CHAPTER ONE 

 

Four shillings and seven pence will not save you.

The thought arrived with the cold precision of mathematics, undeniable as the rain now streaking the window of Eleanor Finch’s room at the Bell and Anchor. She sat at the scarred writing table, the coins arranged in a pitiful line before her, and forced herself to count them one more time.

Four shillings. Seven pence.

She had counted them three times that morning, and twice more since leaving Nottingham, her fingers worrying the edges of each piece as though repetition might multiply their number.

It did not.

Enough, perhaps, for tonight’s lodging and tomorrow’s coach fare to Ashcombe Hall. Not enough for the return journey, should the Duke of Ashcombe find her unsuitable and send her away.

The thought settled like a stone in her stomach.

Outside, rain had begun to fall—a thin, persistent drizzle that blurred the windows and lent the fading afternoon an air of melancholy. Eleanor drew her shawl more tightly about her shoulders. The room was not cold, precisely, but neither was it warm, and the fire in the grate had been reduced to sullen embers by a landlady who did not believe in wasting good coal on solitary female travellers of modest means.

Modest means. What a pretty way to say penniless.

Eleanor closed her eyes and allowed herself, for one brief moment, to remember what had once been. Her father’s study, lined with books he could no longer afford to keep. Her mother’s sitting room, emptied of furniture piece by piece as the creditors circled. Her sister Charlotte’s face the morning they had learned there would be no season, no come-out, no hope of the advantageous marriage that might have saved them all.

And Papa, dear, foolish Papa, who had invested everything in a shipping venture that had foundered spectacularly off the coast of Cornwall, taking with it not only his fortune but his health, his spirit, and finally, six months past, his life.

The estate had gone to a cousin. The house in Bath had been sold to satisfy the debts. Mama had retreated to live with her sister in Kent, a woman whose charity was felt in every syllable. Charlotte had accepted a position as companion to an elderly widow in Exeter, her letters carefully cheerful and desperately sad.

And Eleanor, practical, competent Eleanor, who had always been the clever one, the resourceful one, had taken the only path available to a gentlewoman without fortune or connections.

She had become a governess.

The word still tasted strange in her mouth. A year ago, she had been Miss Finch of Hartwell Manor, a gentleman’s daughter with modest prospects and a respectable name. Now she was simply Miss Finch, governess, dependent upon the goodwill of employers who might dismiss her on a whim and leave her utterly without recourse.

She opened her eyes and looked again at the coins.

Four shillings. Seven pence.

Everything.

A knock sounded at the door, brisk and businesslike. Eleanor swept the coins into her reticule and rose, smoothing her skirts. The fabric was good, it had been her best day dress once, but it had been turned twice now, and the careful mending at the cuffs could not quite disguise its age.

“Come in,” she called, and was pleased to hear that her voice emerged steady, betraying none of the anxiety that clutched at her throat.

The landlady entered, a stout woman with a face like unrisen dough and eyes that missed nothing. She held a sealed letter in one hand.

“This came for you just now, miss,” she said, extending it without ceremony. “A boy brought it from the Hall.”

Eleanor’s fingers trembled slightly as she took the letter. The paper was heavy, expensive. The seal bore a crest she did not recognize; a hawk, wings spread, above there was an inscription in Latin she could not quite make out in the dim light.

“Thank you,” she managed.

The landlady did not move. She stood in the doorway, arms folded across her ample bosom, watching Eleanor with unconcealed curiosity.

“Ashcombe Hall, that’ll be,” she said. “His Grace’s seal.”

“Yes.” Eleanor turned the letter over in her hands, reluctant to open it while under observation.

“Strange household, they say.” The landlady’s tone was conversational, but her eyes were shrewd. “Very strange indeed.”

Eleanor looked up. “Strange in what manner?”

The woman’s mouth pursed, as though she were weighing how much to say. “Well, I’m sure I shouldn’t gossip, miss, being as you are to work there. But they do say His Grace is… particular. He keeps to himself, he does not receive visitors and has not been seen in the village these two years or more.”

“I see.” Eleanor kept her expression neutral, though her pulse had begun to quicken. “Is there anything else?”

“Only that you’re the third governess in as many years.” The landlady sniffed. “The others didn’t stay long. They couldn’t manage it, I suppose. The children, or…” She paused delicately. “Well… The household.”

Eleanor drew herself up to her full height, which was not considerable, but which she had learned to employ to advantage. “I am sure I shall manage perfectly well, thank you. That will be all.”

The landlady’s expression flickered; surprise, perhaps, or irritation at being dismissed by a woman who could barely afford her lodging. But she bobbed a perfunctory curtsey and withdrew, closing the door with more force than was strictly necessary.

Eleanor waited until the woman’s heavy tread had faded down the corridor before she broke the seal.

The letter was brief, written in a firm, precise hand:

Miss Finch,

A carriage will call for you at the Bell and Anchor at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You are expected at Ashcombe Hall by noon.

Please bring only what you require for immediate use. Further arrangements will be made upon your arrival and assessment of your suitability for the position.

I remain, etc.,

1. Carver
   Steward to His Grace the Duke of Ashcombe

Eleanor read it twice, searching for warmth or welcome in the cold formality of the words. She found none.

Assessment of your suitability. As though she were a piece of furniture being considered for purchase, to be examined, judged, and potentially returned if found wanting.

She folded the letter carefully and placed it in her reticule alongside the four shillings and seven pence.

She could not afford to be found wanting.

The rain intensified as evening fell, drumming against the windows with a persistence that made sleep impossible. Eleanor lay beneath the thin blanket, staring at the water-stained ceiling, and thought about the Duke of Ashcombe.

She knew very little of him. The notice for the position had been placed by his steward, not the duke himself. A governess is required for two children, aged eight and six. Knowledge of French and pianoforte essential. References required. Immediate placement. And so her subsequent correspondence had been conducted entirely through Mr Carver’s efficient, impersonal pen.

But Eleanor had made inquiries. It was not difficult to learn the basic facts about a duke, even a reclusive one. Marcus Holbrooke, fifth Duke of Ashcombe. Thirty-two years of age. Married at twenty-six to Lady Marianne Heywood, daughter of the Earl of Westbridge. Widowed three years past, after his wife had succumbed to a lengthy illness.

Two children. A boy and a girl. James and Beatrice.

An estate in Derbyshire, substantial and old.

A reputation…This part had been more difficult to ascertain, gleaned from careful questions and the reluctant answers of those who knew anything at all, a reputation for coldness. For isolation. For refusing all society, all visitors, all intercourse with the world beyond his gates.

The others didn’t stay long.

Eleanor turned onto her side, tucking her hands beneath her cheek. She thought of Charlotte, writing cheerful lies from Exeter, of Mama, enduring Aunt Josephine’s thin-lipped charity. She also thought of the cousin who had inherited Hartwell and changed the locks before Papa was cold in his grave.

She thought of the four shillings and seven pence that represented the sum total of her independence.

And she thought, with a clarity that was almost frightening, that she would make this situation work. She would be the governess who stayed. She would teach the children, manage the household duties assigned to her, and endure whatever strangeness the Duke of Ashcombe’s establishment contained.

She had survived worse. The loss of her father. The destruction of her family. The slow, grinding humiliation of genteel poverty.

She could survive a reclusive duke.

She had to.

The rain continued its steady percussion against the glass. Somewhere in the inn, a door slammed. A man’s voice rose in anger, then subsided. The building settled around her with creaks and groans, the sounds of a structure holding itself together against the weather.

Eleanor closed her eyes.

Tomorrow, she would go to Ashcombe Hall. Tomorrow, she would meet the duke’s children and begin the work that would determine whether she ate or starved, whether she kept a roof above her head or joined the ranks of the truly destitute.

Tomorrow, her life would change.

She did not let herself think about how it might change. She did not let herself imagine failure. She breathed slowly, counting each inhalation, each exhalation, until the rhythm steadied her racing heart.

