Chapter Eight
“His Grace took breakfast in the morning room again, miss. That’s three days running now.”
Jenny’s voice carried the breathless importance of momentous news—which, in the quiet world of Rovewood Hall, it very nearly was. Lorraine looked up from the slate where she had been setting sums for Thomas and found the nursery maid hovering in the doorway, barely containing herself.
“Did he?” she said, keeping her tone neutral, though her pulse had quickened at once. “How very… encouraging.”
“Encouraging!” Jenny clasped her hands. “Miss, you don’t understand.
His Grace hasn’t taken to such ways in years.
Mrs Potter nearly dropped the teapot the first morning.
And now he’s doing it regular-like, and asking after Master Thomas, and—” She broke off, eyes widening. “Oh! Do you think something’s changed?”
Everything has changed, Lorraine thought. And nothing. And I do not know which is more terrifying.
“I think His Grace is taking a proper interest in his ward,” she said aloud, turning back to the slate. “As he ought. Now, if your mending is finished, perhaps you might take Thomas into the garden? The weather has cleared.”
Jenny curtsied and withdrew, though not before casting Lorraine a knowing look that suggested the servants’ hall was already alive with speculation.
Lorraine set down the chalk with a quiet sigh.
Three days since the storm. Three days since the library—since Dominic had held Thomas, since their hands had met over a candle, since something had shifted, irrevocably.
Three days of careful distance by daylight, and restless nights spent turning over every word, every glance, every moment of contact.
They had not been alone since. Their exchanges had been limited to the barest courtesies—“Good morning, Your Grace,” “The lessons progress well,” “Thomas is improving.” Each phrase another careful brick, laid with precision, building a wall she did not trust to hold.
And yet the wall was flawed. She felt him before she saw him, a prickle at the back of her awareness whenever he was near.
Caught his gaze upon her in passing, withdrew before it could linger.
And at night, she could not forget the sound of her name in his voice—low, unguarded, impossible to ignore.
I am in trouble, she thought. I am in very serious trouble.
“Miss Weston?”
Thomas appeared at her elbow, his own slate clutched to his chest. “I’ve finished my sums. May I show them to you?”
She forced her thoughts back to him. “Of course.”
The sums were correct—every one. He had a quick mind when he chose to use it, and in the weeks since her arrival, he had begun, quietly, to flourish. The guarded stillness remained—it might always remain—but now it was joined by curiosity, by interest, by flashes of humour that caught her unawares.
“Very good,” she said, returning the slate. “You have earned some time in the garden, I think. Jenny is waiting.”
Thomas brightened. “Will you come too?”
“Later, perhaps. I have a letter to write.”
It was not entirely untrue. Mrs Whitmore’s letter still lay unanswered, inquiring after her health and hinting broadly that the position in Hampshire remained open should Lorraine wish to return.
She had not yet decided how to respond. Three weeks ago, the answer would have been simple: Thank you, but I am settled here.
Now, she was not certain she could use the word ‘settled’ without choking on it.
“Very well.” Thomas nodded, already halfway to the door.
She watched from the window as he crossed the lawn with Jenny, pointing toward the line of oaks where the rookery stood. The garden still bore the storm’s mark—branches scattered, leaves pressed into the paths—but the sky had cleared to a pale blue, and the light held a fragile promise.
If only it were that simple, Lorraine thought. If only hearts could mend as easily as gardens.
She turned back to her work, restoring order to the nursery with practised efficiency. The small, familiar tasks steadied her.
She was replacing the last of the primers when the door opened behind her.
“Miss Weston.”
She knew the voice before she turned. Knew it in the sudden quickening of her pulse. She counted silently—one, two, three—before facing him.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “Thomas is in the garden.”
“I know. I saw him.” He remained near the doorway, though his presence seemed to fill the room regardless. He wore no coat—only waistcoat and shirtsleeves—as though he had come directly from work. “I came to speak with you.”
“With me?”
“I found something.” He paused, as though uncertain how to continue. “In the attics. I thought the boy might like it.”
He stepped forward, and she saw what he carried.
A wooden horse—small, carefully carved, its paint worn with time. Not perfect, but unmistakably made with care.
“It was mine,” he said quietly. “My grandfather carved it.”
Lorraine moved closer before she could stop herself. The piece was beautiful in its imperfection—the faint marks of the knife, the uneven lines that spoke a work of care rather than craft.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “He will cherish it.”
“I hope so.” Dominic turned the horse over in his hands, his fingers tracing the worn wood. “I treasured it, once. Before I decided I was too old for such things. Before I forgot how to treasure anything at all.”
