Chapter 1

“I tell you, Mrs. Whitmore, the Duke of Everleigh has gone and done it again this year. He has banned Christmas entirely from the estate, as if Christmas were something to be ashamed of rather than celebrated with proper reverence and joy. However between you and me, I suspect it has less to do with reverence and more to do with that terrible business from years past, but one mustn’t speak of such things, particularly not when there are young ears about, though I daresay everyone from here to York knows the story by now.”

The speaker, Mrs. Harrods, adjusted her elaborate Sunday bonnet with the satisfaction of one who has just delivered particularly choice gossip to an appreciative audience. The congregation of St. Mary’s was filing out of the small stone church, their breath forming clouds in the frigid December air, and naturally, the conversation had turned, as it did every year at this time, to their most notorious neighbor’s continued war against the festive season.

“Well, I for one think it’s a crying shame, and I don’t care who hears me say it,” Mrs. Whitmore responded, pulling her woolen shawl tighter around her considerable frame. “That poor little girl up at the hall, his niece, never knowing what it’s like to wake up on Christmas morning with the smell of plum pudding wafting through the corridors, or to see the great hall decked with holly and ivy as it was in the old duke’s time. Why, I remember when I was just a girl, the Christmas ball at Everleigh Hall was the event of the season. Ladies would order their gowns from London months in advance, and the dancing would go on until nearly dawn.”

“Those days are long gone, I’m afraid,” interjected Mr. Whitmore, who had been attempting to steer his wife toward their waiting carriage for the past five minutes with notably little success. “The duke has made his position on celebrations quite clear, and I doubt anything or anyone could change his mind at this point. The man is as fixed in his ways as the stones of the hall itself.”

It was at this precise moment that a travel-worn post chaise came rattling down the frost-hardened road, drawing the attention of the assembled villagers. Such arrivals were not uncommon, of course, but there was something about the timing—just three weeks before Christmas, with the duke’s latest proclamation against festivities still fresh in everyone’s minds—that made them all pause and watch with heightened interest.

The chaise pulled to a stop near the church gate, and the door opened to reveal a young woman who could not have presented a starker contrast to the grim December afternoon if she had deliberately set out to do so. She emerged with the kind of energy that suggested she had been cooped up far too long, her dark hair escaping from what had probably started the journey as a very respectable arrangement, her cheeks pink with cold and excitement, and her eyes, a remarkable shade of green that put one in mind of spring meadows rather than winter frost, surveying the assembled crowd with unmistakable interest and good humor.

“Hello,” she called out cheerfully, quite untroubled by the fact that every eye in the vicinity had turned toward her. “I don’t suppose anyone could direct me to Everleigh Hall? The coachman appears to have lost his bearings among all the turnings, though I assured him I had perfectly clear directions from Lady Ellen’s letter. But then, perfectly clear is such a relative expression, is it not? What seems plain to one person may prove entirely bewildering to another, particularly when country roads insist upon dividing and doubling back upon themselves as though for their own amusement.”

The villagers exchanged glances that ranged from amused to bewildered. Mrs. Harrods was the first to recover her voice.

“Everleigh Hall, did you say, miss?” She pronounced the words as if they were slightly distasteful, like medicine one must take but doesn’t enjoy. “Whatever would a young lady like yourself be wanting at Everleigh Hall, if you don’t mind my asking? Particularly at this time of year, when the place is about as welcoming as a…well, as a tomb, if you’ll pardon my plain speaking.”

The young woman laughed, a sound so genuinely delighted that several of the villagers found themselves smiling despite their concerns.

“Oh, I don’t mind plain speaking at all. In fact, I rather prefer it to the alternative, which is usually people saying nothing while thinking a great deal, and then one has to spend all one’s time trying to decipher what they actually mean. Like when my former employer, Mrs. Blackstone, would say ‘how interesting’ when what she really meant was ‘Good heavens, what a perfectly dreadful idea.’ But I suppose we all do it to some degree, don’t we? Say one thing when we mean another? It’s rather a wonder we manage to communicate at all, when you think about it.”

She paused, seeming to realize she had wandered rather far from the original question.

“But you asked about Everleigh Hall. I’m to be the new companion and governess to Miss Lydia Everleigh. Lady Ellen engaged me through a letter that was quite specific about some things, the salary, which is very generous, and the duties, which seem reasonable, and remarkably vague about others, such as why the previous three governesses all left within a month. Though I suppose I shall find that out soon enough, won’t I?”

A collective intake of breath from the assembled villagers suggested that they could have enlightened her on that particular point, but before anyone could speak, the vicar, Mr. Aldridge, stepped forward. He was a gentle-mannered man around forty who had seen enough of the world to recognize courage when he saw it, even when it came disguised as cheerful naivety.

“Miss…?” he prompted gently.

“Reede,” she supplied promptly. “Miss Valerie Reede, formerly of Somerset, more recently of Bath, where I’ve spent the last two years attempting to teach the three Blackstone daughters that there is more to life than the circumference of one’s bonnet ribbons and the precise shade of one’s morning gloves. With limited success, I must admit, though I did manage to convince the youngest that reading might actually be enjoyable if one chose books about something other than fashion plates.”

“Miss Reede,” the vicar continued, his voice kind but serious, “I feel it is my duty to inform you that Everleigh Hall is… well, it is not perhaps what you are expecting. The Duke of Everleigh is a man of very particular habits, and he does not… that is to say, he has strong opinions about certain things.”

“Oh, I’m quite used to employers with strong opinions,” Valerie said cheerfully. “Mrs. Blackstone had very strong opinions about everything from the proper way to pour tea—the pot must never, under any circumstances, be lifted more than three inches from the cup—to the exact number of minutes one should spend in morning prayers. Fourteen, if you’re curious. Not thirteen, which would be unlucky, and not fifteen, which would be excessive. Fourteen exactly.”