Four shillings. Seven pence.

Oh, Heavens, she started praying into the darkness, let it be enough.

 

***

 

Morning arrived grey and sullen, the rain reduced to a fine mist that hung in the air like doubt made visible. Eleanor rose early, washed in cold water from the chipped basin, and dressed with care. Her grey travelling dress, the one she had mended so carefully, would have to do. Her bonnet was plain but neat. Her gloves showed wear at the fingertips, but she positioned her hands carefully to hide the evidence.

She looked, she thought as she examined herself in the spotted mirror, like what she was: a gentlewoman fallen on hard times, doing her best to maintain dignity in circumstances that allowed for very little of it.

It would have to be enough.

Breakfast was a hurried affair; weak tea and bread that tasted faintly of mildew. Eleanor ate without tasting, her stomach too unsettled to register anything beyond the mechanical necessity of sustenance. The landlady watched her from across the dining room, arms folded, expression inscrutable.

At precisely nine o’clock, a carriage drew up before the inn.

Eleanor had expected something serviceable, a simple conveyance appropriate for transporting staff. What arrived was a coach of obvious quality, black lacquer gleaming even in the dull morning light, the Ashcombe crest emblazoned on the door in gold leaf. The horses were matched bays, beautifully kept, and the coachman who descended to hand her inside wore livery that would not have been out of place in London.

It was, Eleanor thought as she settled herself against the velvet cushions, an unexpected display of wealth. The notice had made no mention of financial circumstances. The coldly formal correspondence had suggested discipline and efficiency but not this. Not opulence.

The carriage jolted into motion. Eleanor gripped her reticule, four shillings, seven pence, one carefully folded letter—and watched Chesterfield recede through the rain-spattered window.

The journey took just over two hours. They travelled north and west, through countryside that grew increasingly wild and beautiful as they left the town behind. Rolling hills gave way to more dramatic terrain—rocky outcroppings, dense stands of trees, narrow valleys where streams ran swift and dark. The mist clung to everything, softening edges and transforming the landscape into something otherworldly.

Ashcombe Hall announced itself gradually. First, a pair of stone pillars marked the entrance to the estate, the ironwork gates standing open as though in perpetual welcome. Then there was a long drive, well-maintained despite the evident age of the surrounding parkland. Ancient oaks lined the approach, their branches meeting overhead to form a tunnel of grey-green shadow.

And then, as the carriage rounded a final curve, the house itself.

Eleanor’s breath caught.

She had expected magnificence, for a duke’s seat could be nothing less. But she had not expected this strange, melancholy beauty. Ashcombe Hall was built of local stone, pale grey and weathered by centuries, its architecture a mixture of Tudor solidity and more recent classical additions. It sprawled across the landscape with a kind of organic grace, as though it had grown there rather than been built.

But it was not the size or the beauty that arrested her attention. It was the air of neglect that hung over the place like a pall. The grounds, though not entirely abandoned, showed signs of insufficient care—hedges that had been allowed to grow unkempt, flower beds choked with weeds, ivy creeping unchecked across the west wing’s facade. Several windows on the upper floors were shuttered. The fountain in the circular drive before the main entrance stood dry, filled with dead leaves and stagnant rainwater.

It looked, Eleanor thought with a chill that had nothing to do with the weather, like a house that had given up hope.

The carriage drew to a halt. The coachman descended and opened the door, offering his hand with silent courtesy. Eleanor accepted his assistance, stepping down onto gravel that crunched beneath her feet.

The front door opened before she could approach it.

A woman emerged, tall and angular, dressed in black silk-and-wool that rustled stiffly as she moved. Her face was all sharp planes and disapproving angles, her mouth set in a line that suggested smiles were a foreign concept. She was perhaps fifty, though it was difficult to tell; severity aged some women prematurely, and this woman wore severity like armor.

“Miss Finch.” It was not a question. The woman’s voice was clipped, precise, utterly without warmth. “I am Mrs Dawson, the housekeeper. You are expected.”

Eleanor curtseyed, pitching her response carefully between deference and dignity. “Thank you, Mrs Dawson. I am grateful for the prompt conveyance.”

The housekeeper’s eyes, pale grey, like the stone of the house itself, swept over Eleanor in a single comprehensive assessment. Whatever she saw did not appear to impress her.

“Your trunk will be brought up presently. You will want to refresh yourself before meeting the children, I expect.” Mrs Dawson turned without waiting for a response and led the way into the house.

Eleanor followed, acutely conscious of her worn gloves and twice-turned dress, of the way her boots, good boots once, now resoled and carefully polished, clicked against the polished floor that had probably cost more than everything she owned.

The entrance hall was vast and cold. A great staircase swept upward in a curve of dark wood and stone, disappearing into shadow. The walls were panelled in oak, hung with portraits whose subjects stared down with expressions ranging from stern to frankly hostile. The air smelled of beeswax and disuse, of rooms that were cleaned but not lived in.

It was utterly silent.

No sounds of children playing. No chatter of servants going about their work. No signs of life beyond the soft rustle of Mrs Dawson’s skirts and the echo of Eleanor’s footsteps.

“The children take their lessons in the east wing,” Mrs Dawson said as they climbed the stairs. Her voice barely disturbed the quiet. “You will have the schoolroom, a small parlour for your own use, and a bedchamber adjoining the nursery. His Grace has instructed that you are to be provided with whatever materials you require for instruction.”

“That is very generous.” Eleanor struggled to keep pace while the housekeeper moved with surprising speed for a woman of her years. “I look forward to meeting Lady Beatrice and Lord James.”

Mrs Dawson’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “The children are reserved. You will find them obedient, but do not expect affection. They have learned to keep to themselves.”

There was something in the way she said it; something that made Eleanor’s skin prickle with unease. But before she could formulate a question, they had reached the second floor, and Mrs Dawson was leading her down a long corridor lined with more portraits, more closed doors, more oppressive silence.

“This will be your chamber,” the housekeeper said, stopping before a door near the corridor’s end. She produced a key from the chatelaine at her waist and unlocked it with a decisive click.

The room beyond was larger than Eleanor had expected; certainly larger and finer than her room at the inn, or her room in Bath during those final, terrible months. A four-poster bed dominated one wall, hung with curtains of faded blue damask. There was a wardrobe, a writing desk and a chair by the window; all good furniture, all showing the same signs of age and insufficient care that marked the rest of the house.

But it was clean. The grate held a freshly laid fire, unlit but ready. The window looked out over the wild parkland, towards distant hills shrouded in mist.

“You will take your meals in the servants’ hall,” Mrs Dawson continued, her tone suggesting this was a point of some importance. “Unless His Grace requires otherwise, which he will not. His Grace does not dine with the staff.”

“Of course.” Eleanor set her reticule on the writing desk, aware of the housekeeper’s eyes following her every movement. “When might I meet His Grace to discuss the children’s education?”

The silence that followed her question was profound.

Mrs Dawson’s expression did not change, but something flickered in those pale grey eyes; surprise, perhaps. Or warning.

“You will not meet His Grace,” she said at last, each word delivered with careful precision. “His Grace does not involve himself in household matters. His Grace does not receive visitors. His Grace…” She paused, and for the first time, Eleanor detected something beneath the severe facade. Something that might have been fear. “His Grace is not to be disturbed, Miss Finch. Under any circumstances. Do you understand?”

Eleanor understood several things in that moment. She understood that whatever strangeness the landlady had alluded to, it was worse than gossip suggested. She understood that the shadows in this house were deeper than those cast by insufficient lighting. She understood that she had arrived at a place where the master was spoken of in hushed tones, like a curse or a ghost.

She understood that she had four shillings and seven pence to her name and nowhere else to go.

“I understand,” she said quietly.

Mrs Dawson nodded once, sharply. “The children are in the schoolroom. I will take you to them in a quarter hour. That should give you sufficient time to make yourself presentable.”

