is quite relevant.” He extracted himself gently from the embrace of his daughters, who released him with varying degrees of reluctance. He crossed the room to where Mel sat, stopping before her desk and looking down at the woman who had changed everything.
“I would like to know how you feel about my decision.”
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes meeting his with the steady attention she gave to everything.
“I feel,” she said slowly, “That it is a sensible arrangement. The children benefit from your consistent presence. The estate requires attention that cannot be effectively provided from London. Your parliamentary duties, as Anna noted, can be managed through correspondence for most matters.” She paused.
“From a practical standpoint, permanent residence in Cornwall is the logical choice.”
“And from an impractical standpoint?”
Something glimmered in her expression, some emotion breaking through the careful composure before being firmly suppressed.
“From an impractical standpoint, I find the arrangement… amenable.”
Rhys understood, with the particular clarity that came from months of learning to read her, exactly what that word meant.
Amenable was Mel at her most emotionally demonstrative.
Amenable was Mel admitting that she wanted this, that she was glad, that the future they were building together had just become more solid and more real.
Amenable was Mel saying she held him in her deepest esteem without actually saying the words.
“Amenable,” he repeated, unable to keep the smile from his face.
“High praise indeed.”
“I confess, I am quite at a loss to follow your meaning.”
“You know exactly what I mean.” He leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice so that only she could hear.
“You’re pleased. You’re more than pleased. You’re as pleased as I’ve ever seen you about anything, and you’re trying very hard not to show it.”
“I am not trying to show or not show anything. I am simply…”
“Amenable. Yes. I heard.” His smile widened.
“I’ll take amenable. From you, amenable is practically a declaration.”
Her cheeks flushed slightly, a rare crack in her composure that delighted him more than any effusive response could have.
“You are impossible,” she said.