Chapter Four #2
He began to speak without being spoken to, a development that had clearly alarmed Mr. Blackwood the first time it happened, but which the butler had accepted with surprising grace.
He asked questions at dinner, to the footmen, to the maids, to anyone who would listen, about their work, their families, their favorite food.
The household, Eliza noticed, had begun to warm to him in return.
Small treats appeared in the nursery without explanation.
The under-gardener started leaving interesting specimens near the kitchen door where Henry might find them.
Even the formidable Mrs. Crawford had been spotted sneaking the boy an extra biscuit when she thought no one was looking.
He crawled into Eliza's lap during story time without asking permission, curling against her warmth with the trust of a child who had finally learned that affection would not be withdrawn without warning.
He fell asleep there sometimes, and she would carry him to bed with his head on her shoulder, his fingers tangled in her hair, and she would think about all the nights he must have spent alone in that quiet nursery, waiting for someone to hold him.
He had nightmares less frequently now. When they came, he called for her instead of suffering in silence, and she would go to him, hold him and tell him stories until the fear faded.
Once, she sang him a lullaby her mother had sung to her, and he had whispered, "I like that one. Can you sing it always?"
Always. Such a small word. Such an enormous promise.
"I shall sing it as often as you like," she had said, because she couldn't bring herself to make promises about forever. Not when her position here depended on a duke's whim. Not when the future was as uncertain as the Yorkshire weather.
But she sang it again the next night, and the night after that, and every night until it became ritual; their song, their prayer, their small fortress against the dark.
And he smiled; constantly, brilliantly, as if making up for six years of careful solemnity.
"Miss Harrow," he said one afternoon, as they sat together in the garden making daisy chains, "I love you."
The words came out matter-of-factly, the way children say such things, without reservation or self-consciousness. Eliza felt her throat tighten with emotion.
"I love you too, sweetheart." She pressed a kiss to the top of his head. "Very much."
"More than Perseus?"
"More than all the Greek heroes combined."
He beamed at her, gap-toothed and glorious, and returned his attention to the daisies with the contentment of a child who knew, finally, that he was loved.
***
Alistair told himself he was not watching them.
He was simply... aware of them. As any responsible guardian would be aware of their ward's activities. It was his duty to ensure that the governess was doing her job properly, that Henry's education was progressing appropriately, and that the household was functioning as it should.
It had nothing to do with the way the sunlight caught her hair when she sat beneath the oak tree, turning it to living flame.
Nothing to do with the sound of her laughter drifting through the open windows, bright and warm and impossibly alive in this house that had known only silence for so long.
Nothing whatsoever to do with the way she looked when she held his brother in her arms, her face soft with tenderness, her voice murmuring words of comfort that Alistair was too far away to hear but could somehow feel resonating in his chest.
He watched from the library window, telling himself he was reading. He watched from the terrace, telling himself he was taking the air. He watched from the garden path, telling himself he was inspecting the grounds.
He watched, and he burned.
She's transformed him.
The thought came unbidden as he stood at his study window, observing Eliza teach Henry to skip stones across the ornamental pond.
The boy he had known until three weeks ago, rigid, silent, performing propriety like a suit of armor, was gone.
In his place was a child who laughed, ran and threw himself into his governess's arms with the joyful abandon of someone who knew he would be caught.
This is what he needed. What I should have given him.
The thought was bitter, edged with something that might have been shame.
For six years, Alistair had told himself that discipline and structure were what Henry needed.
That preparing him for his future responsibilities was more important than indulging childhood frivolities.
That keeping his distance was protection for both of them.
But Eliza had walked into his household with her radical ideas about education, and in less than a month, she had accomplished what four previous governesses and six years of careful management had failed to achieve.
She had made Henry happy.
And what have I given him?
Silence and schedules. A brother who was more portrait than person, present in the house but absent in every way that mattered.
