Chapter 1 #2
“Yes,” Cecily replied. “I performed concerts when I was younger. I have taught for several years as well.”
He looked up. “And how do you teach?”
“I keep the lessons steady and structured,” she said. “I focus on technique, use short pieces that build confidence, and I keep a pace that is specifically suited for each child.”
He nodded and returned his attention to her papers, examining her references with care. “These are excellent. I see you travelled widely.”
“My father encouraged it,” she said. “He passed away recently, and I have only just come out of the first months of mourning. I have been seeking steady work since, something respectable enough to allow me to support my family without bringing any shame to his memory.”
Weatherby looked up with a softened expression. “I am sorry for your loss.” He looked back down at the paper and cleared his throat. “Is there anything more I should know that is not written here?”
There is much more you could know about me that is not on that paper, Cecily thought. But nothing that will affect my ability to teach these children music.
“I do not believe so,” she said. “It is an accurate representation of my experience.”
He closed the folder. “Your skill is clear. Mrs. Bracknell should meet you.”
He rose and strode toward the door as Cecily stood up and turned. She took a deep breath, bracing herself to meet Mrs. Bracknell, whoever she might be.
A woman waited in the hall. She stood tall, her back straight, her hands clasped neatly at her waist. The years showed in the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and in the faint silver threaded through her dark hair beneath the fitted cap, its edges sharp against her temples.
Her face held no warmth, only a steady, direct look that traveled from Cecily’s shoes to her eyes without haste.
The light from the corridor fell across her plain gown and the firm set of her shoulders, the posture of someone who had spent decades in service.
She did not shift or blink as she took Cecily in.
“Miss Cecily Marwood,” Weatherby said, giving her name with quiet formality. “This is Mrs. Bracknell. She oversees the children’s instruction.”
Mrs. Bracknell slightly inclined her head. “Miss Marwood.”
Cecily curtsied. “Mrs. Bracknell.”
Mrs. Bracknell looked her over again, this time more directly. “You have taught before?”
“Yes,” Cecily said. “In smaller households.”
Mrs. Bracknell gave a short, acknowledging nod. “The children here require consistency. They rise early. Their lessons begin promptly. Disorder is not tolerated.”
“I understand,” Cecily replied.
“And you are comfortable with a structured routine?”
“Yes,” Cecily said. “I prefer it.”
Mrs. Bracknell studied her a moment longer, as though weighing that answer. “Very well.”
Cecily held her head high. “It is an honor. I hope to serve the Earl of Ravenshollow well.”
Mrs. Bracknell’s eyes sharpened at once. “The Earl of Ravenshollow is addressed as Lord Ravenshollow. Matters of position are observed closely here. If you are offered the post, you will need to attend to such details with greater propriety than you may be accustomed to outside these walls.”
Cecily blinked as heat rose in her face.
She does not need to look at me as though I were some wayward girl. I know perfectly well how to conduct myself. If this is her manner at the beginning, I cannot imagine what else is coming. She will not unsettle me, however. I have endured far worse than a stern governess.
“Of course,” Cecily said. “I understand.”
Mrs. Bracknell gave a short nod. “We shall see.” She turned and walked out of the room.
Weatherby cleared his throat. “Miss Marwood, you will now meet the children.”
He stepped back into the corridor and waited for Cecily to follow.
The walk to the schoolroom was brief, but the air grew quieter with each step.
The sounds of the household faded until only their footsteps remained, soft against the worn boards.
A faint scent of ink and chalk drifted from ahead, and the muted light through the narrow windows gave the passage a stillness that made Cecily straighten her posture.
Weatherby stopped at the final door and opened it.
The schoolroom was neat and spare, with a long table set beneath the window and a row of books arranged meticulously.
A boy and a girl stood beside the table, their hands folded before them.
They were the same children Cecily had glimpsed in the foyer, composed and watchful.
The boy lifted his chin slightly, his fair hair lying smooth against his head.
His expression was steady, his gray eyes alert but guarded.
The girl stood close to him, her shoulders drawn in, her fingers pressed lightly together.
Her dark lashes cast small shadows on her cheeks, and she looked at Cecily only briefly before lowering her gaze again.
Weatherby gave a small nod toward them. “Master Julian. Miss Amabel. This is Miss Marwood.”
Cecily offered a gentle smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you both. I am eager to begin our lessons.”
Neither child spoke. Their eyes flicked toward Weatherby, then back to the floor.
Cecily tried again. “Do you enjoy music?”
Julian lifted his head a little. “I know the Minuet in G. And the first part of the Clementi sonatina. I can play them without looking at the keys.”
Cecily’s smile warmed. “Those are fine choices. Your posture in the foyer was very good. We will build on what you already know.”
Julian straightened. “My mother insisted I learn how to play. She said a gentleman should be able to take his place at the piano if a lady asked him to accompany her. She did not want me to be the only boy in the room who did not know how to play a simple piece of music.”
Cecily nodded. “She was right. It is a very useful skill, and you have a good foundation.”
Amabel shifted her weight, her fingers curling slightly.
Cecily turned to her. “I see that you have small hands, but that is nothing that needs to concern you. Small hands can play beautifully if each finger is placed with care. It only takes practice. You will see.”
A faint spark of interest crossed the girl’s face before she lowered her gaze again.
Weatherby watched the exchange carefully, noting the children’s posture, their responses, and Cecily’s calm manner.
After a few minutes, he stepped forward and cleared his throat.
“I see you are getting to know one another, but that will do for today.”
Julian and Amabel nodded. Cecily offered the children a final, polite smile as she said, “I hope you both have a lovely day.”
The children nodded in return, silent and composed.
“You may resume your lessons,” Weatherby said to them.
Julian guided Amabel back to the table, and they took their seats without a word, their attention already fixed on the books before them.
Weatherby stepped into the corridor and waited. Cecily followed, and he closed the schoolroom door with a quiet click before leading her back through the passage.
When they reached the doorway, he paused and faced her. “Thank you, Miss Marwood. I will be in contact shortly.”
He escorted her back to the foyer. Rosamund rose at once when she saw them, her hands tightening around the small reticule she carried.
Weatherby stopped a respectful distance from the sisters and offered Cecily a small bow of the head. “Miss Marwood.”
Cecily returned the gesture with a composed curtsy. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Weatherby.”
“It was my duty,” he said, his voice steady. “You conducted yourself well.”
Rosamund glanced between them, waiting for Cecily to lead.
Cecily gave Weatherby a polite farewell, her tone warm but restrained. “I appreciate your guidance today.”
Weatherby shifted his attention to Rosamund, acknowledging her with the same formal courtesy. “Miss Rosamund.”
She dipped a curtsy. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Safe travels to you both,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. “You will receive word from the household in due course.”
Cecily nodded. “Good afternoon.”
Weatherby stepped back, allowing them a clear path to the door. Cecily stepped toward it with her sister at her side.
As she reached the threshold, she turned for one last look at the house.
A man stood on the staircase, tall and straight-backed, with a grave expression that did not shift as he descended.
His eyes met hers, and she felt her breath catch, not from admiration but from the weight of his attention. He did not look away.
The door closed between them.