Chapter 9
Cecily poured the tea carefully, trying to keep her hands steady despite her excitement that her sister had come to visit. The pot was warm in her grip, and she focused on the slow, even stream so she would not spill a drop.
Rosamund sat across from her, perched on the edge of the chair as if unsure whether she was permitted to lean back. Her eyes moved over the furnishings with quiet curiosity, taking in the polished wood, the patterned carpet, and the neat arrangement of books on the side table.
“It is very fine here,” Rosamund said. “Are you settling in?”
“I am managing,” Cecily said.
She passed her a cup, watching the way Rosamund accepted it with both hands, careful and grateful.
“And you? How are things at your post?”
Cecily had only learned that morning that Rosamund had accepted a governess position in town. It was a quiet arrangement made through a neighbor who knew of a family in need. The news had surprised her, but it had also brought her comfort to know her sister was not alone at home.
Rosamund took the cup and held it in both hands, warming her fingers around it. “It suits me well enough. The work is steady, and the children take to their lessons. I keep my own hours, and the house is a short walk from ours, so I can see to things at home as well.”
Cecily smiled, the expression softening her whole face. “I am pleased that it suits you.”
Rosamund’s shoulders relaxed a little, and she took a small sip of her tea, her eyes lifting to Cecily’s with a quiet, shared understanding that needed no further words.
Cecily watched her sister’s posture ease and felt a quiet sense of relief. She had worried that her sister might feel out of place in the house, but the moment suggested otherwise.
They had only taken a few sips when Weatherby appeared in the doorway. He bowed to Cecily, then to Rosamund, though his eyes lingered on Rosamund longer than necessary.
“Miss Marwood,” he said. “I have been asked to inform you that Miss Amabel will not attend her lesson today. She is feeling unwell.”
“I hope it is nothing serious,” Cecily said.
“Mrs. Bracknell believes it is only fatigue,” Weatherby said.
He did not leave. Instead, he turned to Rosamund with a polite, confirming glance. “And you are Miss Marwood’s sister.”
“Yes,” Rosamund said, sitting a little straighter.
Weatherby nodded. “Mrs. Bracknell mentioned you had come to visit, and that you are employed in town. A governess, is that correct?”
Rosamund nodded. “That is correct. It is a new position for me.”
Weatherby smiled, the expression mild and approving. “It is a respectable position. Hard work, I imagine.”
“It keeps me busy,” Rosamund said.
Weatherby continued asking questions. He wanted to know how long she had been in service, whether she liked her employers, and whether she found the work agreeable. He stayed far longer than politeness required, and Cecily watched Rosamund’s cheeks grow steadily pinker.
Cecily noted the way Rosamund shifted her hands in her lap, unsure whether to welcome the attention or retreat from it.
Weatherby’s questions were courteous, yet they lingered in a way that suggested genuine interest. Cecily found herself observing the exchange with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.
It was rare to see her sister unsettled by anything other than responsibility, and the change in her expression was unmistakable.
At last, Weatherby remembered himself. “I should return to my duties. Good day, Miss Marwood. Miss Rosamund.”
He bowed again and left.
The moment he was out of sight, Cecily looked at her sister. “Rosamund.”
Rosamund pressed her lips together, but the color in her cheeks deepened. “Well, he is handsome.”
Cecily laughed under her breath. “I noticed.”
Rosamund hid her face behind her teacup. “Do not tease me.”
“I would never,” Cecily said, though she was smiling.
The warmth faded as her thoughts shifted. She set her cup down. “Rosamund, things have been difficult here.”
Rosamund lowered her cup. “Tell me.”
Cecily hesitated, then spoke. “Lady Stanhope has made it clear she does not want me here. She watches everything I do. She speaks to me as if I am beneath her notice. And she seems determined to make the earl see me the same way.”
Rosamund frowned. “Why would she care so much?”
Cecily hesitated, unsure how to explain the tension that had grown in the house since Lady Stanhope’s arrival.
It was not a single moment but a collection of small interactions that had built upon one another.
She had tried to ignore them, yet they had followed her through each day.
Speaking of them aloud felt necessary, even if she disliked the attention it placed on her own discomfort.
