Chapter One #2
Instead, Eliza did something deeply improper.
She knelt.
Right there, on the gleaming nursery floor, she gathered her skirts beneath her and knelt until she was eye-level with the startled boy. Until she was looking up at him, rather than down.
Until he could see that she was smiling, that her eyes were warm, and that she meant him no harm at all.
"Lord Henry," she said, keeping her voice soft and conspiratorial, "I should warn you about something."
The boy's careful composure wavered. His brown eyes, so wary and watchful, flickered to her face with something that might have been curiosity.
"Warn me, Miss Harrow?"
"Yes." Eliza leaned in, as if sharing a tremendous secret. "I'm not particularly clever."
Henry blinked. "You're... not?"
"No." She shook her head mournfully. "I'm rather silly, actually.
I talk to horses as if they can understand me, and I'm quite convinced they can.
I hum when I work, even when I'm trying to be quiet.
I have very strong opinions about desserts, and I once convinced a household of children that the library ghost was actually quite friendly and only wanted someone to read to him. "
The tiniest crack appeared in Henry's composure. His lips twitched; not quite a smile, but the ghost of one or the possibility of one.
"There's no such thing as ghosts," he said, but his voice had lost some of its careful formality.
"That's exactly what the ghost wanted them to think," Eliza replied solemnly.
Another twitch. The brown eyes warmed, just slightly.
"You're jesting."
"A little." Eliza smiled, letting all the warmth she felt show in her face. "Is that all right?"
Henry stared at her for a long moment. Eliza could practically see the gears turning in his mind, trying to fit this strange new governess into the ordered framework of his world.
Finally, he said, "I don't think anyone has ever jested with me before."
The words were delivered with such matter-of-fact acceptance that Eliza's heart broke clean in two.
"Well," she said, swallowing past the sudden tightness in her throat, "I suppose I shall have to make up for lost time."
***
The schedule posted on the wall was, as Eliza had suspected, a masterwork of joyless efficiency.
6:00 a.m. — Rising, washing, dressing
6:30 a.m. — Breakfast (in nursery)
7:00 a.m. — Morning prayers
7:30 a.m. — Latin
9:00 a.m. — Mathematics
10:30 a.m. — History
12:00 p.m. — Luncheon (in nursery)
1:00 p.m. — Geography
2:30 p.m. — French
4:00 p.m. — Free hour (supervised)
5:00 p.m. — Supper (in nursery)
6:00 p.m. — Preparing for bed
7:00 p.m. — Lights out
Eliza read it twice, then turned to look at Henry, who was watching her with the anxious expression of a pupil awaiting judgment.
"Lord Henry," she said carefully, "when was the last time you went outside?"
The boy's brow furrowed. "Outside?"
"Yes. To play in the gardens, perhaps. Or explore the grounds."
Henry considered this with the gravity of a philosopher contemplating existence. "I believe... three weeks ago? For my constitution. His Grace believes fresh air is important for development."
"For your constitution," Eliza repeated.
"Yes. Twenty minutes of supervised walking, followed by…"
"Henry." She'd dropped the title without thinking, and she saw the boy's eyes widen slightly at the familiarity. "When was the last time you did something for fun?"
He stared at her blankly.
That, Eliza thought, answers that question.
"Right." She stood, brushing off her skirts with rather more force than necessary. "First things first. Tomorrow, we are going to make some adjustments to this schedule."
"But…" Henry's voice wavered with something like panic. "But His Grace approved the schedule. Mrs. Crawford said…"
"Mrs. Crawford is not your governess. I am." Eliza turned to face him and let him see the determination in her eyes. "And I believe very strongly that children need more than Latin, mathematics and supervised walks. They need to run about, get dirty, learn to climb trees, identify birds and…"
She stopped. Henry was staring at her with an expression of such raw, desperate hope that it stole the breath from her lungs.
"Climb trees?" he whispered, as if she'd just offered him the moon.
"Among other things." Eliza's voice had gone soft. "Would you like that?"
Henry's composure crumbled entirely. He looked, in that moment, exactly like what he was: a desperately lonely little boy who had been waiting his whole life for someone to actually see him.
"Yes," he breathed. "Please, yes."
Eliza reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away and rested her hand gently on his thin shoulder.
He flinched at first and went rigid beneath her touch. And then, by degrees, he softened and leaned, ever so slightly, into the warmth of human contact.
How long, she wondered, her heart aching, since someone touched this child with kindness?
"Then we shall," she promised. "Together."
***
The afternoon passed more quickly than Eliza expected. She did not attempt to begin formal lessons because there would be enough time for that tomorrow, when she had properly assessed Henry's abilities and temperament. Instead, she asked him questions.
"What books do you like?"
"I am not certain. Mrs. Crawford says adventure stories are too stimulating."
"What games do you play?"
"His Grace says games are for children who have not yet learned discipline."
"What makes you laugh?"
There was a long silence, as if he couldn't quite remember.
With each answer, Eliza felt her determination harden into something like steel. Whatever had happened in this house, whatever grief had frozen it into silence, she would not let it swallow this child whole.
By the time the shadows had begun to lengthen outside the nursery windows, she had learned several important things about Lord Henry Ravenshaw:
He loved horses, though he'd never been allowed to ride one.
He secretly collected smooth stones and kept them hidden in his pockets.
He whispered to himself when nervous; a habit he'd tried desperately to break after someone told him it was improper.
And he had privately named every horse in the stables, even though he wasn't supposed to go near them.
"What did you name the black one?" Eliza asked, genuinely curious. "The large stallion?"
"Shadow," Henry admitted, ducking his head with embarrassment. "Because he follows His Grace everywhere, like a shadow. His Grace calls him Sovereign, but I think Shadow suits him better."
Sovereign, Eliza thought with a flicker of amusement. Of course, the Duke named his horse Sovereign.
"I think Shadow is a fine name," she said. "Perhaps, if you're very good, I might be able to arrange for you to meet him properly."
Henry's eyes widened. "You would do that?"
"I would certainly try."
The look he gave her, pure, unguarded, radiant with hope, lodged itself somewhere beneath Eliza's ribs and refused to budge.
I will not fail this child, she promised silently. Whatever it takes.