Chapter 4
The music room door shut hard behind him, louder than he intended.
He went to his study first. The room was quiet, the desk in perfect order, everything exactly where he had left it. He sat down, opened the ledger, and tried to focus on the columns in front of him. He read the same line twice, then a third time, but none of it made sense to him.
A faint pulse of frustration tightened behind his eyes. He had spent years mastering his composure, yet a single conversation with Miss Marwood had unsettled him. The ledger’s neat columns only sharpened the sense that he had lost hold of something he usually kept firmly in place.
He set the pen down.
This is useless. I will not get a single thing done like this.
He leaned back in the chair, staring at the window. The grounds were still and steady beyond the glass, the only thing in the house that felt that way.
I need air. I need to clear my head before this becomes worse.
He stood up, left the study, and crossed the corridor, each step quicker than the last, and stepped out into the grounds.
He inhaled deeply, hoping the cool air would ease the tightness in his chest. He shook his head, unable to relax. He kept walking. His pace was brisk, and his hands were shifting restlessly at his sides.
The cool air steadied him only slightly. Each step along the path felt forced, as though he were trying to outrun the sound of his own voice. The house behind him loomed with its usual order, but today that order felt brittle, as if one wrong word might crack it open.
The exchange in the music room replayed itself in his mind with unwelcome clarity as he walked the length of the path.
I spoke to her as though she were some intruder, he thought, his jaw tightening. She was doing her work. Nothing more.
He kept moving, the gravel shifting under his boots.
He meant every word about discipline. That part did not trouble him. It was the tone that ran through his mind, sharp and final.
There was no need for that severity. None at all.
The thought pressed at him, and irritation rose in his chest as he realized what he had been trying to ignore.
Those were not my words. His gaze traveled across the grounds, steady but tense.
That was my father’s voice. His tone. His manner.
The realization struck him with a mix of pride and shock.
His jaw clenched again, the small scar on his chin pulling slightly.
He paused beneath a low branch, letting the rough bark scrape lightly against his glove. He had always prided himself on speaking with precision, yet the memory of his tone in the music room carried an edge he could not justify, no matter how he tried.
The feeling that followed was uncomfortable.
Miss Marwood had shown nothing but earnestness. She had stood her ground without raising her voice or shrinking from me. He respected that more than he wished to admit.
He exhaled slowly. An apology is necessary.
Not for his opinion. That remained unchanged.
For the manner of my speaking. That was poorly done.
He looked out across the grounds, letting the decision settle fully. I will correct the impression I gave, he thought. I will speak to her properly.
Tobias heard footsteps approaching along the gravel path. He looked up, already bracing himself, and saw Weatherby coming toward him at a quicker pace than usual. The man’s expression was unsettled, his composure altered in a way Tobias rarely witnessed.
“What is it, Weatherby?” Tobias asked. The terseness in his voice came without effort. He did not have the patience for interruptions, not when his thoughts were still centered on the piano teacher.
Weatherby stopped before him. “My Lord, a message has arrived. It concerns Lady Stanhope.”
The news struck him at once. “What about her?”
“She intends to arrive in two days,” Weatherby said.
Tobias slowed his steps. “She intends to arrive in two days?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
Tobias turned his head slightly, as if making certain he had heard correctly. “Two days?”
Weatherby nodded. “A full week earlier than planned.”
Weatherby’s expression, usually unreadable, held a tension Tobias rarely saw.
It unsettled him more than the message itself.
If Weatherby was uneasy, then Viola’s early arrival was not merely inconvenient.
It was calculated. Tobias felt the old, unwelcome sense of being maneuvered, a feeling he had hoped never to revisit.
“And the message was clear?”
“It was, My Lord,” Weatherby said, keeping pace beside him.
Tobias drew a long breath, his eyes fixed on the far hedgerow.
What ploy is this now? he thought, looking past Weatherby toward the open grounds, his irritation rising again.
“Lady Stanhope does nothing by accident,” Weatherby said, as if he had been reading Tobias’s mind.
Tobias’s jaw tightened. He did not answer at once, taking a moment to acknowledge the truth of what Weatherby said.
“She means to have me on the back foot,” Tobias said at last.
Weatherby watched him carefully. “It would seem so, My Lord.”
Tobias’s gaze stayed on the open grounds, the familiar lines of the estate offering no clarity.
But to what end? Viola has seen me at my worst before. She has seen the household strained, and seen me strained. She has never hesitated to use timing to her advantage.
Weatherby shifted his weight, waiting for Tobias to speak.
Tobias inhaled slowly. “There has to be a reason she is doing this, but right now I cannot make out what it would be. We will have to keep a close eye on her.”
Weatherby nodded at once. “Yes, My Lord.”
Tobias looked out over the fields, the intensity of two separate problems settling over him, neither of which he could ignore. The weight of it all pressed against his thoughts, refusing to be pushed aside.
He turned his attention back to Weatherby, who had stepped back, patiently waiting for dismissal. Tobias gave a short nod.
“Thank you, Weatherby,” he said. “You may go.”
The faithful steward left at once, his footsteps fading down the path. Tobias remained still for a moment, briefly relishing the quiet that settled around him.
One matter at a time. I will deal with what I can now. The rest will wait.
He walked the length of the grounds, then turned back, and then circled the far edge of the lawn, letting the hour stretch without interruption.
The air stayed cool against his face, the relative silence of the grounds giving him room to think.
Each path he took brought him back to the same questions until he decided what to do.
By the time he reached the gravel path again, he felt the first problem ease into place, no longer weighing on him. The second problem would not have to be confronted for two more days.
