CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO #2
“So I’ve been told. Frequently. By many people.” He reached out and took her hand, pulling her gently to her feet.
“But I notice you haven’t objected to the arrangement.”
“Objecting would be impractical. The decision has clearly already been made.”
“It has. But I would have consulted you before making it if I thought you would have given me a straight answer about your preferences.”
“My preferences are irrelevant to your residential decisions.”
“Your preferences are the only thing that matters to my residential decisions.” He tugged her closer, close enough that he could see the slight quickening of her pulse in her throat.
“I’m staying because this is where I want to be.
Because these children are where I want to be. Because you are where I want to be.”
The flush in her cheeks deepened. Behind them, he could hear Thistle making sounds of theatrical disgust.
“They’re being romantic again. It’s very disturbing.”
“It’s not disturbing,” Anna countered. “It’s statistically inevitable. Romantic attachment frequently leads to public displays of affection. The literature is quite clear on this point.”
“What literature?”
“Various literature. Miss Grace assigned me additional reading on human behavioral patterns.”
“I assigned you a history of the French Revolution,” Mel said, her voice carrying the familiar note of long-suffering patience.
“I don’t believe romantic behavioral patterns were included.”
“I supplemented the assignment with additional research. Independent study is important for intellectual development.”
Rhys laughed, the sound emerging freely and without calculation. This was his family. These brilliant, chaotic, wonderful people who had somehow become the centre of his world.
A six-year-old who ate beetles and screamed with joy.
Another six-year-old who analysed romantic attachment with scholarly detachment.
A third six-year-old who said nothing but held on with desperate strength.
And a governess who found arrangements amenable and considered that a significant admission.
He had spent fifteen years running from this.
Hiding from the possibility of affection, of family, of anything that might require him to be present and real and vulnerable.
And now, standing in a schoolroom with his daughters watching and his future wife’s hand in his, he could not imagine why he had ever thought that running was easier.
This was not easy, it was terrifying and complicated and full of moments that required him to be better than he had ever been before. But it was also more alive than anything he had ever experienced. It was worth the battle.
“I should return to my lessons,” Mel said, though she made no move to pull away from his grip on her hand.
“The children have Latin exercises to complete, and we’ve already lost considerable time to emotional demonstrations.”
“The emotional demonstrations were important.”
“They were disruptive. Educational continuity requires…”
“Educational continuity can survive one morning of celebration.” He released her hand reluctantly, stepping back to a more appropriate distance.
“But I will leave you to your lessons. I have estate business to attend to, and I suspect Thistle has questions about specimens that I’ve been neglecting.”
“I do!” Thistle bounced in her chair with renewed energy.
“I found a beetle yesterday that has markings I’ve never seen before. I think it might be endemic to this specific cliff face. I’ve been documenting its behaviour patterns, but I need help with the Latin classification.”
“Then we shall address the Latin classification this afternoon.” He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold to look back at the scene he was leaving behind.
“I’ll see all of you at luncheon. Do not allow Anna to reorganise anything that doesn’t need reorganising.”
“Everything needs reorganising,” Anna said with dignity.
“It’s simply a matter of priorities.”
He left them to their lessons, their voices following him down the corridor as he made his way toward the study. Behind him, he could hear Mel calling the lesson back to order, her practical voice cutting through the lingering excitement to redirect attention toward Latin conjugations.
The study was quiet when he arrived, the familiar space filled with morning light and the particular peace that had come to characterise his days at Hartfell.
He settled behind his desk and looked at the correspondence waiting for him, they were letters from Mr. Grieves about estate matters, notes from his solicitor about the legal arrangements for his daughters’ futures, invitations to London events he would now be declining.
He began with the declinations. One by one, he composed polite refusals to balls and dinners and gatherings that would have consumed his time and energy without offering anything of value in return.
Each letter was a small act of liberation, a confirmation that he had chosen this life over that one.