She swept from the room without another word, pulling the door closed behind her.

Eleanor stood very still in the centre of the chamber, listening to the housekeeper’s footsteps fade down the corridor. When silence returned, that dreadful, absolute silence, she moved to the window and looked out at the grounds, at the untended beauty and creeping decay.

She thought of her sister’s careful cheerfulness, of her mother’s stoic endurance and of her father’s study, emptied of books.

She thought of the Duke of Ashcombe, whom she would never meet, who was not to be disturbed under any circumstances.

She thought of the two children waiting in a schoolroom, obedient and reserved and taught to keep to themselves.

And she thought, with a clarity that cut through exhaustion and anxiety like a blade:

Something is very wrong in this house.

Eleanor Finch pressed her palm against the cold glass and made a silent promise to that grey Derbyshire day, to the four shillings and seven pence in her reticule, to the family that depended on her survival that…..She would discover what.

She had survived worse than a reclusive duke, after all.

At least, she prayed she had.

CHAPTER TWO

 

They are afraid of their own father.

The thought settled in Eleanor’s mind with dreadful certainty as she stood in the doorway of the schoolroom, watching the two children who had not yet noticed her arrival.

Lady Beatrice Holbrooke sat at a small writing desk near the window, her posture unnaturally rigid for a child of eight years. Her dark hair had been braided with severe precision, not a strand out of place, and her dress, pale blue muslin, expensive but plain, looked as though it had been donned with the same careful attention one might give to armour. She held a book open before her, but her eyes were not moving across the page. She was simply staring at it, her small hands gripped white-knuckled at the edges.

Lord James sat on the floor in the corner farthest from the door, building something with wooden blocks. He worked in absolute silence, his movements slow and deliberate, as though afraid the slightest sound might summon some terrible consequence. He was smaller than Eleanor had expected for a boy of six; too thin, perhaps, or simply carrying himself as though he wished to take up less space in the world.

Neither child spoke. Neither child moved beyond the minimum required by their tasks.

The room itself was well-appointed, better than many schoolrooms Eleanor had seen. Shelves lined one wall, filled with books that showed signs of use. A globe stood in one corner. The windows were tall and let in good light, though the view they offered was of the same wild, neglected grounds that surrounded the house. Someone had laid a fire in the grate, and it burned with cheerful indifference to the oppressive quiet.

Mrs Dawson cleared her throat; a sharp, deliberate sound.

Both children flinched.

Beatrice’s head snapped up, her eyes going wide with something that looked horribly like panic. James’s hands stilled on his blocks, and he drew himself into a smaller shape, shoulders hunching as though to make himself invisible.

“Lady Beatrice, Lord James,” Mrs Dawson said, her tone as cold and formal as it had been with Eleanor. “This is Miss Finch, your new governess. You will accord her the respect due her position and obey her instructions in all matters pertaining to your education.”

Eleanor stepped forward, forcing warmth into her voice despite the chill that had settled in her chest. “Good morning, Lady Beatrice. Lord James. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Beatrice rose from her chair and executed a perfect curtsey, her movements mechanical, practised. “Good morning, Miss Finch.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, carefully controlled.

James scrambled to his feet with less grace, his blocks clattering to the floor. He bowed, too deeply, too quickly, and mumbled something that might have been a greeting, his eyes fixed on his shoes.

“I shall leave you to become acquainted,” Mrs Dawson said. “Miss Finch, I trust you know where to find me should any difficulty arise.”

“Thank you, Mrs Dawson.”

The housekeeper departed, her footsteps echoing down the corridor with ominous finality. The door closed with a soft click that somehow sounded like a lock engaging.

Eleanor stood very still, watching the children, but neither of them looked at her. Neither of them moved. They simply waited, like prisoners awaiting sentence, for her to speak or act or pronounce judgment.

My goodness, Eleanor thought. What has been done to them?

She moved slowly to the chair near the fire and sat, arranging her skirts with deliberate casualness. “Please, do sit down. Both of you. I should like very much to speak with you, but I cannot think it comfortable for any of us if you are standing at attention like soldiers.”

Beatrice glanced at James, then back at Eleanor. “Mrs Welborne, she was our governess before; she preferred that we stand when receiving instruction.”

“Did she?” Eleanor kept her voice mild. “Well, I am not Mrs Welborne, and I confess I find it rather exhausting to crane my neck upward for extended periods. I should be much obliged if you would sit.”

Another glance passed between the children, which seemed like some silent communication Eleanor could not quite parse. Then Beatrice moved to perch on the very edge of her chair at the writing desk, spine straight as a poker. James, after a moment’s hesitation, sank back down to the floor beside his scattered blocks.

Eleanor fought the urge to sigh. This would not be easy.

“I understand,” she began carefully, “that you have had some difficulty with your previous governesses. Mrs Dawson mentioned that I am the third to come to Ashcombe in as many years.”

Silence.

“I wonder,” Eleanor continued, “if you might tell me what happened to the others? It would help me to know what to expect.”

More silence. Beatrice’s hands twisted in her lap. James had gone very still.

“Lady Beatrice?” Eleanor prompted gently.

The child’s voice, when it came, was flat. “Miss Pemberton left because she said the house was too isolated. Mrs Welborne left because…” She faltered, and for the first time, something like emotion crossed her carefully blank face. “Because James had a nightmare and disturbed her sleep. She said she could not tolerate such disruption.”

Eleanor felt heat rise in her chest; anger, swift and sharp. A six-year-old boy dismissed for having nightmares. “I see. And are these nightmares a frequent occurrence, Lord James?”

The boy’s shoulders hunched further. He did not answer.

“James has bad dreams,” Beatrice said, her voice dropping even lower. “About Mama. About when she was ill.”

“That is perfectly natural,” Eleanor said firmly. “I should think it stranger if he did not have such dreams. Loss is a difficult thing to bear, particularly for one so young.”

Beatrice looked up at her then, and Eleanor saw surprise flicker in the child’s dark eyes; eyes that were, she realized with a start, remarkably like what the Duke of Ashcombe’s had to be. She imagined they would be the same shape, and they would have the same depth. Only where the duke’s were said to be cold, these held a desperate, carefully hidden longing.

“Mrs Welborne said it was weakness,” Beatrice whispered. “She said we must learn to master ourselves.”

I should like very much to have words with Mrs Welborne, Eleanor thought grimly. Aloud, she said, “Mrs Welborne was mistaken. Grief is not weakness, Lady Beatrice. It is proof that we have loved, and that we are capable of love. There is no shame in it.”

The silence that followed was different; less oppressive, perhaps. Uncertain.

Eleanor pressed forward carefully. “Now, I should like to know what you have been studying. What subjects did Mrs Welborne teach you?”

“Reading,” Beatrice recited, her voice taking on that flat, rehearsed quality again. “Writing, arithmetic, French, History, Scripture, deportment and music. I am learning the pianoforte, but I am not very accomplished.”

“I am sure you are more accomplished than you credit yourself for,” Eleanor said. “And you, Lord James? What do you study?”

The boy mumbled something inaudible.

“I beg your pardon?” Eleanor kept her tone gentle. “I did not quite hear you.”

“Reading,” James said, barely louder. “And sums. I am not very good at sums.”

“Well, we shall work on that together,” Eleanor said. “I happen to be rather fond of mathematics. There is something satisfying about problems that have clear solutions, do you not think?”

James looked up at her for the first time; just a glance, wary, before his gaze dropped back to the floor. But it was something.

Eleanor rose and moved to the bookshelves, running her fingers along the spines. A respectable collection, actually, it was better than respectable. Clearly, someone had cared enough to ensure the children had access to good literature. “These are excellent books. Have you read many of them?”

“Some,” Beatrice said cautiously. “Miss Pemberton allowed me to choose my own reading sometimes. Mrs Welborne did not. She said novels were frivolous and would give me unsuitable ideas.”