He turned toward the house and strode purposefully.
The corridor was cool and orderly when he entered, the lamps casting steady light along the walls.
He passed the drawing room, then the small parlor, and then the staircase leading to the family wing.
His stride did not slow until he reached the corridor where the guest rooms were kept.
As he approached, he felt the faintest hesitation, an unfamiliar pause in his stride. He was not accustomed to seeking anyone out for the sake of amending his own behavior. The admission alone unsettled him, yet he knew the correction was necessary. He would not allow the wrong impression to stand.
Miss Marwood’s door was closed.
He paused for a moment, listening. He heard no voices or movement but could think of no other place where she would be.
He slowly lifted his hand and knocked once.
“Miss Marwood?” he called, his voice hesitant.
After a brief pause, the door opened. She stood in front of him with a book in her hand, her posture straightening when she saw him.
She was short, her jet-black hair pinned neatly from her face, the smooth arrangement drawing attention to the clarity of her blue eyes.
She looked composed, though there was a trace of uncertainty in the way her fingers rested against the spine of the book.
He glanced around and noticed that the room behind her was neat and orderly. A small writing desk stood near the window with its surface cleared. Her shawl hung over the back of the chair, and the bed was tidy.
Everything was in its place.
“My Lord,” she said.
Tobias tilted his head. “I wished to speak with you.”
She stepped back slightly, allowing him to remain at the threshold without impropriety.
“I owe you an apology for my tone earlier,” he said. His voice was steady and formal, but without the sharpness of before. “I have reflected upon it. I hired you to do a job, and I must trust you with the responsibility I have given you. You are to teach as you see fit.”
Miss Marwood’s eyes lifted to his, surprised but attentive.
“I understand, My Lord,” she said quietly. “I did not take offense. I only wished to do well.”
“You have,” Tobias said. “More than you know.”
She blinked, seemingly startled by the certainty in his tone.
“I have been thinking on the matter, and I have come to the conclusion that it did me good to hear the children laughing again,” he continued. “I had not realized how long it had been. The house has been … quiet.” He paused. “Too quiet.”
Miss Marwood’s expression softened. “They are good children. They only needed a little encouragement.”
“And you provided it,” he said. “I am not accustomed to seeing them so at ease with someone new.”
She hesitated. “I am grateful they feel comfortable with me. It makes the work easier.”
Tobias nodded. “I should not have spoken to you as I did. It was poorly done.”
A brief silence settled between them.
“I appreciate your saying so, My Lord,” she replied. “Truly.”
He took a deep breath before continuing, “As a token of my sincerity, I would like to invite you to dine with me and a guest who will arrive in two days’ time. If you are willing.”
I hope she says yes, he thought, slightly shifting his weight. It is strange to ask her. Tutors do not dine with the family. It breaks every custom we keep. But I want her there.
Her lips parted slightly in surprise. “Dine with you, My Lord?”
“Yes,” he said. “In a few days’ time.”
It will give Viola a chance to settle before the dinner. And it gives me time to prepare for both of them.
She considered him for a moment, her blue eyes clear and searching. “If it would please you, then I will accept.”
“It does,” he said simply.
She gave a small nod. “Then I shall be ready.”
Her acceptance lingered in his thoughts longer than he intended. It was not the agreement itself but the quiet steadiness in her voice that stayed with him. Something in it suggested she had expected nothing from him.
Tobias remembered where he was and returned the nod, formal but not distant. “Very well. I will have a footman inform you of the exact arrangements when it is time.”
He stepped back from the doorway, allowing her privacy once more.
“Good evening, Miss Marwood.”
“Good evening, My Lord.”
Tobias walked down the corridor, his steady footsteps breaking through the quiet around him.
He felt a brief lift in his chest, a quiet pride that he had done what he believed was right, and he tried to keep his thoughts moving forward.
He kept his gaze forward, but his thoughts were not so disciplined.
Her smile.
It had been a small, careful smile, but one that was unmistakably bright. It had changed her whole face, giving her a softness he had not noticed before. Her eyes had been clear and steady, and the memory of them stayed with him longer than he expected.
Weatherby called her pleasant to look at. He understated it. He always understates things.
And the quiet but certain pleasure in her voice when she accepted had struck him with surprising force.
He continued his walk down the hallway, the lamps casting steady light along the walls.
She was pleased. Truly pleased. The thought lingered in his mind, unwelcome only because of how warm it felt.
Do not dwell on this. Keep your thoughts in order.
He reached the landing and paused.
Enough. You have done what was necessary. That is all.
Yet his pulse refused to settle.
He descended the stairs.
Halfway down, he heard raised voices. He stopped where he was and listened. The sound was faint at first, only a few overlapping words he could not make out.
He took another step. The voices grew sharper. There was movement ahead, quick and uneven, as if several people had changed direction at once.
What could this be?
He walked a little farther. Hurried footsteps crossed the floor somewhere beyond his line of sight. A door opened and closed. Someone called out, the tone strained.
What is going on?
He paused again, letting the sounds settle into something he could understand. Another set of footsteps. A short command. The rustling of fabric being handled too quickly.
What am I about to find?
He reached the foyer and saw the commotion at once. Trunks were being carried in. Cloaks were shaken out. A footman nearly tripped over himself in his haste, catching his balance only at the last moment before rushing on.
And she stood at the center of it all.
Tall. Pale. Perfectly composed.
And even earlier than she had said she would be.
Viola Stanhope lifted her face toward him the instant she sensed his presence. Her expression brightened into the look she wore more often than any other, a look of triumph as though she had already won a game he had not agreed to play.