Chapter Six
The confrontation came, as most confrontations do, when Eliza least expected it.
It had been three days since the night in the nursery.
Three days of careful distance: the Duke appearing briefly at meals, nodding politely, excusing himself before conversation could develop.
Three days of stolen glances and averted eyes and the peculiar tension of two people trying very hard not to acknowledge what had passed between them.
Eliza told herself she was grateful for the space.
She needed time to regain her equilibrium, to rebuild the professional boundaries that had crumbled so alarmingly when she'd felt his hand tremble beneath hers.
She needed to remember that she was a governess and he was a duke, and the warmth she had glimpsed in his eyes that night was not, and could not be, meant for her.
She told herself these things repeatedly, with diminishing conviction.
The morning of the third day dawned bright and clear, the finest weather they'd had in weeks, and Eliza decided that outdoor lessons were not merely desirable but essential. Henry had been working diligently on his letters all week, and he deserved a reward.
"Today," she announced over breakfast, "we're going to climb trees."
Henry's face lit up. "The big oak? The one with the high branches?"
"The very one. You've mastered the lower levels admirably. I think you're ready to attempt the fourth fork."
"The fourth fork!" His voice rose with excitement. "That's higher than you've ever let me go!"
"Which is why we're going to be very careful." She reached across the table and tapped his nose. "Careful but brave. Like Perseus."
"Like Perseus," he agreed solemnly.
They set out after breakfast, armed with their nature journals and a small basket of apples for afterwards.
The oak tree stood at the edge of the formal gardens, its ancient branches stretching toward the sky like an invitation.
Henry ran ahead, his earlier solemnity forgotten in the simple joy of a child anticipating adventure.
Eliza followed more slowly, savoring the sunshine on her face and the clean moorland air. She had grown to love this landscape because it reminded her, in some ways, of the Duke himself: austere and forbidding on the surface, but with depths that rewarded patience.
She pushed that thought aside. She was not here to contemplate the Duke's depths.
"Miss Harrow, look!" Henry had already reached the tree and was pointing upward. "I can see where the fourth fork is. It's not that much higher than the third."
"Height is relative." She joined him at the base of the trunk, tilting her head back to assess the route. "What looks small from the ground can feel very different when you're actually climbing. Remember…"
"Three points of contact at all times," Henry recited dutifully. "And never look down until I'm secure."
"Excellent. Off you go, then. I shall spot you from below."
He scrambled up the lower branches with the ease of practice, his small body nimble and confident.
Eliza watched with a mixture of pride and anxiety, ready to catch him if he fell but determined not to hover.
Children needed space to test their limits.
They needed to learn that they were capable of more than they thought.
Henry reached the third fork and paused, looking up at the next level. "It's farther than it looked from the ground."
"Most things are. Take your time. Find your handholds before you commit."
He reached up, testing the branch above him. His foot found a knot in the trunk, and slowly, carefully, he pulled himself higher…
And then his foot slipped.
It happened so fast that Eliza barely had time to register the movement. One moment, Henry was climbing; the next, he was tumbling backwards, his small body crashing through the lower branches before landing in a heap at the base of the tree.
"Henry!" She was at his side in an instant, her heart pounding. "Henry, are you hurt? Let me see…"
He was crying. Great, gasping sobs that shook his whole body. His hands were pressed against his knee, where a long scrape was already welling with blood.
"It hurts," he wailed. "Miss Harrow, it hurts…"
"I know, sweetheart, I know." She gathered him into her arms, rocking him gently while she assessed the damage.
The scrape was ugly but superficial; no deep cuts, no broken bones, nothing that wouldn't heal in a few days.
But the fear in his eyes and the trembling in his limbs would take longer to soothe.
"You're alright," she murmured into his hair. "It's just a scrape. It looks worse than it is. We'll clean it up and bandage it, and you'll be as good as new."
"I fell…"
"Everyone falls sometimes. Even the best climbers. The important thing is that you tried, and that you're going to be fine."
