Chapter 5
Over the following days, Eloise learned that a schoolroom could reveal a household more clearly than any formal conversation.
Duncan resisted instruction as if every lesson were a siege, yet he leaned toward a puzzle before he seemed to know he had moved.
Maisie wished to please so badly that a raised voice in the corridor could blanch her face, and more than once Eloise found the child awake after midnight, frightened by dreams of wheels, harness, and carriage doors.
So, Eloise altered the lessons until they no longer looked like lessons at all.
On a gray Thursday morning, Duncan bent over a map with a pencil in hand, his brow drawn tight in concentration. Maisie sat across from him with a sheet of paper, a box of pencils, and the promise that her story might contain as many horses as she wished if it also contained six proper sentences.
“That is still not right,” he said, without looking up.
“What is wrong with it?” Eloise asked.
“The angle is too shallow.” He tapped the pencil against the paper twice. “You cannot come out of the harbor at that angle when the wind is from the north. You would lose half your speed before you cleared the headland.”
“How would you correct it?”
His gaze flew to hers. He heard the challenge beneath the question, and she saw the moment he forgot to be offended.
“I would bring her farther west before turning, not straight out. Never straight out. There,” he said.
“Better,” Eloise said. “Show me why.”
Duncan pointed to the headland. “Because the wind would punish a fool. If the captain had wit, he would use it instead.”
“A severe judgment upon the captain.”
“A deserved judgment.” He glanced down again. “If he had studied, he would have no cause to be embarrassed.”
Maisie lifted her head. “Can Violet be on the ship? She is the largest horse anywhere.”
Duncan did not raise his eyes from the map as he spoke, but the corner of his mouth shifted. “You cannot know that.”
“I can if I drew her that way,” Maisie said.
“That is allowed,” Duncan said after a pause. “If she drew it, she may decide its size.”
Eloise smiled and tapped Maisie’s page. “Then give Violet a reason to board the ship. A story requires a reason.”
“She is going to rescue a prince,” Maisie said.
“Princes are common,” Duncan said. “Maps are more useful.”
“Then Violet shall rescue a mapmaker,” Eloise said. “And Duncan shall advise her on the safest course.”
“Father told very good stories,” Maisie had said.
“He did not,” Duncan said.
“He did. You liked the storm one.”
“I found it tolerable.”
“You asked him to tell it twice.”
Duncan’s pencil went still.
“The storm details were inaccurate,” Duncan said. “I was verifying them.”
Eloise gathered those fragments carefully. Their father had been gentle. Their mother had been warm and clever. Their uncle had once belonged to the sea, though Duncan guarded that memory as if praise might make it shameful.
The uncle they described had laughed, told stories of storms, and shown a boy how charts could turn danger into order. That man seemed far removed from the viscount who watched the world from behind cold, grieving eyes.
“Miss Beauchamp,” Duncan said.
She returned her attention to the table. “Yes?”
“If you wanted to plot the fastest route from here to the Hebrides, which way would you go?”
“I have no idea,” she said. “You would have to tell me.”
“You truly do not know?” he asked.
“Truly.”
“Then move your chair nearer. If I am to explain it, you must look properly.”
For twenty minutes, Duncan spoke of tides, currents, and prevailing winds. Eloise asked questions whenever his voice faltered, and each answer brought him further into the lesson.
She had not expected Duncan to start warming up to her and her lessons as quickly as he had, but she was grateful that he was.
She was finding joy in her position watching the children open up and take an interest in learning.
During those lessons, she could forget everything that had brought her to their home.
And she hoped that, if only for a little while each day, she could help the children forget their troubles and grief, as well.
***
She noticed Logan in the corridor outside the schoolroom just before midday, carrying an armful of firewood large enough to supply a modest castle.
He whistled as he walked.
At the sight of her, he stopped and straightened.
“Good morning,” he said, with the composure of a man who was not carrying anything unusual.