He watched Eliza ruffle Henry's hair, watched the boy lean into her touch with visible pleasure, and felt something crack in his chest.
He watched, and he wanted.
That was the worst part. The wanting. He had trained himself for years not to want anything; not comfort, not connection, not the simple human pleasures that other men took for granted.
Wanting was dangerous. Wanting led to needing, needing led to loss, and loss led to the kind of devastation that had destroyed his father.
But watching Eliza Harrow laugh in the sunlight, her arms full of wildflowers that Henry had picked for her, her face glowing with affection for the boy who adored her, made him want things he had spent years convincing himself he didn't need.
He wanted to know what it would feel like to make her laugh like that.
He wanted to know what would happen if he stopped watching from the windows and actually walked into the garden and joined them.
But his feet wouldn't move. The walls he had built were too high, too thick, and he didn't know how to climb over them. He didn't know if he even could.
So, he watched…. From a distance. Always from a distance.
And he told himself it was enough.
***
"His Grace is watching us again."
Eliza looked up from the nature journal where Henry was sketching a rather imaginative interpretation of a butterfly. "Hmm?"
"From the library window. He thinks we can't see him, but I always know." Henry's voice was carefully neutral, but his pencil had stilled on the page. "He watches a lot. He never comes out, though."
Eliza glanced toward the window Henry had indicated. She couldn't see anyone; the glass caught the afternoon light and turned it to blinding reflection, but she felt the weight of observation nonetheless.
"Perhaps he's busy with his work."
"He's always busy with his work." The words were matter-of-fact, without self-pity, which somehow made them worse. "Thomas says His Grace works more than any man should. He says he does it so he doesn't have to think about other things."
So, he doesn't have to feel, Eliza thought. So, he doesn't have to grieve.
"What do you think His Grace thinks about when he's not working?" she asked carefully.
Henry considered this with his customary gravity. "I don't know. He never tells me things like that. He asks about my lessons and reminds me to sit up straight, and sometimes he looks at me like..." He trailed off, frowning.
"Like what?"
"Like he wants to say something but can't remember how." Henry returned his attention to the butterfly, adding improbable purple spots to its wings. "Do you think he's lonely, Miss Harrow?"
The question struck Eliza like a blow. She thought of the Duke—alone in that vast house, surrounded by servants but connected to no one.
He was governing his estates with ruthless efficiency while his heart withered from disuse, and he was watching his brother from windows, wanting to approach but unable to close the distance.
"I think," she said slowly, "that some people build walls around themselves because they've been hurt, and they're afraid of being hurt again. And after a while, the walls become so familiar that they forget there's another way to live."
"Can the walls come down?"
"Sometimes. If someone is patient enough to find the door." She reached over and adjusted his grip on the pencil. "Or stubborn enough to keep knocking until the person inside opens it."
Henry looked at her with an expression of startling perception for a six-year-old. "Are you going to knock on His Grace's walls?"
"I'm here for you, sweetheart. Not for His Grace."
"But you look at him too." Henry's voice was thoughtful rather than accusatory. "When he's not watching you. You look at him the same way he looks at you."
Eliza felt heat flood her cheeks. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"You go pink when you're embarrassed." Henry smiled, clearly pleased with his detective work. "And when you see His Grace…. You went very pink in the stables."
"That was exertion. From walking."
"You walk everywhere. You don't usually go pink."
"The subject," Eliza said with dignity, "is butterflies. Notice the symmetry of the wing patterns. This is a mathematical concept called bilateral symmetry, which means…"
"You're changing the subject."
"Yes, I am. It's an adult privilege. Now, about that symmetry…"
Henry giggled and returned to his drawing with the satisfied air of a child who had won a minor battle.
She risked one more glance toward the library window.
This time, she caught the movement of someone stepping back from the glass. A tall silhouette, retreating into shadow.
And she wondered, not for the first time, what it would take to make the Duke of Northmere open his door.
***
The evening of the third week brought a thunderstorm.