“Unsuitable ideas about what?”

Beatrice’s cheeks colored faintly. “She did not specify, miss.”

Eleanor pulled a volume from the shelf—Robinson Crusoe. “I confess I have always found novels to be excellent teachers. They show us worlds we might never see otherwise, and teach us to understand the hearts of people very different from ourselves. I cannot think that could be unsuitable at all.” She held the book out to Beatrice. “Have you read this one?”

The child shook her head, but her eyes were fixed on the book with unmistakable hunger.

“Then perhaps you might begin it this week, and we shall discuss it together. I should very much like to know what you think of Mr Crusoe’s adventures.”

Beatrice took the book as though it were made of glass, her fingers trembling slightly. “Thank you, Miss Finch.”

“You are most welcome.” Eleanor returned to her chair. “Now, I think we should establish some rules for our schoolroom. Or rather, I should like to hear what rules you think would be fair.”

Both children stared at her as though she had spoken in a foreign tongue.

“You wish us to make the rules?” Beatrice said slowly.

“I wish us to make them together,” Eleanor clarified. “I am your governess, certainly, and I will have final say in matters of education. But you are the ones who must live by these rules every day. It seems only reasonable that you should have some voice in their creation.”

Silence again, but this time it felt different. Thoughtful, perhaps. Confused, certainly.

“Mrs Welborne said children should be seen and not heard,” James offered hesitantly.

“Mrs Welborne said a great many things, it seems.” Eleanor kept her voice carefully neutral. “I do not agree with that particular sentiment. I think children should be heard when they have something worth saying, and I suspect you both have a great deal worth saying, if you are given the opportunity.”

Beatrice’s grip on the book tightened. “Miss Finch, may I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How long do you intend to stay?”

The question landed with unexpected weight. Eleanor looked at the child, at her rigid posture, her careful blankness, the fear she was trying so desperately to hide, and understood.

They had learned not to attach themselves. They had learned that governesses left, that adults disappeared, that nothing was permanent except loss and loneliness.

“I intend,” Eleanor said slowly, choosing her words with care, “to stay as long as I am needed and wanted. I will not leave because the house is isolated, Lady Beatrice. I have nowhere else I particularly wish to be. And I will not leave because your brother has nightmares. I suspect we all have nightmares of one kind or another.”

“But what if…” Beatrice stopped herself, pressing her lips together.

“What if what?” Eleanor prompted gently.

The child’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. “What if Papa wants you to leave?”

There it was. The heart of it.

Eleanor leaned forward slightly. “Has your father met your previous governesses?”

Beatrice shook her head quickly. “No. He does not…” She faltered, glanced at her brother, then continued in that same whisper. “He does not come to the schoolroom. He does not come to the nursery. He does not…”

“He does not see you,” Eleanor finished quietly.

Beatrice’s eyes filled with tears that she blinked back with fierce determination. “He is very busy, I am sure. Papa has many responsibilities. We must not disturb him.”

Disturb him. The same phrase Mrs Dawson had used, delivered with that same undertone of warning. As though the Duke of Ashcombe were not a man but a sleeping dragon, liable to wake in fury if provoked.

“I see,” Eleanor said, though she did not see at all. What kind of father refused to lay eyes on his own children? What kind of man hid himself away from the two small people who needed him most? “Well, I do not believe your father had any hand in the departure of your previous governesses, so I do not think you need to fear his displeasure on my account. And I give you my word, I will not leave without warning. If circumstances arise that require me to go, I will tell you honestly and give you time to prepare. Is that acceptable?”

Beatrice nodded, not quite trusting herself to speak.

James had abandoned his blocks entirely now and was watching Eleanor with open curiosity, his wariness beginning to crack. “Miss Finch?”

“Yes, Lord James?”

“Do you know how to build towers? Proper ones, that do not fall?”

Eleanor smiled, the first genuine smile she had managed since arriving at this strange, sad house. “I confess my architectural skills are somewhat limited, but I am willing to learn. Would you teach me?”

The boy’s face transformed. Not quite a smile, not yet, but something softer than the blank mask he had worn before. “I could show you. If you like.”

“I should like that very much.”

She lowered herself to the floor beside him, heedless of her skirts, and let him explain the intricacies of block-building with the seriousness of a master craftsman instructing an apprentice. Beatrice, after a moment, slipped from her chair and joined them, offering quiet suggestions when James’s tower threatened to topple.

They worked in silence, but it was a different silence now. Companionable, almost. Peaceful.

Eleanor was guiding James’s hand to place a particularly precarious block when a sound made all three of them freeze.

Footsteps in the corridor outside. Heavy, uneven. The distinct drag-step, the drag-step of someone with a pronounced limp.

The transformation in the children was instantaneous and terrible.

James dropped the block he was holding; it clattered against the others, sending the half-built tower crashing down, and he scrambled backwards until his back hit the wall. Beatrice had gone white as chalk, her body rigid, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

The footsteps paused outside the schoolroom door.

Eleanor rose slowly to her feet, her heart hammering against her ribs. She looked at the children, at their terror, naked and absolute, and felt something fierce and protective surge in her chest.

If this is the Duke of Ashcombe, she thought, we shall have words about frightening children.

But the footsteps did not stop. They continued past the door, growing fainter, until they faded entirely into the depths of the house.

For a long moment, no one moved. No one breathed.

Then James let out a shuddering exhale and burst into tears.

Beatrice went to him immediately, dropping to her knees and pulling her brother into her arms. “Hush, James. Hush. He is gone. He did not come in. We are safe.”

Safe. As though their own father were a threat to be guarded against.

Eleanor knelt beside them, her mind racing. She reached out slowly, carefully, and placed a hand on Beatrice’s shoulder. The child flinched but did not pull away.

“Who was that?” Eleanor asked quietly, though she already knew.

Beatrice’s voice shook. “Papa. That was Papa.”

“Does he often walk past the schoolroom?”

“Sometimes.” Beatrice’s arms tightened around her brother. “Not often. We usually hear him at night, in the corridors. He does not sleep well, Mrs Dawson says.”

Eleanor’s throat felt tight. “Are you afraid of him?”

Beatrice did not answer immediately. When she did, her words were careful and measured. “We do not know him, Miss Finch. We have not seen him properly since Mama died. He came to the nursery once, after the funeral, but he looked at us so strangely. And then he left and did not come back.”

“He is angry with us,” James sobbed into his sister’s shoulder. “We made Mama ill, and she died, and now he hates us.”

“No,” Eleanor said firmly, surprising herself with the vehemence in her voice. “No, Lord James, that is not true. Your mama’s illness was not your fault. Children do not cause such things, and I will not hear you say otherwise.”

“But Papa will not look at us.”

“Your papa is grieving,” Eleanor interrupted gently. “People grieve in different ways, and sometimes grief makes us behave in ways that hurt the people we love. That does not mean he hates you. It means he is in pain, and he does not know how to bear it.”

I hope, she added silently, that is what it means. Heaven help me if I am wrong.

Beatrice looked at her with those too-old eyes for her age, eyes that had seen too much and understood too well. “Mrs Welborne said Papa was a beast. She said that is why we must not disturb him.”

“Mrs Welborne,” Eleanor said tightly, “seems to have said a great many foolish things.”

She gathered both children close, carefully, giving them space to pull away if they wished, and was rewarded when neither of them did. They sat on the schoolroom floor in a small, tangled heap, and Eleanor felt the weight of what she had undertaken settle more heavily on her shoulders.

Four shillings and seven pence, she thought. I came here with four shillings and seven pence, and now I am responsible for two terrified children and a father who has abandoned them to his grief.

She thought of the footsteps in the corridor—the uneven gait, the heaviness of each step. She thought of the Duke of Ashcombe, somewhere in this vast, cold house, walking alone through the darkness.