“Good morning,” she said. “Are you on your way to the kitchen?”
“I am.”
“By way of this corridor?”
He adjusted the logs in his arms. “The kitchen fire needs more fuel in the mornings.”
“Does it?”
“Consistently.”
“I see.” She kept her expression calm. “And the south woodpile did not suit?”
A pause. “I was already in this wing.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing in this wing?”
Another pause, longer than the first. “An errand.”
“For whom?”
“The house,” Logan said, with great dignity, and continued walking.
Eloise followed. She had meant to seek the cook, Clara, from her first day. The kitchen lay far from her rooms and the schoolroom, and the household held a few women below stairs.
She also wanted very badly to see what the kitchen looked like.
She was not disappointed.
The kitchen was warm and smelled of bread. Clara stood at the worktable with flour on her apron and color in her face. She looked up as they entered.
“You have brought someone with you,” she said, not entirely to Logan.
“Miss Beauchamp,” Logan said, setting the firewood down near the hearth. “Governess. She has been meaning to come and meet you.”
Clara wiped her hands on her apron. Her gaze was frank, sharp, and free of ceremony.
“You are the one who fed the children at the tavern,” she said.
“I am.”
“And scolded the viscount.”
“I did not know he was the viscount at the time.”
Clara appeared to find this acceptable. “Well,” she said. “At least you have sense enough to be embarrassed about it.”
“I am deeply embarrassed about it.”
“Good.” Clara pointed at the chair by the corner of the table. “Sit down, then. I will make tea.”
Eloise sat. Logan began stacking the firewood near the hearth without being asked.
“You know where that belongs,” Clara said.
“I pride myself on usefulness,” Logan said.
“You pride yourself on being underfoot.”
“Only in rooms where I am appreciated.”
A small glass vase stood on the windowsill, filled with wildflowers that had clearly been picked that morning.
“Those are pretty,” Eloise said.
Clara glanced at the window. “They keep flies away.”
“A useful arrangement,” Eloise said.
Logan gave the hearth an unnecessary poke. Clara’s color deepened. Eloise lifted her cup and hid her smile behind it.
Logan came and went and came back again, finding reasons to linger that fooled no one.
Clara told her about the household's daily rhythm, the servants, the kitchen, Mrs. Maggie’s best hours, and the children.
“Maisie came to the kitchen on her third day,” Clara said. “Stood in the doorway for ten minutes before she came inside. Did not say a word. Just watched me knead the bread.”
“Did you speak to her?” Eloise asked.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because she did not want me to. She wanted to be somewhere warm where nothing was being asked of her.” Clara looked at her cup. “She came back the next day. And the day after. Eventually she asked if she could stir something.”
Eloise’s throat ached. “What did you say?”
“I said yes and gave her the porridge. She stirred it for half an hour and was very proud of herself.”
Eloise looked down at her tea and said nothing.
Clara continued, “Duncan does not come to the kitchen. He looks at it when he passes, as though he has not yet decided whether bread is worthy of him.”
“That sounds accurate.”
“He will come eventually,” Clara said. “Proud, hungry children always do.”
Eloise smiled. “I came.”
“You did.” Clara looked at her. “And you noticed things. That is good.”
“What things?”
Clara glanced briefly toward the window. The wildflowers caught the pale midday light and held it.
“Nothing important,” Clara said, and picked up her cup again.
Eloise kept her expression entirely composed.
“The viscount,” she said, after a moment. “Does he come to the kitchen?”
Clara’s face changed. She chose her reply with care.
“He used to,” Clara said. “After he first came home from sea, he would sit by that hearth when sleep would not have him. He would ask about the bread. He would speak to people.”
Logan gave a low, warning cough from across the room, though he did not turn from the hearth.
Clara looked at him for a moment, then back at Eloise, her expression closing around whatever she had nearly said. “He does not come down anymore.”
“When did that change?”
