Chapter 13
Eloise did not sleep. She lay awake for hours staring at the ceiling, then rose before dawn, feeling that she had not truly rested in days. The room was cold, and even its silence felt judgmental.
She dressed by the weak light of the candle on her table and opened her trunk to begin packing. Folded gowns, simple stockings, her books, and the small handful of items that had made the room feel more like something that had briefly been hers, not something she merely borrowed.
She moved carefully, folding each thing with practiced hands, and could not decide which hurt more: the reason she was leaving, or the fact that she had genuinely expected to remain.
At the small writing desk by the window, she drew a blank sheet toward her. The letter to her parents should have been simple. It was not. She wrote a line, crossed it out, wrote another, and finally settled on what she could bear to send.
My dearest Mother and Father,
She paused. The words blurred briefly, and she forced herself onward.
I am sorry to tell you that I have lost the position.
There has been a misunderstanding, and I believe it best that I return home.
I hope this will not distress you too deeply, though I know it will.
Please do not trouble yourselves on my account.
I shall be home soon, and we will speak of matters then.
She stared at the page. It was not the letter she should write, and she knew it. She could not write the real one yet. Not while she was still sorting through the consequences of her lie.
She folded the letter, sealed it, and sat for a long while with her hands pressed together in her lap. The room had become a place of departure. The trunk stood open. The candle burned low.
A small part of her remained stubbornly unwilling to go, and that, perhaps, was the cruelest part of all. She had not expected to care for the children and the rest of the household so quickly, and she had certainly not expected to care what Jamie thought apart from professionally.
And yet here she was, being dismissed from a life she had only just begun to inhabit, and it felt like the worst thing she would ever experience.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” Eloise said.
Clara opened the door slowly and stepped inside, took one look at the trunk, and stopped where she stood.
She did not speak immediately. She simply looked from the trunk to the bed to the desk and back again, and then, very deliberately, closed the door behind her and sat down heavily in the chair nearest the window.
“So,” Clara said at last.
“So,” Eloise said, folding her hands more tightly.
“You are leaving.”
Eloise nodded once.
Clara exhaled hard through her nose, her scowl responding to news she had clearly hoped not to hear. “I see.”
“I am sorry,” Eloise said, lowering her eyes.
“Do not begin apologizing to me.” Clara’s expression was urgent as she leaned forward. “If you leave, those children lose the only person in this house who has made them feel safe since their parents died.”
Eloise went still. The words struck harder than she expected.
“It is not my choice,” she said.
“You are sure of that?”
Eloise hesitated, then nodded, though Clara did not look convinced. “Something happened,” Clara said, and when Eloise said nothing, she gasped. “Has the viscount done this?”
Eloise looked up sharply, and that alone seemed to be enough of an answer. Clara’s jaw tightened. “He should know better than to drive away the one governess the children have ever accepted.”
“I do not think their acceptance is the issue,” Eloise said, with a short, humorless laugh.
Clara rose from the chair and stood close enough now to see the strain in Eloise’s face.
Her voice softened, just slightly. “You have been looking like a woman about to be sentenced since last night.” When Eloise once again did not speak, she crossed her arms. “He told you something. Or you told him something.”
That was very close to the truth. Clara saw it in her face and grunted. “Very well.” Eloise pressed her lips together. She did not wish to discuss the letter yet. Not even with Clara.
Clara studied her for a moment longer, then turned and reached for a small cloth parcel sitting on the table behind her. Eloise had not noticed it before. Clara lifted it and held it out.
“For the journey,” she said, gruffly.
“What journey?”
“Whatever foolish thing you are planning.”
“I have not planned anything foolish.”
“That remains to be seen,” Clara said, and Eloise took the parcel automatically. It was still warm, and the simple kindness of it nearly unraveled her composure.
“Clara …”
“No.” The cook’s voice had gone rougher than before. “If you do leave, you will at least not go hungry.”
Eloise could not speak for a moment. Her throat had tightened unexpectedly, and the parcel felt heavier now, not from its contents but from what it meant. She closed her fingers around it carefully. “Thank you.”
“Do not make that face,” Clara said, looking away.
“What face?”