“She thinks I am a threat,” Cecily said. “A rival for his attention. It is absurd.”
Rosamund studied her, her brows drawing together. “Is it?”
“Yes,” Cecily said, a bit too quickly. “Of course, it is.”
Rosamund did not look convinced. She leaned forward slightly, her voice quiet but steady. “Cecily, I have seen the way men look at you. Perhaps there is more there than you realize.”
Cecily felt her stomach tighten. She looked down at her hands, focusing on the rim of her teacup.
No. Do not think about that. Do not give it weight.
“He barely speaks to me,” she said. “And when he does, it is only to correct me.”
“That is not what I mean,” Rosamund said. “If Lady Stanhope believes there is something, then perhaps there is.”
Cecily shook her head. “I cannot bring myself to believe it.”
Rosamund reached across the table and gently touched Cecily’s hand. “You do not have to believe it. But you should be aware of it.”
Cecily looked down at their hands and briefly closed her eyes.
I cannot afford to imagine anything that is not real. I cannot afford to be foolish.
“I am not noble,” she said quietly, opening her eyes and looking at her sister. “And he is an earl. Whatever Lady Stanhope thinks, it cannot be what she imagines.”
Rosamund’s expression softened. “He asked you to dine with him.”
Cecily’s eyes lifted, startled. “It was only as an apology for reprimanding me. Nothing more.”
Rosamund held her gaze. “Has he ever shown you any kindness? Any moment that did not feel like a correction?”
Cecily hesitated. “Fleeting,” she said. “But most of our interactions have been tense.”
Rosamund nodded slowly, as if she had expected that answer.
“Even so, tension is not the same as indifference.”
Cecily looked away. “I am only here to teach music,” she said quietly. “Nothing more.”
Her voice tightened as she added, “And he reminded me of that very recently.”
Rosamund’s hand remained over hers, steady and warm, but she did not further the conversation.
They finished their tea slowly, speaking of small things that did not press on either of their hearts. Rosamund asked after the children’s progress at the piano, and Cecily described Julian’s careful concentration and Amabel’s quick ear.
When the cups were empty, Rosamund rose and asked if she might see the music room. Cecily led her through the corridor, pointing out the rooms she used most often.
Rosamund paused at the music room doorway, taking in the polished piano, the neat stack of folios, and the small chairs arranged for the children.
She touched the edge of the instrument lightly, as if imagining Cecily seated there with her pupils.
They walked the grounds afterward, keeping to the gravel paths.
Rosamund admired the gardens, the quiet, and the way the trees framed the house.
Cecily listened, grateful for the simple comfort of walking beside her.
Rosamund asked small questions about the estate, and Cecily answered them with ease.
She wished the morning could last longer, but she knew her duties would soon call her back.
When the morning grew late, Cecily fetched Rosamund’s shawl and walked her to the front steps.
They lingered there for a moment, neither wanting to be the first to pull away.
Rosamund gave her a last, reassuring squeeze of the hand before descending the steps.
Cecily watched her sister disappear down the drive with a final wave, the figure growing smaller until she turned the bend and was gone.
The house felt too quiet without her. Cecily gathered her folio and made her way toward the music room.
You have work to do. Keep your mind on that.
She entered the room and went straight to the piano. Setting her folio down, she opened the lid and smoothed the sheet music with her fingertips. The familiar order of the keys helped settle her thoughts.
Julian slipped in a moment later. He closed the door softly behind him and stood there, his shoulders drawn in, and his eyes fixed on the floor.
“You look very solemn this morning,” Cecily said. “Have you been studying your uncle’s face to perfect your brooding look?”
She expected at least a small smile, but Julian did not react at all.
Cecily’s own smile faded. “Come sit with me.”
He obeyed, but his movements were slow. She guided him through a few scales, then a simple piece, but his fingers dragged, and he missed the notes he usually played with ease. His gaze kept drifting toward the window.
“Julian,” Cecily said quietly, “your mind is not on the music.”
He shook his head.
She closed the piano lid. “Tell me what is wrong.”
Julian’s hands twisted together in his lap. He stared at them for a long moment before speaking.
Cecily waited, giving him time to find his words.