“It’s not quite the same thing,” Mrs. Whitmore burst out, unable to contain herself any longer. “The duke has banned Christmas, miss. Banned it entirely! No decorations, no carols, no feast, no celebrations of any kind. He’s turned that beautiful old hall into a place of perpetual winter, without even the comfort of Christmas to warm it. And that poor child, his niece, growing up without ever knowing the joy of the season…it’s enough to break your heart.”

For the first time since her arrival, Valerie’s expression grew serious, though the light in her eyes didn’t dim so much as intensify, like a candle flame growing stronger rather than weaker. 

“Banned Christmas?” she repeated slowly, as if testing the words to see if they made any more sense when spoken aloud. “How does one ban Christmas, exactly? I mean, from a practical standpoint? Does he patrol the halls on Christmas Eve, searching for contraband mistletoe? Does he inspect the kitchens to ensure no one has smuggled in illicit mince pies? It seems like it would require an enormous amount of effort to prevent something that tends to happen rather naturally when December comes around.”

“The staff are all terrified of him,” Mrs. Harrods explained, warming to her subject. “He dismissed a footman two years ago simply for humming Christmas carols while polishing the silver. And the cook was given a severe warning for attempting to make gingerbread; not even Christmas gingerbread, mind you, just regular gingerbread, but apparently, even the scent was too festive for His Grace’s delicate sensibilities.”

“How extraordinarily sad,” Valerie said, and there was something in her tone that suggested she meant it quite sincerely, though whether she was referring to the duke’s behavior or the duke himself was not entirely clear. “Well, I suppose that explains why Lady Ellen was so eager to engage someone from outside the county. Anyone local would know better than to accept the position.”

“And now that you know, miss?” the vicar asked gently. “The chaise could easily take you back to the inn. There’s another coach to Bath tomorrow morning.”

Valerie considered this for a moment, her head tilted slightly to one side in a way that made her look rather like a bird contemplating whether a particular twig would suit its nest. 

“You know,” she said finally, “I’ve always found that the things people warn you most strenuously against are often the things most worth doing. Not always, of course, I’m not suggesting one should ignore warnings about thin ice or rabid dogs, but when it comes to people and situations, the most dire predictions are often wildly exaggerated. Besides, I’ve given my word to Lady Ellen, and I’ve already spent the traveling money she sent, so going back isn’t really an option unless I fancy walking to Bath, which I don’t, particularly not in December.”

She turned back to the coachman, who had been listening to this entire exchange with the expression of a man who deeply regretted accepting this particular fare. “I believe if you continue along this road for about two miles, then turn left at the large oak tree, the one that looks like it’s been struck by lightning, according to Lady Ellen’s letter, you should find the gates to Everleigh Hall. Unless, of course, there’s more than one lightning-struck oak, in which case we might end up anywhere, but I suppose that would be an adventure too, wouldn’t it?”

Before climbing back into the chaise, she turned once more to the assembled villagers, all of whom were still staring at her with expressions ranging from admiration to deep concern. 

“Thank you all for the warnings,” she said warmly. “It was very kind of you to try to save me from what you clearly consider a terrible fate. But you see, I’ve been a companion and governess for five years now, ever since my father died and it became necessary for me to make my own way in the world. In that time, I’ve dealt with children who bite…literally bite, not figuratively, mothers who believe their offspring can do no wrong despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, and at least one household where the family ghost was blamed for everything from missing silverware to badly risen bread. After all that, a duke who doesn’t care for Christmas seems almost refreshingly straightforward.”

She climbed into the chaise with more energy than grace, then poked her head out the window for one final observation. “Besides,” she added with a smile that was both mischievous and oddly determined, “it’s been my experience that people who work that hard to avoid something are usually the ones who need it most. Thank you, everyone. I hope to see you all again soon—possibly at Christmas service, if I haven’t been dismissed for excessive cheerfulness by then.”

The chaise rolled away, leaving the villagers standing in a small, bewildered cluster. Finally, Mrs. Harrods spoke what they were all thinking: “That girl is either going to save Everleigh Hall or be thrown out within a week.”

“I’ll take that wager,” Mr. Whitmore said unexpectedly. “Five pounds says she lasts the month.”

“I shall take that wager,” his wife replied. “Though I rather hope I lose. That young woman has something about her, did you notice? Like she sees the world differently from the rest of us.”

The vicar, still watching the chaise disappear around the bend, nodded slowly. “Sometimes,” he said quietly, “that’s exactly what’s needed.”

Meanwhile, Valerie settled back against the worn squabs of the chaise, her mind already racing ahead to what awaited her. A duke who banned Christmas, a presumably lonely child, and a household living in fear of their master’s displeasure. It was, she reflected, either going to be the most challenging position she’d ever held or the most interesting. Possibly both.

The letter from Lady Ellen had been intriguing enough to catch her attention even before she’d known about the generous salary. The elderly woman’s handwriting had been decisive, her words carefully chosen but with an underlying urgency that suggested more than the usual need for a governess.

“My dear Miss Reede,” the letter had begun, “I write to you on the recommendation of your former employer’s sister, Mrs. Green, who speaks highly of your abilities not only as an educator but as a young woman of uncommon sense and spirit. I find myself in need of someone with precisely these qualities for my great-niece, who is in desperate need of proper guidance and, dare I say, a friend.”

The letter had gone on to outline the particulars of the position, but it was the postscript that had truly decided Valerie: “I should mention that my nephew, the Duke of Everleigh, can be somewhat… difficult. He has his reasons, which I shall not elaborate upon in writing, but suffice it to say that Everleigh Hall needs more than just a governess. It needs someone who can bring light back to a house that has dwelt too long in shadow. I believe you might be just such a person.”