She thought of Beatrice’s question: What if Papa wants you to leave?

And she thought, with a clarity that should have frightened her but somehow did not:

He will have to face me first. And I am not easily intimidated.

“Come,” she said, pulling gently away from the children. “Let us rebuild Lord James’s tower, and this time we shall make it tall enough to touch the ceiling. What do you say?”

James wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffling. “Really?”

“Really. I suspect if we work together, we can accomplish a great deal.”

They set to work, and slowly, very slowly, the tension in the room began to ease. James explained his building theories with increasing confidence. Beatrice ventured opinions and even laughed once, a small sound quickly stifled.

Eleanor watched them both, these children who had learned to be silent, to be small, to be afraid of their own father.

And she watched the door, wondering if those footsteps would return.

Wondering what she would do if they did.

The afternoon wore on. Eleanor introduced basic lessons; gentle ones, designed more to assess their abilities than to challenge them. Beatrice could read well beyond her years, her comprehension excellent, though her handwriting showed signs of having been drilled into rigid perfection. James struggled with his letters but showed unexpected aptitude with numbers when Eleanor framed the problems as puzzles rather than tests.

They were bright children. Capable children. Children who had been taught to fear making mistakes more than they had been encouraged to embrace learning.

Eleanor would change that. Somehow.

When the light began to fail, a maid appeared, young, timid, avoiding eye contact, to announce that tea was ready in the nursery.

“Thank you,” Eleanor said. “We shall be along shortly.”

The maid bobbed a curtsey and fled.

Eleanor helped the children tidy the schoolroom, noting how they went about it with practised efficiency, as though disorder were another crime to be avoided. When everything was in its place, she guided them toward the nursery, her hand resting lightly on Beatrice’s shoulder.

The nursery was warmer than the schoolroom, with a fire burning cheerfully and a table set with simple but adequate fare; bread and butter, cold meat, tea, milk for the children. Another maid was present, older than the first, with a face weathered by years of service and eyes that held more kindness than Eleanor had yet seen in this household.

“You’ll be Miss Finch, then,” the woman said, her voice carrying the soft burr of Derbyshire. “I’m Mrs Hartley, day nursemaid to the young ones. Well, more of a general maid now, truth be told, but I’ve known these children since they were babies.”

“I am pleased to meet you, Mrs Hartley.”

The woman studied Eleanor with shrewd assessment, then nodded as though satisfied by what she saw. “You have a kind face, miss. That’s good. These little ones need kindness.”

Eleanor felt something in her chest loosen slightly. An ally, perhaps. Or at least someone who saw the children as more than duties to be managed.

They sat to tea; Eleanor, the children, and Mrs Hartley, who kept up a gentle stream of inconsequential chatter that helped ease the children through their meal. Beatrice ate sparingly, picking at her food with mechanical precision. James devoured everything on his plate with the appetite of a growing boy, though he still jumped at every sudden sound.

When the meal was finished, and the children were released to play quietly before bed, Mrs Hartley drew Eleanor aside.

“Begging your pardon, miss, but I feel I ought to tell you—the little ones, they’ve had a hard time of it.” The woman’s voice was low, meant for Eleanor’s ears only. “Not just losing their mother, may she rest in peace, but losing their father too, in a manner of speaking.”

“Mrs Dawson mentioned that His Grace does not involve himself with the household.”

“Aye, that’s one way of putting it.” Mrs Hartley’s mouth tightened. “The truth is, His Grace has barely left his chambers in nearly three years now. He takes his meals alone. Works with Mr Carver in the library sometimes, going over accounts and such, but otherwise…” She shook her head. “It’s like having a ghost in the house, miss. A ghost the children are terrified of, though he’s never raised a hand to them, nor even a harsh word that I know of.”

“Then why are they so afraid?”

“Because he looks at them like it breaks his heart, miss.” Mrs Hartley’s eyes were sad. “Like the very sight of them causes him pain. Children understand that, even when they don’t have the words for it. They know they hurt him just by existing, and what’s a child to do with that knowledge?”

Eleanor’s hands clenched in her skirts. “That is unconscionable.”

“Aye, well.” Mrs Hartley glanced toward the children, who were building another tower in the corner, their voices barely audible. “I’ve worked in this house for twenty years, miss. I knew His Grace when he was a boy himself. He wasn’t always like this, cold and shut away. He was kind once. He laughed and loved his duchess something fierce, and doted on those babies when they were born. But Lady Marianne’s illness changed him. Watching her suffer, unable to help, unable to save her despite all his wealth and title…. It broke something in him.”

“That does not excuse abandoning his children.”

“No, miss, it doesn’t.” Mrs Hartley met her eyes steadily. “But understanding why a man behaves badly doesn’t mean you approve of it. It just means you know where to start if you’re minded to try and fix it.”

Eleanor stared at her. “You think I should try to fix the…. Duke of Ashcombe?”

“I think,” Mrs Hartley said carefully, “that those children need their father. And I think their father needs them, though he doesn’t know it yet. And I think you, Miss Finch, might be the kind of woman who doesn’t give up easily.”

Before Eleanor could formulate a response to that extraordinary statement, Beatrice’s voice called out softly.

“Miss Finch? Will you read to us before bed?”

Eleanor turned, saw both children watching her with cautious hope, and felt her heart twist. “Of course. What would you like to hear?”

They settled by the fire, the children on either side of Eleanor, pressed close like birds seeking warmth. She read from a volume of fairy stories, tales of enchantments and quests and curses broken by courage and love, and felt the children gradually relax against her.

When James’s breathing had deepened into sleep, and Beatrice’s eyes were drooping, Mrs Hartley helped carry the boy to his bed in the adjoining chamber. Beatrice followed on Eleanor’s hand, yawning.

“Goodnight, Lady Beatrice,” Eleanor said softly, tucking the covers around the child. “Sleep well.”

Beatrice’s hand shot out and caught Eleanor’s wrist. Her eyes were wide, suddenly alert with urgency.

“Miss Finch,” she whispered. “If you see him, if Papa comes to the schoolroom, please do not let him see us.”

Eleanor’s throat closed. “Why not, sweetheart?”

“Because it hurts him. And because…” The child’s voice broke. “Because I do not think I could bear it if he looked at us the way he did at Mama’s funeral. Like he wished we had died instead of her.”

Oh, child.

Eleanor smoothed the hair back from Beatrice’s forehead, her heart breaking. “I do not believe that is what he was thinking. But I promise you, if I encounter your father, I will do everything in my power to ensure you are not hurt.”

Beatrice nodded, apparently satisfied, and released Eleanor’s wrist. Within moments, she was asleep.

Eleanor stood in the doorway between the children’s chambers and her own, watching their small forms in the firelight, and listening to their quiet breathing.

His Grace is not to be disturbed, Mrs Dawson had said.

But disturbing the Duke of Ashcombe was precisely what Eleanor intended to do. These children deserved better than a ghost for a father. They deserved better than to believe themselves the cause of their mother’s death and their father’s grief.

They deserved better than this cold, silent house where love had died along with the duchess.

Eleanor thought of the footsteps in the corridor, drag-step, drag-step, and wondered where the duke was now. She wondered if he was awake, if he was walking those dark halls, if he thought of his children at all.

She thought of the four shillings and seven pence that had brought her here, seeking nothing more than survival.

And she realised, with a strange mix of resignation and determination, that she had found something far more complicated than employment.

She had found a battle worth fighting.

Eleanor returned to her own chamber and prepared for bed with mechanical efficiency. She was exhausted—the journey, the tension, the emotional weight of the day pressing down on her like a physical thing. But when she lay beneath the covers in the unfamiliar room, sleep would not come.

She stared at the ceiling and listened to the house settle around her.

And after a time, she could not have said how long, she heard them again.

Footsteps in the corridor outside. Slow, heavy, uneven.

Drag-step. Drag-step.

They paused outside her door.