“After the funeral,” Clara said. “The carriage accident that took the children’s parents. He managed the burial, brought the children home, and then he stopped. He does not eat with anyone apart from Logan. He has not left the estate for pleasure in over a year.”
Eloise frowned. “Not even to the shore?”
“Not for himself,” Clara said. “He will ride for tenants, business, and duty, but never because the sea might help him calm himself. Logan knows more than I do.” She did not look at Logan, and he did not answer.
Eloise did not press. Some truths had to be offered, not taken.
“He never sleeps a full night,” Clara said.
“I know,” Eloise said. “I have heard him.”
Clara nodded. “He walks the corridors. He is a good man, whatever you may think of how he behaves. Difficult, cold, and skilled at driving people away, but good. I would not still be here otherwise.”
Logan remained by the hearth, silent and watchful.
Eloise glanced toward the wildflowers on the windowsill and then looked away.
“Thank you,” she said.
Clara stood and picked up her cup as though the conversation had reached its natural end. “Do not thank me. I am not doing it for your benefit.”
“I know,” Eloise said, and liked her even more for it.
***
That evening, after Maisie’s candle had been trimmed and Duncan had surrendered his map only under protest, Eloise returned to her room and took out her writing paper.
The first letter was for her parents together. It would be cheerful and safe.
My dear parents,
I arrived safely, and the estate is larger and more beautiful than any description could have made me expect.
The children are clever, and I believe the position will suit me.
The house is orderly, the servants are capable, and I have found kindness in unexpected corners.
Please do not trouble yourselves on my account.
I am well, occupied, and grateful for the chance to be useful.
She set that letter aside and reached for the second sheet of paper.
The second letter came more slowly.
My dear Mother,
I will not write the same letter to you that I have written for Father, because you would know I was managing you and you would scold me for it.
The house is sadder than I expected. The children are dear to me already.
Maisie is fragile in ways I must learn carefully, and Duncan hides tenderness beneath every sharp reply.
The man in charge of them is not unkind, but he is in pain that reaches beyond scars and grief.
I do not know if that sorrow is mine to notice.
I only know that I notice it, and I find it difficult not to think about.
She paused and read the words again. She had written too much and still not enough.
She did not add more. She wrote instead that she was well, that the kitchen was good, and that she had made a friend in the cook, though Clara would object to the description.
She sealed both letters and set them beside the lamp.
Then she sat in her room and felt the weight of what she had not written.
Her true surname was Lawing, not Beauchamp.
In the south of England, that surname carried ruin.
Her father had borrowed money he could not repay, accepted trust he did not deserve, and left families to bear losses they could never recover.
Mrs. Maggie had advised the use of her mother’s maiden name, and Eloise had accepted because necessity allowed no better choice.
Still, she had never held a lie well. Not for long.
How long before someone asked a question she could not answer as Beauchamp? How long before the wrong person connected the wrong surname to the wrong story and the careful structure came apart? She had thought the remoteness of the estate would protect her.
She was less certain of that. She was less certain of everything.
She thought of Maisie’s face when praised for a careful letter. She thought of Duncan explaining tidal currents with the energy of a boy finally permitted to know what he knew. She thought of Clara’s gruff warmth and Logan pretending not to notice the wildflowers.
She thought about what she stood to lose if the lie fell apart.
She reached for the lamp, turned it down, and sat in the dark for a few minutes before going to bed.
The peace of this house was fragile. Wounded people, careful silences, and small acts of warmth disguised as duty held it together. She belonged to it now, whether she had meant to or not, and she carried a secret that could shatter what she had begun to build.
A sound reached her before sleep did.
Footsteps moved in the corridor, heavy and uneven, crossing the floorboards and returning again. Eloise rose, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, and opened her door a crack.
Jamie walked the hallway in the dark, one hand trailing the wall. He did not see her. Moonlight from the window struck his face and left it unguarded, raw with pain. She closed the door without a sound, lay awake, and thought of a man who paced his own house like a prisoner.