It was the sort of challenge Valerie had never been able to resist. Her father, before his death, had often said she had a talent for finding the complicated path when a simple one would do, but he’d said it with affection rather than criticism. “You see possibilities where others see problems, my dear,” he’d told her once. “It’s both your greatest gift and your most dangerous quality.”

The chaise lurched over a particularly deep rut, jolting Valerie from her reverie. Through the window, she could see they were passing through increasingly desolate countryside. The cheerful cottages near the village had given way to stretches of moorland, beautiful in their own stark way but undeniably lonely. The December afternoon was already beginning to fade, the pale sun sliding toward the horizon and painting the frost-covered landscape in shades of gold and grey.

Then, quite suddenly, they were there. The gates of Everleigh Hall loomed before them, massive iron structures that looked as if they hadn’t been opened wide in years. A gatekeeper emerged from the lodge, his expression suggesting that visitors were about as welcome as the plague and considerably less expected.

“State your business,” he called out, not bothering with pleasantries.

“Miss Valerie Reede, expected by Lady Ellen Everleigh,” the coachman replied, clearly eager to deposit his passenger and be on his way.

The gatekeeper’s expression shifted from suspicion to something that might have been pity. He opened the gates without another word, and the chaise rolled through onto a long, winding drive lined with ancient elm trees whose bare branches formed a tunnel of shadows in the dying light.

Valerie’s first glimpse of Everleigh Hall itself came as they rounded the final bend, and despite all the warnings she’d received, she couldn’t suppress a small gasp of admiration. The hall was magnificent, a perfect example of amazing architecture with its mullioned windows, twisted chimneys, and warm red brick that seemed to glow even in the fading light. It should have been beautiful, and in a way it was, but there was something indefinably wrong about it, like a portrait whose eyes don’t quite focus properly.

It took her a moment to realize what was missing: warmth. Despite the encroaching darkness, only a few windows showed any light, and those were dim, as if the inhabitants were rationing their candles.

There was no smoke from most of the chimneys, no bustle of activity that one would expect from a great house at this hour. It was as if the hall itself had been frozen in time, caught in a moment of grief and never allowed to move forward.

The chaise pulled up to the main entrance, and Valerie gathered her courage along with her small valise. The coachman helped her down with obvious reluctance, clearly wanting to be away from this place as quickly as possible. She couldn’t entirely blame him, but she also couldn’t help feeling a spark of irritation at his eagerness to abandon her.

“Thank you for your assistance,” she said with pointed politeness. “I do hope the return journey is less fraught with navigation difficulties.”

He had the grace to look slightly ashamed as he climbed back onto his box and drove away, leaving Valerie standing alone before the imposing entrance to Everleigh Hall. The massive oak door was closed, and for a moment she wondered if she should knock or if someone had seen her arrival and would come to admit her. The question was answered when the door opened with a creak that seemed deliberately ominous, revealing a butler who looked as if he’d been carved from the same stone as the hall’s foundations.

“Miss Reede,” he said in a tone that suggested her name tasted unpleasant in his mouth. “Lady Ellen is expecting you. Follow me.”

He turned without waiting to see if she would comply, apparently confident that anyone who had made it this far would have little choice but to follow. Valerie picked up her valise,  as the butler had made no move to take it from her, and followed him into the hall.

The entrance hall was even more imposing from within, with a massive stone fireplace that contained nothing but cold ashes, and a staircase that swept upward into shadows. Portraits lined the walls, their subjects gazing down with the universal disapproval that seemed to be a requirement for ancestral paintings. The air was cold enough that Valerie could see her breath, and she pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

The butler led her through a series of increasingly gloomy corridors, each one seeming darker and colder than the last and Valerie found herself wondering if this was deliberate, a sort of test to see if she would turn and flee before reaching her destination. If so, they had underestimated her. She had once spent an entire winter in a household where the lady of the house believed that heating was morally corrupting and that cold built character. After that, mere physical discomfort held little terror for her.

Finally, they reached a door that looked slightly less forbidding than the others, possibly because a thin line of light showed beneath it. The butler knocked once, waited for a response, then opened the door and announced, “Miss Reede, my lady,” before disappearing back into the gloom with impressive speed for someone of his apparently advanced years.

The room Valerie entered was like stepping from winter into autumn; not quite warm, but notably less frigid than the corridors. A fire actually burned in the grate, though it seemed to be fighting a losing battle against the December chill, and several candles provided enough light to see by without straining. The room itself was a sitting room that had once been elegant and still retained traces of its former charm beneath the general air of neglect.

Lady Ellen Everleigh sat in a wing-backed chair near the fire, and Valerie’s first thought was that here, at least, was someone who had refused to let the general gloom of the hall defeat her. The elderly woman was dressed in purple silk that had seen better days but was still defiantly colorful, and her white hair was arranged in a style that suggested she had not given up on the possibility of looking presentable even if no one else cared to make the effort.

“Miss Reede,” Lady Ellen said, rising with more agility than her age would suggest. “Thank goodness you’ve come. I was beginning to worry that you might have been waylaid by well-meaning villagers trying to warn you off. They do that, you know, every time someone new arrives. They seem to think they’re being helpful, but really they’re just making everything worse. Do sit down, you look half-frozen, which isn’t surprising given that my nephew seems to believe that comfort is a form of moral weakness.”

Valerie sat gratefully in the chair indicated, setting her valise beside her. “Thank you, Lady Ellen. The villagers were indeed very eager to warn me, though I found their concerns somewhat… dramatically expressed. They made it sound as though the duke were some sort of ogre from a fairy story.”