“The one that says you are about to cry.”
Eloise blinked hard at once. Clara gave her a sharp nod, clearly intended to restore practical order to the room, and then, because she was Clara, she huffed. “If I find out you left because that stubborn fool embarrassed you, I shall march into the study and hit him with a rolling pin.”
Despite everything, Eloise laughed, surprising them both. Clara’s expression eased only little, but it was enough.
“I mean it,” the cook said.
“I believe you.”
“You should.”
Eloise looked down at the parcel in her hands, and the gesture nearly broke what remained of her composure. Clara saw the tremor in her fingers and she shook her head at Eloise affectionately.
“Go on,” Clara said. “Before I change my mind and keep you here by force.”
That, too, was meant as a joke, and it nearly worked. Eloise took one breath, then another, and nodded. Clara moved to the door, opened it, and paused only long enough to glance back.
“You are not the sort of woman who disappears quietly, Miss Beauchamp.” Her expression softened slightly. “Remember that.”
Then she left, and Eloise stood alone in the room for a moment afterward, holding the parcel in both hands and staring at the trunk beside the bed.
The schoolroom felt larger than usual, or perhaps simply emptier.
Eloise was not certain which. She had come in, intending to speak with the children before luncheon, and Duncan was already there, of course, seated at the table with a new puzzle spread before him, one elbow braced on the wood, his mouth set in the particular line of concentration that meant he had been at it for some time.
Maisie was near the window, drawing on a slate.
Both children looked up as Eloise entered. Duncan’s stillness told her he had already seen something worrisome in her face. Her chest tightened at the realization.
She closed the door behind her and forced her voice to remain steady. “Good morning.”
“Miss Eloise,” Maisie said, brightening at once.
Duncan said nothing. He was watching her with too much attention.
Eloise came farther into the room, her heart beating a little too quickly. She had thought she might manage this better than she was now managing it.
“May I sit with you?” she asked softly.
Maisie nodded immediately. Duncan did not object.
Eloise sat in the chair beside the table and folded her hands carefully in her lap.
For a moment, none of them spoke. Duncan’s puzzle lay untouched between them, and the fact that he had not returned to it since her entrance told her how closely he was paying attention.
At last she drew a breath. “There is something I need to tell you.”
Maisie looked at her at once. Duncan’s shoulders stiffened.
“I may need to leave soon,” Eloise said.
There was a minute of absolute silence. Maisie stared as though she had not understood. Her face changed, slowly at first, until she did understand. Her eyes filled quickly then. “Leave?”
“Only if I must,” Eloise said, her throat tightening.
Duncan set his pencil down, very carefully, the motion too measured to be casual. He had gone pale. Not much. Enough. “You are leaving?” he asked, flat and controlled.
“I may have to.”
Maisie’s breath caught. “Why?”
Eloise opened her mouth, then closed it again, because the truth was too messy, too humiliating, too much to place on two children who had already lost enough. She chose the gentlest answer she could manage. “Sometimes adults must make difficult choices.”
That did not help. Maisie’s lower lip began to tremble, and Duncan’s face had gone rigid enough to crack. Neither child spoke for several seconds. Then Maisie whimpered. “Did we do something wrong?”
“No,” Eloise said at once, the answer too quick to be anything but heartfelt. “No, darling. You did nothing wrong.”
Maisie’s eyes spilled over. “Then why?”
Eloise looked toward Duncan. He was staring at the table, his hands clenched, trying very hard not to show what he felt.
She recognized it instantly; he had only one way of protecting himself when he was upset, and that was silence.
If she pressed now, he would only retreat further, and so she did not.
She answered Maisie instead, softly and carefully. “It is not your fault.”
That did not stop the tears. Maisie wiped at her face with her sleeve and made no further effort to hide the distress that had overtaken her.
Duncan, meanwhile, stood so abruptly that his chair scraped hard against the floor and knocked back behind him.
He did not speak. He did not cry. He simply turned and walked toward the door.
“Duncan …”
He was already gone. The schoolroom door shut behind him with a sharp click, and for a second Eloise remained frozen before she heard his footsteps in the corridor, running fast, straight toward Jamie’s study.