Chapter 16
The school room overlooked the east lawn, its tall windows letting in a soft, steady light that made the space feel warmer than the rest of the house.
Sarah arrived just after breakfast, finding Henry’s books already arranged neatly on the table by the servants. His slate rested beside a stack of history readers, and a fresh pot of ink had been set out with careful precision.
Clara settled herself near the window with her sketchbook, her legs tucked beneath her as she began outlining the shape of one of the tall elms outside. She hummed quietly, absorbed in her work.
Henry sat at the table, already fidgeting. “Do we have to start with history?” he asked, tapping the edge of the book with his finger.
“Yes,” Sarah said, taking her seat beside him. “We agreed yesterday that history would come first.”
Henry sighed dramatically, then opened the book. He stared at the page as though it were a personal offense. “I would rather talk about the horses,” he said. “Or the gardens. Or the pond.”
“I know,” Sarah said, keeping her tone gentle. “But you must learn this passage. We will walk later.”
Henry tried to read the first line, stumbled, and immediately launched into a story about a horse he had seen near the stables the previous afternoon. Sarah listened for a moment, then tapped the page lightly. “Henry.”
He looked back at the book with exaggerated reluctance. “It is very dull.”
“Try again,” she said.
He attempted the passage once more, but halfway through, he paused to tell her about a patch of moss he and Clara had found near the orchard. Clara looked up from her sketchbook, nodding enthusiastically.
“It was very green,” she added.
Sarah smiled despite herself. “Both of you may tell me about the moss later. For now, Henry must finish this section.”
Henry groaned but returned to the text. His foot tapped against the leg of the chair, and his fingers drummed lightly on the table. Sarah placed her hand gently over his to still it.
“Focus,” she said softly.
He tried again, that time managing two full sentences before stopping. “I do not see why anyone needs to know this,” he muttered.
“Because it is part of your education,” Sarah said. “And because you will feel proud once you can recite it.”
Henry looked unconvinced.
Midway through the lesson, Mrs. Hensley arrived with a tray of tea and cookies. She set it down on the small side table with a warm smile.
“I thought you might need this,” she said. “Lessons always go better with a bit of refreshment.”
Henry perked up immediately. “May I have one?”
“After you finish your passage,” Sarah said.
Mrs. Hensley laughed softly. “The schoolroom already feels livelier than it has in years,” she said. “It is good to hear children’s voices again.”
Sarah felt a faint warmth at the remark. “I am beginning to settle into a routine myself,” she admitted. “Though Henry’s stories make discipline difficult.”
Henry looked up, affronted. “My stories are very interesting.”
“They are,” Sarah said, unable to hide her smile. “But they must wait until after lessons.”
Mrs. Hensley gave Henry an encouraging nod. “You will manage it. Mrs. Shaw has a steady hand.”
Mrs. Hensley left them with the tray, and Henry eyed the biscuits with longing. “If I finish the passage, may I have two?”
“One,” Sarah said.
He sighed again, but he bent over the book with genuine effort. He read slowly, stumbling over several words, but he did not stop to tell another story. Clara glanced up from her sketchbook, watching him proudly.
Finally, Henry reached the end of the passage. He looked up at Sarah, waiting.
“Again,” she said.
He recited it, halting at first, then with growing confidence. When he reached the final line correctly, he sat back with a triumphant expression. “There,” he said. “I did it.”
Sarah smiled broadly. “Yes,” she said. “You did.”
Henry beamed. Clara clapped softly from her seat by the window.
Sarah poured him a cup of tea and handed him a cookie. “Well done,” she said.
Henry took the cookie with pride, already beginning another story about a bird he had seen near the stables. Sarah listened, letting him speak.
Rain kept them indoors through the afternoon. It fell steadily against the windows of the schoolroom, soft enough not to disturb conversation but persistent enough to make the gardens unusable. The air inside felt warm by comparison, the fire crackling gently in the grate.
After the lessons ended, Henry and Clara settled near the hearth with a board game.
Clara sat cross-legged on the rug, studying the pieces with careful concentration, while Henry explained the rules with more confidence than accuracy.
Their quiet arguments over strategy filled the room with a comfortable noise.
Sarah gathered books around the schoolroom, returning readers to their shelves and stacking slates neatly on the table.
As she looked up she noticed the duke lingering near the doorway.
He did not intrude, nor did he seem in any hurry to leave.
He watched the children for a moment, then stepped farther into the room.