Lady Ellen’s laugh was surprisingly robust. “Oh, my dear, if only it were that simple. Ogres can be defeated with cleverness and a bit of courage. My nephew is far more complicated than that. He’s not evil, you see, merely broken, and broken things are much harder to fix than evil ones. Evil can be opposed and overcome. Broken things require patience and understanding and a great deal of delicate handling, none of which are qualities my nephew inspires in those around him.”

She leaned forward, studying Valerie with sharp blue eyes that missed nothing. “Mrs. Green told me you were different from the usual run of governesses. She said you had a way of seeing through to the heart of things, of understanding what people need even when they don’t know themselves. I hope she was right, because that child upstairs needs more than French lessons and deportment training. She needs someone who can show her that life isn’t meant to be endured but lived.”

“You’re speaking of Miss Lydia?” Valerie asked. “Your letter mentioned she was 12 years old, but little else about her circumstances.”

“Ah, yes. I suppose I should explain the family situation, though it’s not a happy tale.” Lady Ellen settled back in her chair with the air of someone preparing to relate a long and complicated story. “Lydia is my great-niece, the daughter of my nephew Charles—Adrian’s younger brother. Charles and his wife died in a carriage accident three years ago, and Lydia came to live here at Everleigh Hall. Adrian is her guardian, and he provides for all her material needs, but as for emotional needs… well, my nephew has rather strong opinions about the dangers of excessive emotion.”

“I see,” Valerie said, though she wasn’t sure she did. “And the ban on Christmas? The villagers seemed to find that particularly distressing.”

Lady Ellen’s expression grew sad. “That’s a longer story, and one that Adrian would probably prefer I didn’t tell. But since you’re going to be living here, you need to understand what you’re dealing with. You see, there was another brother—Maximus, the middle child. He died on Christmas Eve fifteen years ago, when Adrian was seventeen and Maximus was fifteen. The circumstances were… well, let’s just say that Adrian blames himself, and he’s been punishing himself and everyone around him ever since.”

“Fifteen years is a very long time to grieve,” Valerie observed carefully.

“It is indeed, especially when that grief has been allowed to calcify into something harder and more destructive than mere sorrow. Adrian has convinced himself that by refusing to celebrate, by denying himself and others any joy during the Christmas season, he’s somehow honoring his brother’s memory. In reality, of course, he’s simply created a monument to his own guilt, and we’re all forced to live in its shadow.”

The fire crackled in the grate, sending up a shower of sparks that seemed almost cheerful in the oppressive atmosphere. Valerie watched them rise and disappear, thinking about what she’d heard. A man trapped by guilt, a child growing up without joy, a household frozen in perpetual winter; it was indeed more complicated than she’d expected.

“What happened to the previous governesses?” she asked. “Your letter mentioned there had been three in recent months.”

Lady Ellen sighed. “The first was a nervous little thing who burst into tears the first time Adrian spoke to her. Though in fairness, he can be rather intimidating when he chooses. The second lasted a bit longer but made the mistake of trying to organize a small birthday celebration for Lydia. Adrian’s response was… not temperate. The third simply disappeared one night, leaving a note saying she couldn’t bear the atmosphere any longer.”

“And yet you keep trying to find someone,” Valerie observed. “Why not simply take Lydia elsewhere, if the situation here is so unbearable?”

“Because this is her home,” Lady Ellen said firmly. “Her parents are buried in the family crypt, her heritage is here, and despite everything, Adrian is her family. He’s not a bad man, Miss Reede, truly he’s not. He’s just lost his way so thoroughly that he can’t even see that he’s lost anymore. I keep hoping that someone, the right someone, might be able to reach him, to remind him that life is meant for living, not for perpetual penance.”

“And you think I might be that someone?” Valerie asked, not sure whether to be flattered or alarmed.

“I think,” Lady Ellen said carefully, “that you’re someone who doesn’t accept a situation simply because it exists. Mrs. Green told me about how you managed to convince old Lord Blackstone to allow his daughters to attend the local assembly, despite his conviction that dancing was the first step on the road to moral ruin. She said you did it not through confrontation but through gentle persistence and creative interpretation of his own arguments.”

Valerie smiled at the memory. “I simply pointed out that if dancing was indeed morally dangerous, then surely his daughters needed to be exposed to it in a controlled environment where they could build up their resistance, much like one takes small doses of poison to build immunity. He found the logic compelling, though I’m not sure he ever quite realized I was making the whole thing up as I went along.”

“Exactly!” Lady Ellen exclaimed, clapping her hands together. “That’s precisely the sort of thinking we need here. Adrian has constructed this elaborate logical framework to justify his behaviour, but logic can be turned against itself if one is clever enough. And I believe you are.”

Before Valerie could respond, the door opened without warning, causing both women to turn. The man who entered did so with the kind of unconscious authority that suggested he was used to doors opening for him and rooms reorganizing themselves around his presence. This, Valerie knew immediately, was the Duke of Everleigh.

Chapter 2

He was taller than she had expected, with dark hair that needed cutting and clothes that, while obviously expensive, showed the kind of indifference to appearance that came from either supreme confidence or complete apathy. His face would have been handsome if it hadn’t been set in lines that suggested he’d forgotten how to smile and wasn’t particularly interested in remembering. But it was his eyes that caught her attention; grey like winter storms, and just as cold.

“Aunt Ellen,” he said, his voice deep and cultured but with an edge that suggested he was perpetually on the verge of irritation. “Benjamin mentioned that the new governess had arrived. I assume this is she?”

The way he said it, without looking at Valerie directly, as if she were a piece of furniture that had been delivered, immediately set her teeth on edge. She had dealt with dismissive employers before, but there was something particularly galling about being discussed as if she weren’t present when she was sitting right there.

“Indeed,” Lady Ellen said, and there was a warning in her tone that the duke either didn’t notice or chose to ignore. “Adrian, may I present Miss Valerie Reede? Miss Reede, my nephew, His Grace the Duke of Everleigh.”

