Chapter 17
William walked down the hallway, his steps moving at a steady pace across the polished floor.
First I will see to the accounts, he told himself, already sorting through the figures he needed to review.
He took another few steps, the corridor stretching ahead in a long line of doors and framed portraits.
A light sound reached him, carrying through the stillness. It quickly moved along the corridor, touching the walls and floor with a soft vibration. William paused for a brief moment before walking again, his mind shifting to the next task
I should speak with Mrs. Harrow about the linen order. She will want confirmation before the week ends.
He moved forward again, passing a narrow table where a vase of fresh flowers rested.
After that, I will go outside. The hinge on the garden gate needs attention. I will repair it myself. It should not take long.
His hands tightened slightly at the thought of the familiar feeling of a tool in his hand.
The sound reached him again, clearer that time. He slowed.
Did I imagine that?
He listened, taking two more steps.
It came once more, bright and unmistakable.
William stopped completely, his breath tightening in his chest.
That sound. I have not heard it in years.
He stood still, listening, hardly daring to move. His shoulders eased forward slightly, his head tilting toward the source, every part of him focused on the next moment.
It came again, fuller that time, rising with joy. The sound lifted through the corridor, clear and unrestrained, and William felt his heart begin to pound.
He recognized it at once.
That is Henry’s laughter.
William held still, listening. It came again, steady and bright, and he felt his breath tighten.
That is his real laugh. Not the fake one that he uses whenever he feels he has to pretend to be amused. It is genuine.
He listened harder, waiting to be certain he had not mistaken it. The next burst of laughter reached him with the same clear tone Henry had once had as a small child. William blinked, his eyes stinging without warning.
I have not heard that since he was little. He took a deep breath. It has been so very long.
He turned and walked toward the schoolroom, drawn by that beautiful sound.
That is the sound of pure happiness.
William shook his head as he quickened his steps.
I didn’t even know if he was still capable of feeling that way.
He pushed forward, eager to see his boy happy, even if it meant going to the one room of the house he had worked so hard to avoid.
He had done his best to stay away from Mrs. Shaw the last few days, trying to follow James’ advice and keep her reputation safe.
He had not gone near the schoolroom, choosing instead to take longer routes through the house, to remain in his study, or to busy himself with matters that did not require him to pass the door where she taught his son. Each time he approached that corridor, he forced himself to turn away.
I have steered clear of her, he thought. For the most part.
As much as he had tried to do the right thing, the memory of the other night refused to leave him.
He could not stop thinking about when he went to check on her and Clara. He had allowed himself a moment of weakness and had told himself he only meant to ensure they were comfortable, but he had realized the truth the moment he reached the doorway. He was not just fulfilling an obligation.
He knew he should have stepped back and left immediately. Instead, he had remained where he stood, unable to move.
He remembered the quiet in the room, the soft murmur of Mrs. Shaw’s voice, and the way that Clara rested against her mother with complete trust. He remembered the stillness that had filled him, the pull he had tried to ignore, and the sense that he had intruded on something that was very gentle and should have remained private.
He had known he should not stay, yet he had lingered, completely transfixed by the sight before him.
You should have left. You knew better. You stayed anyway.
As much as he tried to forget it, he could not get that image out of his mind. Every time he thought of her he pictured the way she looked sitting there, and the way he felt drawn to her. It was why he avoided the schoolroom. It was why he forced himself to remain apart from her.
It was why he chose to be distant, even though the choice became more difficult with every passing day.
But then, hearing his son’s bright, unrestrained laughter, he found himself pulled through the corridor, hoping to know more about what had caused it. He took the last turn, the schoolroom only a few steps ahead. The sound reached him again, and he slowed without meaning to.
He moved closer to the door, careful not to disturb whatever had made Henry feel so comfortable. The laughter rose again, followed by Mrs. Shaw’s gentle reply.
He looked inside the room, and he found Mrs. Shaw sitting beside Henry at the small writing table, one hand resting lightly against the open page before him. Henry’s smile had not yet faded, and his eyes were still bright.
William glanced around and saw Clara curled up on a chair near the window with a book far too large for her small frame resting on her lap, quietly turning its pages. Her posture was relaxed and her legs were tucked beneath her.
Her cheeks were pink and her eyes were sparkling. It was clear she had enjoyed whatever had just taken place, and she looked so comfortable that she seemed as if she had always belonged in that room, and in that house.
William could not look away. He had known Mrs. Shaw would be competent, and she was clearly a good teacher. But it was more than just good teaching. She made the room comfortable and lively, and everything felt natural.
He stood and watched as Mrs. Shaw gently tapped the paper in front of Henry, her fingertip resting just above the line he had finished.
“That was a lot of fun,” she said, her voice still warm from whatever had happened a moment earlier, “but it is time to get back to work now.”
She shifted slightly, guiding his attention to the next space on the page.
“Write them again,” she said, her tone steady and clear, leaving no doubt about what she expected him to do.
Henry groaned in dramatic despair. “Mrs. Shaw, you are far crueler than my father’s fencing master.”
Mrs. Shaw lifted her eyebrows, pretending to be offended. “Crueler? Truly?”