She looked up. He was watching her.
“You have not forgotten,” she said softly. “You are remembering. That is not the same thing.”
“Is it not?”
“No. Forgetting is surrender. Remembering is… an effort.”
He was still for a long moment, something working beneath the surface. Then, slowly, he held the horse out to her.
“Will you give it to him?” he said. “I—” He stopped. “I am not certain I should know what to say.”
Lorraine took it. Their fingers brushed—light, fleeting, and far too noticeable.
“You will not get it wrong,” she said. “But if you prefer, I will give it to him—and tell him it is from you.”
“Thank you.”
He stepped back. Too quickly.
“Your Grace—”
“Dominic.” He did not look at her. “You called me that. The other night.”
“That was—I shouldn’t have—”
“I did not object.” His hand rested against the doorframe. “I have not been Dominic to anyone in a very long time.”
Then he was gone.
Lorraine stood very still, the small wooden horse in her hands, her heart unsteady in her chest.
***
She gave Thomas the horse that afternoon.
His reaction was everything she had hoped for. He turned it over in his hands with quiet reverence, tracing the carved mane, the painted eyes, the tiny hooves worn smooth by years of use.
“His Grace played with this?” Thomas’s voice was hushed. “When he was my age?”
“When he was your age. His grandfather made it for him.”
“And he’s giving it to me?”
“He wished you to have it. He thought you would take care of it, as he did.”
Thomas hugged the horse to his chest, his eyes bright with unshed tears. “I will,” he said, with sudden fierceness. “I’ll take care of it. Always.”
Lorraine knelt beside him and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “I know you will. That is why he chose you.”
Later, she stood at the nursery window and watched him in the garden below, showing the horse to Jenny with animated delight—holding it aloft as though it were something rare and precious. Even at a distance, his joy was unmistakable.
You did this, she thought. Whether to Dominic or to herself, she could not say. You gave him this. A bridge across all that silence.
She pressed her hand lightly against the glass and drew a slow breath.
***
The following days settled into a new pattern.
Dominic appeared at breakfast each morning, taking his place at the head of the table while Thomas spoke—of birds, of lessons, of the horse, now solemnly named Captain.
Dominic listened with deliberate attention, asking the occasional question, offering the occasional comment.
If his manner was sometimes stiff, sometimes uncertain, Thomas did not seem to notice. He thrived under it.
Dominic began to visit the nursery during lessons.
Not every day, but often enough that his presence ceased to startle.
At first, he remained in the doorway, observing from a distance.
Lorraine felt his attention like a tangible thing—following her movements, lingering when she spoke, resting on her longer than was proper.
One afternoon, he found them bent over a map of England, Thomas attempting to locate Yorkshire among the borders.
“Here,” Thomas declared, tapping the page. “This is where we are. And London is down here—and Miss Weston says there are deer in the parks.”
“Miss Weston is correct.” Dominic’s voice came from the doorway. Lorraine looked up to find him leaning against the frame, arms crossed, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. “I have seen them myself. Great herds, wandering Hyde Park as though it belonged to them.”
“You’ve been to London?” Thomas asked.
“Many times. Before the war.”
“What’s it like? Miss Weston says it smells dreadful.”
“Miss Weston is right about that too.” His gaze shifted to her, and something in it made her breath catch. “But it has its merits. Theatres. Museums. Bookshops that run the length of a street.”
“Could we go? Someday?”
A pause. Lorraine saw the hesitation—then the decision.
“Perhaps,” he said. “When you are older. If you wish it.”
Thomas beamed. Lorraine lowered her gaze, her composure slipping for a moment under the quiet weight of it.
This, she thought, is what healing looks like. Slow. Uncertain. But forward.
She excused herself after the lesson, pleading a need for ink. In truth, she needed air.
The corridor was cool and still. She leaned back against the wall, pressing her palms flat against the plaster, and closed her eyes.
I am in trouble.
She could not afford this. Not the hope, not the wanting, not the quiet, dangerous possibility beginning to take shape in her mind. She was a governess. He was a duke. The distance between them was not merely social—it was absolute.
And yet—
He had given Thomas the horse. He smiled, now, without quite meaning to. He had asked to be called Dominic.
And yet—
She opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling as though it might steady her.
Nothing steadied her.
The hope remained—quiet, persistent, impossible to extinguish.
I do not know how this ends, she thought. Only that I cannot stop it.
The truth came, simple and inescapable.
She was falling in love with him.
She did not try to deny it.
***
That evening, she wrote to Mrs Whitmore.