Valerie rose and dropped a curtsey that was perfectly correct in its execution while somehow managing to convey that she was doing it because etiquette demanded it, not because she felt any particular deference. “Your Grace,” she said in a tone that matched his for coolness.

He looked at her then, really looked at her for the first time, and she had the uncomfortable sensation of being catalogued and assessed like a horse at auction. She lifted her chin slightly and met his gaze directly, which seemed to surprise him. Apparently, the previous governesses hadn’t been quite so bold.

“Miss Reede,” he said after a moment. “I trust my aunt has explained the rules of this household?”

“She’s explained that you don’t celebrate Christmas,” Valerie replied evenly. “Though I confess I’m curious about the practical application of such a ban. Does it extend to all forms of joy and celebration, or is it specifically limited to December? Are birthdays also forbidden? What about Easter? I only ask because I like to understand the boundaries of my position clearly from the outset.”

Lady Ellen made a sound that might have been a cough but sounded suspiciously like a suppressed laugh. The duke’s expression, already stern, became positively glacial.

“I see you have a tendency toward impertinence, Miss Reede. Let me be perfectly clear: you are here to educate my niece in the subjects appropriate for a young lady of her station. You are not here to question the running of my household or to impose your own opinions about what constitutes appropriate celebration. This is a house of mourning, and it will remain so. Is that understood?”

“Perfectly,” Valerie said, though something in her tone suggested that understanding and agreeing were two very different things. “Though I should point out that perpetual mourning is rather hard on a child. They have a natural tendency toward joy that’s quite difficult to suppress entirely. Rather like trying to keep the sun from rising; you can close all the curtains, but the light has a way of finding the cracks.”

“Then I suggest you ensure there are no cracks,” the duke said coldly. “My niece will be educated in a manner befitting her station, with proper emphasis on discipline, duty, and decorum. She does not need frivolity or false cheer. She needs structure and guidance.”

“She needs love,” Valerie said before she could stop herself. “All children do. It’s not frivolity, it’s as essential as food or shelter.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees, which was impressive given that it was already quite cold. The duke’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Are you telling me how to raise my ward, Miss Reede? You’ve been in this house for less than an hour, and you presume to lecture me on what my niece needs?”

Most people would have backed down at this point. Valerie, however, had never been most people. “I’m not lecturing, Your Grace. I’m simply observing that in my experience—which, while perhaps not as extensive as yours in some areas, is quite substantial when it comes to children—young people thrive on affection and warmth. They wither without it, like plants kept too long from the sun.”

“Plants,” the duke repeated, his tone suggesting he found the comparison both ridiculous and offensive. “My niece is not a plant, Miss Reede. She is a young lady who will one day have responsibilities and duties that require strength of character, not the weakness that comes from excessive coddling.”

“With respect, Your Grace, showing affection is not coddling. It’s basic human kindness. And strength of character comes not from deprivation but from knowing one is valued and loved. A child who feels secure in their worth is far more likely to develop true strength than one who is constantly trying to earn approval that never comes.”

Lady Ellen was watching this exchange with the fascination of someone observing a particularly exciting game. The duke, however, looked as if he were seriously reconsidering his decision to hire this particular governess.

“You have very decided opinions for someone in your position,” he said finally, and there was something in his tone that might have been a warning.

“I do,” Valerie agreed readily. “I find that having no opinions at all makes one rather useless as a governess. After all, how can I guide a child’s education if I have no thoughts about what constitutes good education? Though I’m perfectly willing to adapt my methods to suit your preferences, as long as they don’t actively harm the child.”

“Harm?” The duke’s voice rose slightly. “Are you suggesting I would harm my own ward?”

“Not intentionally,” Valerie said carefully. “But there are many ways to harm a child that have nothing to do with physical injury. Emotional neglect can be just as damaging as any blow. A child who never experiences joy, who never feels truly loved, who grows up believing that happiness is somehow wrong or forbidden…that child is being harmed, whether we mean to do it or not.”

The duke stood very still for a moment, and Valerie wondered if she had gone too far. She had a tendency to speak her mind when she should probably hold her tongue, and it had cost her positions before. But something about this place, about the crushing weight of unnecessary sorrow that pressed down on everything, made her feel that silence would be a form of complicity.

“You forget yourself, Miss Reede,” the duke said finally, his voice deadly quiet. “You are an employee in this household, nothing more. You will follow the rules I have set, or you will find yourself seeking other employment. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystalline,” Valerie replied, meeting his gaze steadily. “Though I should mention that clarity of instruction doesn’t necessarily guarantee compliance if the instructions go against one’s conscience. I’m not trying to be difficult, Your Grace, well, not entirely, but I believe in being honest about my limitations. I can teach your niece French and arithmetic and all the accomplishments expected of a young lady. I can ensure she behaves with proper decorum and understanding of her position. But I cannot and I will not teach her that joy is wrong or that love is weakness. If that makes me unsuitable for this position, it’s better we know it now.”

The silence that followed this declaration was profound. Lady Ellen seemed to be holding her breath, and even the fire seemed to crackle more quietly, as if waiting to see what would happen next.

The duke studied Valerie with those cold grey eyes, and she had the uncomfortable feeling that he was seeing more than she intended to show. There was an intelligence there, sharp and probing, that suggested his self-imposed isolation hadn’t dulled his ability to read people.

“You realise,” he said slowly, “that you’re essentially threatening to disobey me before you’ve even begun your duties?”

“I prefer to think of it as establishing honest expectations,” Valerie replied. “I’ve found that most conflicts in households arise from misunderstandings about what is and isn’t acceptable. If you truly require someone who will teach your niece that emotions are dangerous and happiness is forbidden, then I’m not the right person for this position. But if you simply want someone who will educate her properly while perhaps allowing a bit of light into her life, not Christmas specifically, just the normal small pleasures that make childhood bearable, then I believe I could be of service.”