Eleanor held her breath, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain it must be audible through the wood.

Go away, she thought. Or come in. But do not simply stand there like something out of a Gothic novel.

The footsteps remained for what felt like an eternity.

Then they moved on, fading into distance, leaving only silence behind.

Eleanor released her breath slowly.

Somewhere in this vast, cold house, the Duke of Ashcombe walked alone through the darkness, and his children slept in fear of him.

Tomorrow, Eleanor thought. Tomorrow I will begin to change this.

She closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe steadily, to let exhaustion pull her down into sleep.

But just before unconsciousness claimed her, she heard it one last time—distant now, barely audible.

A door closing somewhere in the depths of Ashcombe Hall.

And then, carried on the silence like a ghost, a sound she might have imagined.

A man’s voice, speaking words she could not distinguish.

But the tone—oh, the tone—was heartbreak made audible.

That will be Lady Beatrice. 

CHAPTER THREE

 

“Miss Finch, you must not go into the west wing.”

Eleanor looked up from the breakfast she had been attempting to eat, porridge that tasted of nothing, tea that had gone lukewarm, and met Mrs Hartley’s anxious gaze across the nursery table. The children had already been dismissed to wash and dress for the day’s lessons, leaving Eleanor alone with the older woman.

“I beg your pardon?”

Mrs Hartley twisted her hands in her apron, a gesture at odds with her usual capable demeanour. “The west wing, miss. His Grace’s private chambers are there. The staff have strict orders; no one enters without express permission, and he never gives it. Mrs Dawson would dismiss anyone who disobeyed.”

“I see.” Eleanor set down her teacup with careful precision. “And why do you mention this to me now, Mrs Hartley?”

The woman’s weathered face creased with concern. “Because I saw the way you looked when you told me you heard him walking. Like you were thinking of seeking him out. And I’m telling you, miss, for your own sake, pray, do not. His Grace will not receive you. He will not thank you for the intrusion. And Mrs Dawson…” She shook her head. “Mrs Dawson guards him like a dragon guards gold. She’ll have you gone before you can explain yourself.”

Eleanor thought of the children’s terror yesterday, of Beatrice’s whispered plea; please do not let him see us, and felt that same fierce protectiveness surge in her chest.

“I have no intention of forcing myself upon His Grace,” she said carefully. “But neither do I intend to teach his children while tiptoeing about as though their father were some Gothic villain to be avoided at all costs. If circumstances require me to speak with him regarding their education, I shall do so.”

“Circumstances won’t require it, miss. That’s what Mr Carver is for; any questions about the children, you take them to the steward, and he takes them to His Grace if needed.” Mrs Hartley leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I’m only trying to help you, Miss Finch. The others, the governesses before you, they tried to manage things their own way, and it ended badly for all concerned.”

“What exactly happened to them?”

Mrs Hartley’s mouth thinned. “Miss Pemberton lasted four months. Sweet girl, but too timid. The isolation wore on her, and when she finally worked up the courage to request an audience with His Grace to discuss Lady Beatrice’s education, Mrs Dawson told her it was not her place to trouble the duke. Miss Pemberton left within the week.”

“And Mrs Welborne?”

“Mrs Welborne lasted longer—nearly a year. But she was…” Mrs Hartley paused, choosing her words carefully. “She was harsh with the children. Too harsh. When Lord James had that nightmare I told you about, she dragged him from his bed and locked him in the schoolroom closet to ‘teach him discipline.’ Lady Beatrice came to me in hysterics.”

Eleanor’s hands clenched beneath the table. “My goodness.”

“I went to Mr Carver immediately, and he went to His Grace. Mrs Welborne was dismissed that very day, turned out without a reference.” Mrs Hartley’s expression softened slightly. “So you see, miss, His Grace does care, in his way. He just… cannot bear to show it directly.”

Cannot or will not? Eleanor thought, but she kept the question to herself. “Thank you for the warning, Mrs Hartley. I shall endeavour to work within the proper channels.”

The older woman nodded, looking relieved. “That’s all I ask, miss. Now, you’d best be getting to the schoolroom. The children will be waiting.”

 

***

 

Eleanor found Beatrice and James exactly where she had left them the previous afternoon; Beatrice at her writing desk with perfect posture, James in his corner with his blocks. Both were silent, still, waiting.

No more of this, Eleanor thought firmly. Not if I can help it.

“Good morning,” she said, injecting warmth into her voice. “I trust you both slept well?”

“Yes, Miss Finch,” they chorused, their voices perfectly synchronised, perfectly empty.

Eleanor moved to the centre of the room and surveyed them both with her hands clasped before her. “Before we begin our regular lessons, I should like to establish something. Yesterday, I asked you to help me create rules for our schoolroom. You seemed uncertain about the prospect, which I understand; it is not what you are accustomed to. But I should like to try again, if you are willing.”

Beatrice exchanged a glance with her brother. “What sort of rules, Miss Finch?”

“Rules that will make this room a place where you feel safe to learn. Safe to make mistakes. Safe to ask questions.” Eleanor pulled a chair away from the wall and sat, deliberately making herself less imposing. “For instance, I think we should have a rule that questions are always welcome. Even if they seem foolish, even if you think you should already know the answer. Do you agree?”

James raised his hand tentatively, as though afraid of being reprimanded for the gesture.

“You need not raise your hand when we are conversing, Lord James,” Eleanor said gently. “What would you like to say?”

“Mrs Welborne said questions were impertinent,” he said in his small voice. “She said children should listen and learn, not interrupt their betters.”

“Mrs Welborne was wrong.” Eleanor kept her tone firm but kind. “How can you learn if you do not ask when something is unclear? No, I think questions are essential. So that shall be our first rule: questions are always permitted, and they will always be answered to the best of my ability.”

Beatrice’s grip on her book loosened slightly. “What else, Miss Finch?”

“I think we should have a rule about mistakes. When you attempt something difficult, a mathematical problem, a passage in French, a new piece of music, you will make errors. That is how learning occurs. So our second rule is this: mistakes are not failures; they are opportunities to improve.”

“But Mrs Welborne…”

“I am not Mrs Welborne,” Eleanor interrupted gently. “And I will thank you both if you do not compare my methods to hers. She is gone. We are starting fresh, you and I. Do you understand?”

Both children nodded, though uncertainty still shadowed their faces.

“Good. Now, I should like to know what you enjoy. Not what you are supposed to enjoy, or what you think I wish to hear, but what truly pleases you.” She looked at James. “Lord James, you mentioned yesterday that you like building towers. What else do you enjoy?”

The boy’s eyes went wide, as though the question itself were dangerous. “I… I like stories, miss. About knights and dragons and… and adventures.”

“Excellent. Then we shall incorporate stories into your reading lessons. And you, Lady Beatrice?”

Beatrice’s hands twisted in her lap. When she spoke, her voice was barely audible. “I like music, miss. Playing the pianoforte. But I am not very good, and Mrs Welborne said I should not waste time on it until I had mastered my other subjects.”

Eleanor felt that familiar surge of anger at the absent Mrs Welborne. “Do you practise regularly?”

“I try, miss. But the pianoforte is in the music room, and…” Beatrice’s voice dropped even further. “It is near the west wing. Near Papa’s chambers. I am afraid of disturbing him.”

Of course you are, Eleanor thought grimly. Of course, this house has managed to take even music from you.

Aloud, she said, “I shall speak with Mr Carver about having a smaller instrument moved to the schoolroom, if possible. In the meantime, I give you permission to practise in the music room for one hour each day. If His Grace objects, he may take the matter up with me directly.”

Beatrice’s eyes went round. “But Miss Finch, you cannot…Mrs Dawson said…”

“Mrs Dawson is not your governess. I am.” Eleanor kept her voice gentle but unyielding. “You have a gift, Lady Beatrice, or so I suspect from the way you speak of music. It would be a crime to let that gift wither simply because everyone in this household is too afraid to risk disturbing a man who has locked himself away from the world.”