“They seem content,” he said.
Sarah placed a book on the shelf. “They enjoy being indoors when the weather forces it.”
Henry looked up from the game. “I do not enjoy it. I would rather be outside.”
Clara nudged him. “You like the fire.”
Henry considered that. “I like the fire,” he admitted, then returned to the game.
The duke’s expression softened. “He used to dislike rainy days entirely.”
Sarah folded a cloth over the ink pot. “Clara helps distract him.”
He nodded, then glanced toward the shelves she was organizing. “You have made the schoolroom feel different.”
“I hope that is good,” Sarah said.
The children’s voices rose again as Henry insisted Clara had moved a piece incorrectly. Clara disagreed with equal certainty. Their debate continued with earnest seriousness.
Sarah turned back toward His Grace. “Did you have lessons in this room?”
He looked around, as though seeing the space differently. “Not here. My tutor preferred the library. He said the schoolroom was too warm.”
Sarah smiled. “I would have preferred the library as well.”
He rested his hand lightly on the back of a chair. “Roxburghe felt unbearably empty after my parents died. Lessons were the only part of the day that remained unchanged.”
Sarah paused, her hands stilling on the stack of papers. It was the first time he had spoken of his childhood without formality. She kept her voice gentle. “I grew up in a small vicarage. My mother was often ill and I helped care for her.”
He looked at her with quiet attention. “You were young.”
“Yes,” Sarah said. “But it was necessary.”
He nodded once, the understanding between them settling without need for further explanation. The conversation was brief, but it felt different from their usual exchanges. It was less formal or guarded, and more honest.
Henry’s triumphant shout broke the quiet. “I won!”
Clara sighed. “You did not win. You cheated.”
“I did not cheat,” Henry insisted.
Sarah walked toward the children. “Both of you may play again after tea.”
Henry looked up at his father. “Did you hear me recite the passage earlier?”
“I did,” he said. “You did very well.”
The boy brightened immediately, his pride unmistakable.
That evening, Clara grew quiet during supper, pushing her food around her plate without her usual curiosity. By the time Sarah touched her forehead, the heat beneath her skin was unmistakable.
The fever rose quickly, and Sarah carried her upstairs, settling her into bed with cool cloths and a fresh nightdress. Clara’s breathing grew uneven, her cheeks flushed, her eyes half-closed with exhaustion.
Sarah stayed beside her, adjusting the cloths, whispering reassurance, and checking her temperature every few minutes.
The rain outside had stopped, but the air in the room felt heavy.
Clara murmured occasionally, asking for water or shifting restlessly.
Sarah answered each request calmly, though her own worry pressed harder with every hour.
A soft knock sounded at the door. Before Sarah could rise, the duke stepped inside.
“Mrs. Hensley told me your daughter is ill,” he said quietly. “How is she?”
Sarah kept her voice even. “The fever is high. I am trying to keep her cool.”
He moved closer, his expression serious. “You have been here since supper?”
“Yes.”
“You should rest,” he said. “I will sit with her.”
Sarah shook her head. “I cannot leave her.”
“You can,” he said gently. “For a little while. You are exhausted.”
She wanted to refuse again, but her body betrayed her. Her hands trembled slightly as she wrung out the cloth. Her eyes burned from lack of sleep. Clara shifted again, and Sarah leaned forward instinctively, but he was already there, adjusting the blanket with quiet care.
“Please,” he said. “Sit. Only for a moment.”
She sank into the chair beside the bed, her posture still alert, though her limbs felt heavy. He remained at Clara’s side, watching her with the same attentiveness Sarah had shown. He dipped the cloth into the basin, wrung it out, and laid it across Clara’s forehead with steady hands.
Clara’s breathing eased slightly.
Sarah exhaled, the tension in her shoulders loosening just enough to make her aware of how tightly she had been holding herself.
Time blurred. The room stayed quiet except for Clara’s soft breaths and the occasional shift of the floorboards as His Grace moved. Sarah tried to stay awake, but exhaustion pressed harder. Her eyes drifted closed; just for a moment.
When she opened them again, the room looked different. The fire had burned lower. The basin had been refilled. Clara’s cheeks were less flushed.
And her own head was resting against the duke’s shoulder.
She froze, unsure how long she had been leaning against him. He did not move. His posture remained steady, his attention still fixed on Clara. The moment settled into a quiet stillness that neither of them chose to interrupt.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low. “The fever has broken.”