“Bearable,” the duke repeated, and there was something odd in his tone. “You think childhood here is unbearable?”

Valerie hesitated, then decided that having come this far, she might as well be completely honest. “I think, Your Grace, that this house feels like a tomb. Beautiful, certainly, and impressive, but a tomb nonetheless. And tombs, whatever their architectural merits, are no place for children to grow up.”

Lady Ellen made that coughing sound again. The duke’s expression was unreadable, cycling through what might have been anger, surprise, and something else Valerie couldn’t quite identify.

“You are either very brave or very foolish, Miss Reede,” he said finally.

“Probably both,” Valerie admitted. “My father always said they were often the same thing, just viewed from different angles. But if I may be so bold, Your Grace, you didn’t bring me here, or rather, Lady Ellen didn’t bring me here, because you wanted another frightened mouse who would scurry about trying not to be noticed. If that’s what you wanted, you could have hired locally. The fact that you’ve brought in someone from outside suggests you’re looking for something different, even if you’re not quite ready to admit what that something is.”

“You presume a great deal,” the duke said, but some of the ice in his voice had been replaced by something that might have been curiosity.

“It’s a failing of mine,” Valerie agreed cheerfully. “I also talk too much when I’m nervous, which I definitely am, despite appearances to the contrary. This house is rather intimidating, and you’re quite formidable when you’re doing that thing with your eyebrows—you know, where they draw together like thunderclouds gathering for a particularly impressive storm. It’s very effective. I imagine it sends most people running for cover.”

“But not you?” There was definitely something different in his tone now, though Valerie couldn’t quite place it.

“Oh, I’m quite tempted to run,” she assured him. “But I’ve found that running from things that scare me only means I have to face them later when I’m tired and out of breath. Better to stand my ground now while I still have the energy to be impertinent.”

“Is that what you call it? Impertinent?”

“Would you prefer ‘refreshingly honest’? Though I suppose that’s rather self-aggrandizing. ‘Chronically outspoken’ might be more accurate, though less flattering.”

Lady Ellen was no longer trying to hide her amusement. “Adrian,” she said, and there was a note of pleading in her voice, “at least give her a chance. Lydia needs someone, and Miss Reede, is the first person who’s walked through that door in years who hasn’t been completely cowed by your glowering.”

“I do not glower,” the duke said with great dignity, while doing exactly that.

“Of course not, Your Grace,” Valerie said with suspicious meekness. “That expression you’re wearing right now is clearly something else entirely. Perhaps ‘brooding intensity’? That sounds much more ducal.”

For just a moment, so brief Valerie might have imagined it, something that could have been amusement flickered in the duke’s eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by the familiar cold distance.

“You may stay,” he said abruptly. “On a trial basis. One month. If in that time you can manage to educate my niece without filling her head with nonsense about Christmas and celebrations, you may continue. But if I find you’ve been encouraging any form of festivity, any violation of the rules I’ve established, you’ll be dismissed immediately without reference. Is that clear?”

“As clear as a bell that’s been forbidden to ring because it might sound too cheerful,” Valerie said, then added quickly, “That is to say, yes, Your Grace. Perfectly clear.”

The duke stared at her for another long moment, as if trying to decide whether that had been another impertinence or just an oddly phrased agreement. Finally, he turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

“Benjamin will show you to your room,” he said over his shoulder. “You’ll meet Lydia at breakfast tomorrow. Seven o’clock sharp. We keep early hours here.”

“Of course you do,” Valerie murmured, just quietly enough that he could pretend not to have heard it if he chose.

He paused at the door, his back to them. “Miss Reede?”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“That thing you said about plants and sunshine…Lydia is not to spend excessive time outdoors. The December air is unhealthy for young lungs.”

“Even plants need fresh air occasionally,” Valerie said mildly. “But I’m sure we can find a balance between protection and suffocation.”

He left without responding, the door closing behind him with a decisive click that somehow managed to convey disapproval.

Lady Ellen waited until his footsteps had faded before bursting into delighted laughter. “Oh, my dear! That was magnificent! I haven’t seen anyone stand up to him like that in years. The look on his face when you compared the house to a tomb was priceless!”

“I probably shouldn’t have said that,” Valerie admitted, sinking back into her chair now that the tension had passed. “Or most of the other things I said, come to think of it. I have a terrible habit of speaking first and thinking later.”

“On the contrary, it was exactly what needed to be said. Adrian has surrounded himself with people who either fear him or pity him, neither of which does him any good. What he needs is someone who will challenge him, make him think, make him feel something other than the guilt he’s wrapped around himself like a shroud.”

“I’m here to teach his niece, not reform him,” Valerie pointed out.

“Are you?” Lady Ellen asked shrewdly. “Because from where I sat, you seemed quite invested in pointing out the flaws in his worldview.”

Valerie was saved from having to answer by the arrival of the lugubrious butler, Benjamin, who announced in sepulchral tones that he would escort her to her quarters. She gathered her valise and followed him, but not before Lady Ellen caught her hand.

“Be patient with him,” the older woman said softly. “He wasn’t always like this. There was a time when Adrian was full of light and laughter. That person is still in there somewhere, buried under years of self-imposed penance. If anyone can find that person, I believe it might be you.”

Valerie squeezed her hand gently. “I’ll do my best for Lydia,” she promised. “As for the duke… well, I suppose we’ll see what happens.”

The room Benjamin led her to was on the third floor, which told her a great deal about her position in the household hierarchy. It was small but clean, with a narrow bed, a washstand, a small wardrobe, and a single window that looked out over the grounds. The walls were bare of decoration, and the only heat came from a tiny fireplace that looked as if it hadn’t been lit in months.