Henry nodded with great seriousness. “He only makes me move my feet. You make me think and write.”
Mrs. Shaw laughed, the sound warm and amused. “If His Grace’s fencing master expects proper footwork, then I expect proper penmanship and deep thinking. It is all necessary if you wish to grow into a respectable gentleman.”
Henry looked up at her with a grin. “But my fencing stance is already excellent.”
“That is wonderful. Your letters, however,” Mrs. Shaw replied, tapping the page lightly, “are still wandering about like lost sheep.”
Henry laughed again, delighted by her answer. “They are not wandering. They are just messy. And curious.”
“Well, we need them to be less messy and curious and much more legible,” Mrs. Shaw said, though her smile softened the reprimand. “Now try again. Slowly this time.”
Henry dipped his quill, his tongue peeking out in concentration as he formed the next letter. “Is that better?”
Mrs. Shaw leaned closer. “Much better. See what happens when you listen?”
Henry’s grin widened. “I always listen to you.”
William could not stop himself from smiling at their comfortable and relaxed interaction.
He listens to her. He trusts her.
For so long, his son’s happiness had been fleeting and fragile. William remembered the careful way Henry moved through his days, the way he watched adults before speaking, and the way joy only came in small, cautious pieces, but so very rarely.
One wrong step and it would slip away again.
Yet there in the simple room, Mrs. Shaw had given his son warmth, routine, and joy.
She has done more than teach him. She has given him something he needed.
Henry finished the sentence and looked up proudly. “There. Now it is perfect.”
“Perfect is a very strong word,” Mrs. Shaw said, examining the paper with exaggerated scrutiny.
Henry leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially, “If it is perfect, may I stop now?”
Mrs. Shaw pretended to consider it. “Perhaps. But only because you have worked hard today.”
Henry beamed. “Then if you look very closely you will see that it is perfect.”
Mrs. Shaw laughed again, shaking her head. “Very well. You may stop.”
Henry set down his quill with triumphant relief. “Mrs. Shaw, you are the best teacher I have ever had.”
“And you are a very good pupil,” Mrs. Shaw replied, her expression soft.
Henry glanced toward the doorway and his face lit up when he saw William. “Papa, look! Mrs. Shaw says my letters are good.”
Henry pushed back his chair, sprang to his feet, and ran straight toward William, holding the page high so he could proudly show him his work.
William stepped inside the room and looked down at the paper. “I can see that. They look very fine indeed.”
Henry’s chest puffed with pride. “She helped me.”
William looked at Mrs. Shaw, his gaze warm. “I am certain she did.”
Mrs. Shaw lowered her eyes briefly, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. “Henry did the work. I only guided him.”
Henry shook his head. “She guided me a lot.”
Mrs. Shaw smiled gently. “I only help you when you need it.”
Henry grinned. “I always need it.”
Clara giggled from her place in the corner, and William felt a quiet chuckle rise in his own chest before he could stop it. The feeling of all of them together in the room, so comfortable and at ease, made him feel content.
This feels so easy and natural. Almost like a family.
The thought startled him, and he felt heat climb into his face as he looked away, hoping no one had noticed his blush.
He forced his gaze toward the window, willing his thoughts to settle.
Do not be foolish. Do not let this become something it should not be.
Yet the warmth lingering in his chest refused to fade, reminding him of the moment he had just allowed himself to imagine.
Henry looked up at Mrs. Shaw again. “May I show Clara my letters?”
Mrs. Shaw nodded. “Of course.”
William was thankful for the distraction as Henry rushed to the window, holding the page out proudly. “Clara, look. Your mother says these are good.”
Clara examined the page with utmost seriousness. “They are better than yesterday.”
Henry frowned. “Only better?”
Clara gave a small, matter-of-fact nod. “Yes.”
Henry sighed dramatically. “Mrs. Shaw, Clara is crueler than you.”
“Then you are fortunate to have two excellent instructors,” Mrs. Shaw said, laughing.
Henry rolled his eyes but smiled. “I suppose so.”
William watched the exchange, his heart still full and stepped closer, his voice quiet. “Mrs. Shaw.”
"Your Grace,” Mrs. Shaw replied, glancing up at him, her expression warm and gentle.
William glanced at Henry, who was busy explaining each letter to Clara with great enthusiasm. “You have done wonders for him.”
Mrs. Shaw’s smile deepened. “He only needed someone to believe in him.”
“He has that now.”
William held her gaze for a moment longer than was proper.
Mrs. Shaw lowered her eyes, her voice soft as her cheeks colored slightly. “I am glad.”
William felt the warmth move through his entire being. “So am I.” He cleared his throat softly. “I did not mean to interrupt your lessons. I will leave you to continue.”
Mrs. Shaw looked up at him. “It was not an interruption, Your Grace. We were just finishing our writing. We will turn our focus toward mathematics now.”
“Then I will leave you to it,” William said. “Good day to all of you.”
Henry and Clara offered their farewells, and William turned toward the door. As he reached the threshold, he glanced back and saw the trusting, affectionate way Henry looked at Mrs. Shaw, his whole face open and sure.
I am in big trouble.