His sobs were beginning to subside, the initial shock wearing off. She held him close, letting him cry against her shoulder, not rushing him to compose himself or pretend the pain wasn't real.
That was when she heard the footsteps.
"Henry."
The voice cut through the garden like a blade: cold, clipped, disapproving. Eliza looked up to find the Duke standing on the path, his riding clothes immaculate, his expression thunderous.
He must have been returning from his morning ride, must have heard the commotion, and he had come to investigate. And now he stood there, looking down at his crying brother with an expression that made Eliza's blood run cold.
"Henry," he said again. "Compose yourself."
The boy went rigid in her arms. His sobs cut off mid-breath, replaced by a horrible, choked silence as he struggled to obey. His face crumpled with the effort of holding back tears, his small hands clutching at Eliza's dress.
"He fell from the tree," Eliza said, her voice carefully neutral. "He's scraped his knee. He's frightened."
"He is the heir to a dukedom." The Duke's gaze remained fixed on Henry, refusing to meet Eliza's eyes. "He must learn to control his emotions."
"He is six years old."
"All the more reason to begin early." There was something in his voice, something that sounded almost like pain, quickly suppressed. "Henry, stand up. Let Miss Harrow tend your wound. There is no need for this... display."
Display. As if a child's tears were a performance. As if pain and fear were inconveniences to be managed rather than feelings to be felt.
Eliza watched Henry struggle to his feet, his face streaked with tears he was desperately trying to stop. His lower lip trembled, and his hands shook. But he stood there, small and pale and trying so hard to be what his brother wanted, and something inside Eliza snapped.
"Lord Henry." Her voice was gentle but firm. "Go inside and ask Mrs. Crawford for the medical kit. Tell her I'll be there shortly to clean your knee. Can you do that for me?"
Henry looked between her and the Duke, uncertain.
"Go on, sweetheart." She squeezed his shoulder. "I'll be right behind you."
He went. Limping slightly, still fighting tears, but moving toward the house with the mechanical obedience of a child who had learned that compliance was safer than resistance.
The moment he was out of earshot, Eliza turned on the Duke.
"How dare you?"
His eyes widened—the first crack in his composure. Whatever he had expected her to say, it clearly wasn't that.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." She was shaking. With anger, with protectiveness, with something she couldn't quite name. "How dare you tell that child to stop crying. How dare you stand there and demand he 'compose himself' when he's frightened and hurt and needs comfort, not criticism."
"Miss Harrow…"
"He fell from a tree, and he scraped his knee. He's six years old, and he was terrified, and the first thing you do is tell him his feelings are inappropriate." She stepped closer, too angry to care about propriety. "What is wrong with you?"
The Duke's jaw tightened. Something flickered in his gray eyes; anger, certainly, but beneath it something else. Something that looked almost like shame.
"He must learn control," he said, but his voice had lost some of its edge. "The world will not coddle him. He must be prepared…"
"Prepared for what? To be as cold and closed-off as you?
" The words came out harsher than she intended, but she couldn't stop them.
"Is that your grand plan for him? To teach him that feelings are weakness and tears are shameful, and the only acceptable response to pain is silence?
No wonder he is calling you ‘Your Grace’ instead of ‘brother’…… "
"You forget yourself."
"No, Your Grace." She met his gaze squarely, refusing to back down.
"I remember myself perfectly. I remember that I was hired to care for your brother.
To educate him and nurture him and help him grow into a healthy, happy person.
And I cannot do that if you undermine me at every turn.
I cannot teach him that it's safe to feel if you punish him for feeling. "
"I did not punish him…"
"You told him his tears were unacceptable.
You told him to compose himself while he was bleeding and frightened.
Do you have any idea what that teaches a child?
" Her voice cracked with emotion. "It teaches him that your love is conditional.
That you will only accept him when he's perfect and controlled and exactly what you want him to be.
It teaches him that his feelings don't matter, that he doesn't matter, unless he meets your impossible standards. "
The Duke flinched. Actually flinched, as if her words had struck him physically.
"That is not…" He stopped. "I never intended…"