“Dinner is served in the servants’ hall at six,” Benjamin informed her. “Breakfast is at six-thirty for staff, though you’ll take it with Miss Lydia in the schoolroom at seven. The duke does not approve of tardiness.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Valerie said, setting down her valise. “Tell me, Mr. Benjamin, is it always this cold, or is this a special welcome for new employees?”

The butler’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes might have softened slightly. “The duke believes that excessive warmth breeds weakness of character, miss. You’ll find extra blankets in the wardrobe, though I didn’t tell you that.”

“Of course not,” Valerie agreed. “And I suppose if I were to light a fire in this fireplace, purely for the sake of not freezing to death overnight, I would have a problem?”

“The duke has not specifically forbidden fires in the servants’ quarters,” Benjamin said carefully. “He merely doesn’t encourage them. There’s wood in the storage room at the end of the hall, though I certainly wouldn’t suggest you help yourself to it.”

“Certainly not,” Valerie said, beginning to understand how the household functioned. “Thank you, Mr. Benjamin. You’ve been very… informative.”

He inclined his head slightly and departed, leaving Valerie alone in her new quarters. She sat on the edge of the bed, which was exactly as hard as she’d expected, and took stock of her situation.

She was in a house where joy was forbidden, warmth was considered weakness, and Christmas was treated as if it were a contagious disease. Her employer was a man who seemed determined to make everyone around him as miserable as he was, and her charge was a child who had never known what it was like to celebrate anything.

Most sensible people would already be planning their escape.

Valerie, however, was already planning something quite different. She unpacked her few belongings, arranging them carefully in the wardrobe, and then did exactly what Benjamin had absolutely not suggested and helped herself to enough wood to build a small fire. As the flames began to take hold, casting dancing shadows on the bare walls, she thought about what Lady Ellen had said.

The duke had once been full of light and laughter. That suggested he wasn’t naturally inclined toward misery but it was something he’d chosen, or perhaps something that had chosen him in a moment of terrible grief and he never let go. Such things could be changed, though it wouldn’t be easy.

As she prepared for bed, Valerie found herself thinking about Lydia, the child she’d yet to meet. A twelve-year-old child, orphaned, living in this monument to someone else’s grief. What must it be like, growing up in a house where happiness was forbidden? How did a child’s natural exuberance survive in such an environment?

Tomorrow, she would find out. Tomorrow, she would meet her charge and begin the work she’d been hired to do. But already, she suspected that teaching French and arithmetic would be the least of her duties. The real challenge would be bringing light back to a house that had lived in darkness for far too long.

She thought of the duke’s eyes, cold and grey as winter storms, and wondered what they had looked like when he still knew how to smile. It was probably presumptuous to think she could make any difference to someone so determined to be miserable, but then, she’d always been a bit presumptuous.

Her father had once told her that the thing about lighting candles in dark places was that you never knew which one would finally be enough to push back the shadows. “So you just keep lighting them,” he’d said, “one at a time, until eventually the darkness has nowhere left to hide.”

Valerie smiled at the memory and pulled the extra blankets from the wardrobe—the ones Benjamin definitely hadn’t told her about. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, but tonight, at least, she had a fire in the grate and hope in her heart.

And sometimes, she thought as she drifted off to sleep, that was enough to start with.

Chapter 3

The morning arrived with the kind of bitter cold that made one seriously question the wisdom of ever leaving bed. Valerie woke to find her fire had died during the night, and the water in her pitcher had developed a thin skin of ice. She dressed quickly in her most serviceable wool dress, dark blue, which she felt struck the right balance between respectful and not quite mourning, and made her way down to the schoolroom.

She arrived at precisely seven o’clock, because punctuality seemed like one battle not worth fighting, to find a small figure already seated at the table, hands folded, back straight, looking for all the world like a miniature adult rather than a twelve-year-old child.

This, then, was Lydia Everleigh.

She was a pretty child, with dark hair like her uncle’s but with a natural curl that suggested it would be quite lovely if anyone ever bothered to style it properly instead of pulling it back in the severe bun that currently contained it. Her eyes were blue rather than grey, which was a mercy, and her face had the kind of delicate features that would likely make her a beauty when she grew up, assuming she ever learned to smile.

“You must be Miss Lydia,” Valerie said warmly. “I’m Miss Reede, your new governess. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

The child rose and executed a perfect curtsey. “Good morning, Miss Reede. I hope you had a pleasant journey yesterday.”

The words were delivered with the kind of mechanical precision that suggested they’d been rehearsed, possibly many times. Valerie felt her heart sink slightly. This was going to be even more challenging than she’d thought.

“Well, pleasant might be rather too generous a term,” Valerie remarked lightly, taking the seat opposite Lydia. “The roads were abominably uneven, and the coachman appeared determined to discover every rut in the county. Have you ever observed how coachmen seem positively to aim for the worst of the puddles? I sometimes suspect there is a secret understanding among them to see who can contrive the roughest journey for their passengers

 Lydia blinked, clearly unsure how to respond to this departure from script. “I… I wouldn’t know, Miss Reede. I don’t travel.”

“Never?” Valerie asked, genuinely surprised. “Not even to the village?”

“Uncle Adrian says the village is full of common people with common ideas, and that I shouldn’t be exposed to their influence.”

“How extraordinary,” Valerie said. “I’ve always found common people to have some of the most uncommon ideas. My father was a vicar, you see, so I grew up surrounded by all sorts of people; farmers and merchants and blacksmiths and such. Some of them were quite brilliant in their own ways. Mr. Thompson, our local blacksmith, had a theory about the movement of the planets that was completely wrong but absolutely fascinating. He thought they were all connected by invisible chains, which is why they moved in patterns.”

Lydia looked intrigued despite herself. “That’s not scientifically accurate.”