When he finished, he turned to the more substantive correspondence.
The arrangements for the wedding, which would take place at the small chapel on the Hartfell grounds in three weeks’ time.
The legal documents that would establish trusts for each of his daughters, ensuring their financial security regardless of what society might think of their origins.
The plans for improvements to the estate that would benefit the tenants who had waited too long for a landlord who cared.
It was the work of building. Slow, steady and unglamorous.
The opposite of everything he had been during his years as London’s most notorious rake.
But as he worked, as the morning turned to midday and the pile of completed correspondence grew, he found a satisfaction in it that no scandal had ever provided.
He was doing something real. Something that would last beyond the gossip sheets and the social seasons and the endless cycle of entertainments that had once consumed his life. He was building a family, a household, a legacy that his daughters could be proud of.
The door opened, and Viola appeared in the doorway.
She was alone, which was unusual. The children typically moved as a unit, Anna leading and Thistle causing chaos and Viola observing quietly from the margins. To see her alone, seeking him out, suggested something significant.
“Viola.” He set down his quill and gave her his full attention.
“Is everything all right?”
She nodded, though she didn’t speak immediately. She crossed the room to his desk, her steps measured and deliberate, and stopped in front of him with an expression he could not quite read.
“I wanted to tell you something,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m listening.”
“When you said you were staying forever, I didn’t scream like Thistle or pretend not to care like Anna.” She paused, searching for words.
“I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to be happy, but being happy felt dangerous. Like if I showed it, something bad would happen.”
Rhys felt his chest tighten. This child, who had learned so young to protect herself from disappointment, who had watched governess after governess come and go, who had been so afraid of abandonment that she had barely spoken above a whisper for years.
“I understand that feeling,” he said quietly.
“I’ve felt it too.”
“You have?”
“For most of my life. I was afraid that if I showed how much I wanted things, they would be taken away. So I pretended not to want anything. I thought that would protect me.”
“Did it?”
“No. It just meant I was alone with my fear instead of sharing it with people who could help.” He reached out and took her hand, the same way he had in the schoolroom, holding it gently.
“You don’t have to protect yourself from happiness anymore. I know I haven’t always been here. I know I’ve given you reasons to be afraid. But I’m telling you now, as your father, that I’m not leaving. And if you want to be happy about that, you’re allowed to show it.”
Viola was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she smiled.
It was a small smile, hesitant and uncertain, the expression of a child who was learning to trust again after years of careful self-protection. But it was real, and it was directed at him, and it contained something that looked very much like joy.
“I’m happy,” she said softly.
“I’m very happy that you’re staying.”
“I’m happy too.” He pulled her gently closer, into an embrace that she allowed without resistance.
“I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life.”
She held on for a long moment, her small arms wrapped around him, her face pressed against his shoulder. When she finally pulled back, her eyes were bright but not with tears. With something else, something that closely resembled hope.
“Anna says luncheon is in fifteen minutes,” she said. “She wanted me to remind you because you sometimes forget when you’re working.”
“I do sometimes forget. Thank her for me.”
Viola nodded and turned toward the door. At the threshold, she paused and looked back.
“Papa?”
“Yes?”
“Miss Grace said ‘amenable.’ I think that means she’s happy too. She just doesn’t know how to show it.”
“I think you’re right.”
“I’m learning to show it. Maybe she can learn too.”
She left before he could respond, her small footsteps receding down the corridor toward the dining room where her sisters were already gathering.
Rhys sat alone in his study, surrounded by correspondence and plans and all the practical details of the life he was building. But he was not thinking about correspondence. He was thinking about his daughter’s smile, small and hesitant and full of hope.
He was thinking about Mel’s “amenable,” the word that meant so much more than it said.
He was thinking about a family that had been waiting for him all along, that had welcomed him despite his failures that had given him reason after reason to become someone worth staying for.
He had come home. Finally he was where he belonged.
And he had never been happier in his life.