The words emerged more sharply than she had intended. Eleanor took a breath, moderating her tone. “Forgive me. That was unkind. But I mean what I say. You will practise your music, and you need not fear reproach from me.”

Beatrice looked as though she might cry, but instead, she whispered, “Thank you, Miss Finch.”

They settled into lessons after that, and Eleanor was pleased to discover that her initial assessment had been correct—both children were bright and capable when given the space to think without fear. Beatrice’s French pronunciation was excellent, her comprehension of history remarkable for her age. James struggled with reading but attacked mathematical problems with enthusiasm once Eleanor framed them as puzzles to solve rather than tests to pass.

By midmorning, Eleanor felt they had earned a respite.

“I think,” she announced, “that we should take some air. It is not raining for once, and I noticed yesterday that the grounds, though somewhat neglected, are quite beautiful. Shall we explore them together?”

Both children froze.

“We are not permitted to go outside unaccompanied, miss,” Beatrice said carefully.

“Then it is fortunate that I shall be accompanying you, is it not?” Eleanor rose and moved toward the door. “Come. Fresh air will do us all good.”

They descended the great staircase in silence, the children keeping close to Eleanor as though she were a shield against some invisible threat. The entrance hall was empty, no sign of Mrs Dawson or any other staff. Eleanor pushed open the heavy front door and stepped out into the pale morning sunlight.

The air was cool and damp, carrying the scent of earth and growing things. Beyond the neglected fountain and circular drive, the parkland stretched in all directions; wild, beautiful and sad, like everything else about Ashcombe Hall.

“Where would you like to go?” Eleanor asked.

James pointed toward a stand of ancient oaks to the east. “There is a stream past those trees, miss. Mama used to take us there sometimes, before she became too ill.”

“Then that is where we shall go.”

They walked across overgrown lawns, past hedges that had been allowed to grow into grotesque shapes, through gardens where roses bloomed alongside weeds in a riot of uncontrolled color. The children were tentative at first, walking with the same careful precision they brought to everything. But gradually, so gradually, Eleanor almost missed it, they began to relax.

James ran ahead to examine something in the grass. Beatrice paused to touch the petals of a wild rose, her expression softening into something like wonder.

“It has been a long time since we were permitted outside,” she said quietly.

Eleanor looked at her sharply. “Permitted?”

“Mrs Welborne said outdoor time was a privilege to be earned through good behaviour and academic achievement. I did not earn it often.”

Mrs Welborne, Eleanor thought viciously, if you were still here, I would have very strong words for you indeed.

“That is nonsense,” she said aloud. “Fresh air and exercise are necessities, not privileges. From now on, we shall spend at least an hour outdoors each day, weather permitting, regardless of academic performance. Do you understand?”

Beatrice nodded, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

They found the stream exactly where James had indicated; a narrow ribbon of water running clear and swift over smooth stones, bordered by trees whose trailing branches created a canopy of green-gold shade. It was peaceful here, secluded, the sound of water over stone creating a gentle music that seemed to ease something in Eleanor’s chest she had not realised was tight.

The children played at the water’s edge while Eleanor sat on a flat rock and watched them. James was attempting to build a dam with stones and fallen branches, his face scrunched in concentration. Beatrice had removed her shoes and stockings, a shocking breach of propriety that Eleanor pretended not to notice, and was wading in the shallows, her skirts hiked up, her expression one of pure, uncomplicated joy.

This, Eleanor thought, is what children should look like. Not terrified people reciting lessons by rote, but living, and feeling, free.

She did not notice the figure watching from the distant tree line until James called out.

“Bea! Bea, look!” He was pointing toward the oaks they had passed earlier.

Beatrice turned, following his gesture. Then she went very still.

Eleanor rose slowly to her feet, her heart beginning to pound.

A man stood beneath the trees, half-hidden in shadow. Tall, very tall, and broad-shouldered despite an evident lean to one side, as though his weight rested unevenly. He was too far away for Eleanor to make out his features clearly, but she could see dark hair, a dark coat, and the unmistakable intensity of someone watching.

“Papa,” Beatrice breathed. The word was barely audible, but the terror in it cut like a blade.

Eleanor’s protective instincts surged. She moved immediately to place herself between the children and the distant figure, her hands coming up as though she could physically shield them.

“Stay behind me,” she said quietly.

“Miss Finch, we should go,” Beatrice whispered urgently. “We should go now, we should not have come out here, he will be angry.”

“He will not be angry with you.” Eleanor kept her voice steady, authoritative. “You have done nothing wrong.”

The figure beneath the trees did not move and did not approach. He simply stood there, watching, like a spectre at the edge of a dream.

Eleanor stared back, her chin lifting in unconscious defiance. If this were the Duke of Ashcombe, then he would see that his children were safe, cared for, and not frightened in their own home.

For a long moment, they remained frozen in tableau; Eleanor standing guard, the children huddled at her back, the duke watching from his distant post beneath the trees.

Then, slowly, the figure turned and walked away. His gait was unmistakably uneven, that dragging step Eleanor had heard in the corridors. He moved with evident difficulty, as though each step cost him, and disappeared into the deeper shadows of the parkland.

Eleanor released a breath she had not realised she was holding.

“He is gone,” she said, turning to the children. “You are safe.”

But Beatrice was crying; silent tears streaming down her face, her whole body trembling. James had gone white as chalk, his earlier joy extinguished utterly.

“I told you,” Beatrice sobbed. “I told you we should not have come outside. Now he has seen us, and he will…He will…”

“He will do nothing,” Eleanor said firmly, kneeling to gather both children close. “Listen to me. Your father was simply walking his own grounds. He has every right to do so. We were not doing anything wrong, and you are not in trouble. Do you hear me? You are not in trouble.”

“But he looked at us,” James whispered. “He saw us, Miss Finch.”

“Yes. And now he knows you are well cared for and taking proper exercise. That is all.” Eleanor smoothed Beatrice’s hair back from her face and wiped at her tears with gentle fingers. “Come. We shall return to the house and continue our lessons. And tonight, we shall all sleep soundly, knowing that nothing terrible has happened because your father saw you from a distance.”

She managed to get them back to the house, though both children remained subdued, their earlier lightness crushed beneath the weight of fear. Eleanor felt fury building in her chest with each step. Fury at whatever circumstances had created this situation, fury at a man who inspired such terror in his own children, fury at herself for not anticipating this possibility.

Mrs Hartley was waiting in the entrance hall when they returned, her face tight with anxiety.

“His Grace saw you,” she said without preamble. “Mrs Dawson is in a state. She wants to speak with you immediately, Miss Finch.”

“The children need to return to the schoolroom,” Eleanor said evenly. “I will speak with Mrs Dawson after I have settled them.”

“Miss Finch…”

“After I have settled the children,” Eleanor repeated, her tone brooking no argument.

Mrs Hartley subsided, though worry remained etched in every line of her face.

Eleanor took Beatrice and James back to the schoolroom and coaxed them into sitting by the fire with books. Neither child was actually reading; they simply stared at the pages with unseeing eyes, but at least they were calm, or approaching calm.

“I shall return shortly,” Eleanor told them. “Do not worry. Everything will be well.”

She hoped she was not lying.

Mrs Dawson was waiting in her sitting room, a small, austere chamber off the main corridor that smelled of lavender and disapproval. The housekeeper stood when Eleanor entered, her posture rigid, her expression thunderous.

“Miss Finch. I understand you took the children outside this morning.”

“I did. Fresh air and exercise are essential components of a sound education.”

“You took them outside,” Mrs Dawson continued as though Eleanor had not spoken, “without seeking permission from Mr Carver or me. You took them into the parkland where His Grace was walking. You exposed them to his view despite explicit instructions that the children are not to trouble him.”