She had learned that Julian often needed a moment before he could speak openly.
His silence did not trouble her. It was a sign that he was sorting through thoughts he did not yet know how to express.
She kept her posture calm, hoping it would help him feel safe enough to continue.
“I am worried about Amabel,” Julian said at last, his voice soft and unsure.
Cecily’s breath caught. “Weatherby said she was unwell, but I was told it was nothing serious.”
Julian’s voice was small. “She became very ill. Very fast.”
Cecily moved closer. “She will be alright. Children fall ill quickly, but they recover quickly, too.”
Julian did not look reassured. He kept his eyes on his hands. “If Amabel dies,” he whispered, “I will be the only one left.”
The words struck Cecily with a sharp ache. She reached for him at once, pulling him into her arms. His small body leaned into her, trembling.
He should never have to think such thoughts. He should never have to fear being alone.
She understood the fear that came from losing too much too quickly. She wished she could shield him from it entirely, but she knew she could only offer what was within her reach. Her presence would have to be enough for now. She held him close as he clung to her, his breath unsteady.
“You are not losing her,” she said softly. “You are not alone. She will recover. And even if you cannot believe that right now, I will believe it for you.”
Julian pressed his face against her shoulder, and Cecily tightened her hold, her heart aching for him.
She did not let go until his breathing steadied. As he calmed down, someone loudly cleared their throat behind them.
Cecily froze. Julian’s arms were still around her waist, his cheek pressed to her shoulder.
She turned around and saw Mrs. Bracknell standing in the doorway, her chin lifted, and her eyes sharp with satisfaction.
“I have been told,” she said, her tone cold and distant, “that you have been far too familiar with Master Julian.”
Julian flinched at the sound of his name, and Cecily instinctively tightened her hold on him.
Mrs. Bracknell’s gaze dropped pointedly to the boy in Cecily’s arms. “This is precisely what I mean. It is inappropriate. You are here to instruct, not to coddle.”
Cecily rose slowly, guiding Julian behind her. His small hands clung to her sleeve, and she gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder to comfort him.
“Miss Amabel is ill,” she said. “Julian is frightened. I am simply comforting a frightened child.”
Julian looked up at her, still pale with worry. Cecily bent slightly toward him.
“Play her favorite songs,” she said softly. “She will hear it from her room, and it will help her feel better.”
Julian nodded at once, his eyes brightening with purpose, and he moved toward the piano with quick steps.
Only when he settled on the bench did Cecily turn back to Mrs. Bracknell.
“It is not your place to comfort him in that manner,” Mrs. Bracknell replied. “You must behave with proper reserve. The earl will not tolerate impropriety.”
Cecily felt a burning in the pit of her stomach. She did not want Julian to hear any of this. She slipped toward the edge of the room, lowering her voice, and Mrs. Bracknell followed her with a stiff, disapproving glare. The piano keys sounded behind them as Julian began to play.
“These lessons are my time with the children,” Cecily said, keeping her tone quiet but firm. “And I will run them as I see fit.”
Mrs. Bracknell’s brows arched. “Is that so?”
“Yes, that is so. I am sick of being watched,” Cecily said. “Every moment. Every word. Every gesture. I am here to teach, not to be spied on.”
Mrs. Bracknell’s mouth curved into a slow, satisfied smile. She had wanted this. She had waited for it.
Cecily recognized the expression at once.
It was the look of someone who believed she had gained an advantage.
She felt a quiet frustration rise within her, but she kept her voice controlled.
She could not afford to let irritation guide her response.
She needed to think clearly, especially with Julian still within hearing.
“You are overstepping,” Mrs. Bracknell murmured. “And you know it.”
Cecily kept her voice low, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. “I am doing my work. Nothing more.”
Mrs. Bracknell tilted her head, studying her with a look that suggested she had already decided how this would be reported. “We shall see how the earl views it.”
Julian’s playing wavered for a moment, a missed note betraying that he sensed the tension even from across the room. Cecily forced herself to keep her expression calm, unwilling to let him see her distress.
Mrs. Bracknell gave a final, triumphant nod and stepped back, leaving Cecily standing at the edge of the room with her heart still racing while Julian played.