Eleanor felt her own spine stiffen. “I did not expose them to anything, Mrs Dawson. We were walking by the stream. His Grace happened to be in the vicinity. It was an entirely innocent encounter.”

“There are no innocent encounters where His Grace is concerned,” Mrs Dawson said coldly. “He does not wish to see the children. He does not wish to be reminded of them. Your duty is to keep them occupied and out of his sight. Do you understand?”

“No,” Eleanor said quietly. “I do not understand. I do not understand how a father can wish not to see his own children. I do not understand how an entire household can conspire to keep him isolated from the two people who need him most. And I certainly do not understand why I am being reprimanded for taking my charges outside for fresh air on their own family’s estate.”

Mrs Dawson’s face flushed with anger. “You overstep yourself, Miss Finch. You have been here two days. Two days. You know nothing of this family, nothing of what His Grace has endured, nothing of the pain…”

“Then perhaps someone should explain it to me,” Eleanor interrupted, her own temper fraying. “Because at present, all I see are two terrified children who believe their father hates them, and a household full of servants who seem more interested in preserving the current situation than in doing what is right.”

The silence that followed was profound and dangerous.

Mrs Dawson drew herself up to her full height, her eyes glacial. “You will confine your charges to the schoolroom and nursery areas. You will not take them into the parkland. You will not risk encounters with His Grace. If you cannot abide by these rules, Miss Finch, you will join your predecessors in seeking employment elsewhere. Am I clear?”

Eleanor thought of four shillings and seven pence. Thought of her mother in Kent, her sister in Exeter, the precarious nature of her situation.

Then she thought of Beatrice’s tears, of James’s white face, of two children who had learned to believe themselves unwanted.

“Perfectly clear, Mrs Dawson,” she said quietly. “Will that be all?”

The housekeeper’s expression suggested she had expected more of a fight. “That will be all.”

Eleanor curtseyed, correct but minimal, and left the room.

She made her way back toward the schoolroom, her mind churning. She would have to be more careful, more circumspect. She could not help the children if she were dismissed. But neither could she continue as things were, tiptoeing around the Duke of Ashcombe as though he were some sleeping dragon not to be disturbed.

There must be a way, she thought. There must be some means of breaking through this terrible impasse.

She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not notice the figure standing in the shadowed alcove near the schoolroom door until she was nearly upon it.

Eleanor stopped short, her breath catching.

The Duke of Ashcombe stood before her.

He was taller than she had realised, even from a distance, well over six feet, his shoulders broad despite the way he leaned heavily on a walking stick. His coat was well-made but hung slightly loose, as though he had lost weight and had not bothered to have his clothing adjusted. His cravat was tied with precision but no particular style.

And his face.

Eleanor had braced herself for disfigurement, for something monstrous. What she saw instead stole her breath for entirely different reasons.

He was not handsome in any conventional sense. His features were too harsh, too angular; strong nose, sharp cheekbones, a mouth that looked as though it had forgotten how to smile. His hair was dark, touched with grey at the temples, though he could not be much above thirty. His eyes were the deepest brown Eleanor had ever seen, almost black in the dim corridor light.

And the scar.

It ran from his left temple down across his cheekbone, disappearing beneath his cravat. An old wound, long healed but brutally visible; the kind of injury that must have been agonizing when fresh.

But it was not the scar that made Eleanor’s heart clench. It was the expression in those dark eyes.

Grief. Guilt. Self-loathing so profound it was almost physical.

And beneath it all, carefully buried but unmistakable: longing.

He looked at her, truly looked at her, his gaze direct and unsettling in its intensity, and Eleanor forgot how to breathe.

“You are Miss Finch,” he said. His voice was deep, roughened, as though he had not used it properly in a very long time.

Eleanor found her voice with effort. “I am, Your Grace.”

“You took my children outside this morning.”

It was not a question. Eleanor lifted her chin. “I did. They required fresh air and exercise.”

“They saw me.”

“Yes.”

“They were frightened.”

Eleanor’s hands clenched in her skirts. “Yes, Your Grace. They were terrified.”

Something flickered in his expression, which was pain, perhaps or shame. “I did not mean…” He stopped, his jaw tightening. “I was simply walking. I did not realise they would be there.”

“Your children believe you hate them,” Eleanor said, the words emerging before she could stop them. “They believe you blame them for their mother’s death. They believe the very sight of them causes you pain.”

The duke’s face went white beneath the scar. His hand tightened on his walking stick until his knuckles showed pale. “They are not wrong.”

Eleanor stared at him, shocked by the admission.

“The sight of them does cause me pain,” he continued, his voice low and rough. “They have her eyes. Her smile. Her laugh, when they are permitted to laugh, which I suspect is rarely. Every time I see them, I am reminded of what I failed to protect. What I failed to save.”

“They are children, Your Grace. They are not ghosts of your wife. They are living, breathing people who need their father.”

“They are better off without me.” He spoke with flat conviction, as though stating an incontrovertible fact. “I have nothing to offer them but grief and failure. You are better suited to their care than I could ever be.”

“I am a governess,” Eleanor said sharply. “I can teach them letters and numbers and proper deportment. I cannot give them what they truly need, which is their father’s love.”

“Then they shall have to do without.” The duke’s voice hardened. “I did not come here to debate my failings as a parent with an employee I have known all of five minutes. I came to tell you to keep the children away from the west wing, away from my private chambers, away from anywhere you might encounter me. Is that understood?”

Eleanor met his eyes directly, refusing to be cowed. “Perfectly understood, Your Grace.”

“Good.” He turned to leave, his movements stiff and painful.

“Your Grace?” Eleanor’s voice stopped him.

He did not turn around. “What is it, Miss Finch?”

“For what it is worth, I do not think you are a beast or a monster. I think you are a man in pain who has convinced himself that isolation is the answer. But I think you are wrong.”

The duke’s shoulders tensed. For a long moment, he remained frozen in place, his back to her.

Then, without another word, he walked away.

Drag-step. Drag-step.

The sound of his uneven gait faded into the depths of the house, leaving Eleanor alone in the corridor with her racing heart and the terrible certainty that she had just made a dreadful mistake.

Or perhaps, she thought as she turned toward the schoolroom door, the first step toward something that might, eventually, be right.

She found the children exactly where she had left them, still clutching their books, still wide-eyed with fear.

“Did Mrs Dawson dismiss you?” Beatrice whispered.

“No, Lady Beatrice. I am still here.”

“Did she say we were wicked for going outside?”

“No one is wicked.” Eleanor moved to sit beside them, gathering them close. “What happened this morning was simply unfortunate timing. Your father was walking. We were walking. Our paths crossed. That is all.”

“But he saw us,” James said miserably.

“Yes. And the world did not end. The house did not collapse. You are both still here, still safe, still loved.” Eleanor tightened her arms around them. “I know you are frightened. I know your father’s distance seems like rejection. But I promise you, whatever he feels, it is not hatred. He is simply… lost. And lost people sometimes push away the very things that could save them.”

“Can he be found again?” Beatrice asked in a small voice.

Eleanor thought of dark eyes filled with grief, of a scarred face and a voice roughened by disuse, of a man who walked his own corridors like a ghost.

“I do not know,” she said honestly. “But I think, perhaps, it is worth trying.”

The children were silent for a long moment.

Then James, with the simplicity of a six-year-old who had not yet learned that some things were impossible, said: “Will you try, Miss Finch? Will you help Papa be found?”

Eleanor looked down at his upturned face, at Beatrice’s hopeful eyes, and felt the weight of their trust settle on her shoulders like a mantle.

She thought of four shillings and seven pence.

She thought of surviving worse than a reclusive duke.

She thought of the Duke of Ashcombe’s face when he had said they are better off without me, and the certainty in his voice that he believed it.

“Yes,” she heard herself say. “I shall try.”

And with those words, Eleanor Finch committed herself to a course of action that would change everything.

She simply did not know it yet.