“Not at all,” Valerie agreed cheerfully. “But isn’t it a wonderful way to think about it? All the planets bound together, dancing through space in perfect harmony? Sometimes the wrong answers are more interesting than the right ones, don’t you think?”

“I… I’m not supposed to think wrong answers are interesting,” Lydia said carefully. “Uncle Adrian says accuracy and precision are the most important qualities of thought.”

“Your uncle is quite right, of course. Accuracy and precision are very important. But imagination is important too. After all, how would we ever discover new truths if we never imagined possibilities beyond what we already know?”

Before Lydia could respond, the door opened and a maid entered carrying a breakfast tray. The contents were exactly what Valerie had expected: porridge (grey and lumpy), bread (brown and dense), and milk (thankfully fresh, though served at room temperature). It was nutritious, filling, and completely joyless.

“Well,” Valerie said, surveying the offerings, “this is certainly… substantial. Tell me, Lydia, do you always have the same breakfast?”

“Yes, Miss Reede. Uncle Adrian says routine is important for building character.”

“I see. And what do you think?”

Lydia looked confused. “Think about what?”

“About having the same breakfast every day. Do you like it?”

“I…” Lydia paused, as if the concept of liking or not liking something was foreign to her. “It’s nutritious.”

“That wasn’t what I asked,” Valerie said gently. “I asked if you liked it.”

“Does it matter if I like it?” Lydia asked, and there was something heartbreaking about the genuine puzzlement in her voice.

“Of course it matters,” Valerie said firmly. “Your opinions and feelings always matter, even if they don’t always determine what happens. For instance, I don’t particularly like porridge because it reminds me of paste, but I understand that it’s good for me, so I eat it anyway. But acknowledging that I don’t like it doesn’t make me ungrateful or difficult. It just makes me honest.”

Lydia considered this as she ate her porridge with mechanical precision. “What do you like for breakfast, Miss Reede?”

“Oh, all sorts of things I probably shouldn’t,” Valerie said with a conspiratorial smile. “Eggs cooked with butter and herbs. Toast with jam, raspberry is my favorite, though strawberry is lovely too. Sometimes, on very special occasions, I’ve had chocolate! Have you ever had chocolate for breakfast?”

“Never!” Lydia looked scandalized but also intrigued. “Uncle Adrian says chocolate is an indulgence that weakens moral fiber.”

“Your uncle has very strong opinions about a great many things,” Valerie observed dryly. “Tell me, what else weakens moral fiber, according to His Grace?”

Lydia began counting on her fingers. “Excessive warmth, too much sleep, novels—especially romantic ones, laughter without proper cause, crying for any reason, games that have no educational value, bright colours, loud noises, unexpected visitors, changes to routine, and of course, any form of celebration or festivity.”

“Good heavens,” Valerie said. “That’s quite a list. It’s a wonder anyone has any moral fiber left at all. I’m afraid I’m guilty of at least half of those things on a regular basis.”

“Really?” Lydia leaned forward slightly, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Which ones?”

“Well, let’s see. I definitely enjoy excessive warmth…I’d sit by a roaring fire all day if I could. I love novels, especially the romantic ones your uncle disapproves of. I laugh at all sorts of improper things, I’ve been known to cry at beautiful music or sad stories, I adore games whether they’re educational or not, and I think bright colours make the world more interesting.”

“You won’t last long here,” Lydia said matter-of-factly. “The other governesses didn’t.”

“So I’ve heard. But I’m rather more stubborn than most. It’s another one of my character flaws, according to some. I prefer to think of it as determined.”

They finished their breakfast in companionable silence, and then Valerie suggested they begin with French lessons. Lydia fetched her books, all of them looking as if they’d been chosen for their complete lack of anything resembling entertainment value, and they settled into what should have been a very dull morning of conjugations.

Should have been, except that Valerie had never been able to resist making things interesting.

“Now,” she said, opening the French grammar to a particularly tedious section on irregular verbs, “the book would have us memorize these through repetition, which is certainly one way to do it. But I’ve always found it easier to remember things when they’re part of a story. So let’s create one, shall we? We’ll use each verb as we go.”

“Uncle Adrian says stories are a distraction from proper learning,” Lydia said automatically.

“Then we won’t tell him,” Valerie said simply. “This will be our secret method. Now, let’s start with ‘aller’—to go. Where shall our character go?”

Despite her obvious uncertainty about this approach, Lydia was drawn in. They created an increasingly elaborate tale about a French girl named Marie who went to Paris (aller), saw the palace (voir), took a boat down the Seine (prendre), and made friends with a talking cat (faire)—though Lydia protested that cats couldn’t really talk, to which Valerie responded that French cats were notably more accomplished than English ones.

By the end of the morning, Lydia had mastered fifteen irregular verbs and was actually smiling, though she seemed surprised by her own expression when she caught sight of herself in the window’s reflection.

“I should stop,” she said quickly, rearranging her features into their usual solemnity. “Uncle Adrian doesn’t approve of excessive smiling.”

“Excessive smiling,” Valerie repeated. “What exactly constitutes excessive? Once per day? Twice? Is there a weekly limit we mustn’t exceed?”

“You’re jesting,” Lydia said, but there was no accusation in it, just observation.

“I’m trying to understand the rules,” Valerie said. “It seems there are quite a lot of them, and I’d hate to accidentally encourage you to exceed your smiling allowance. Perhaps we should keep a chart? Monday: one small smile during French lessons…acceptable. Tuesday: two smiles, one during arithmetic and one during geography…borderline excessive. Wednesday: actual laughter…definitely forbidden.”

Lydia giggled, then immediately covered her mouth with her hand, looking guilty.

“Oh dear,” Valerie said with mock seriousness. “That was definitely a laugh. We’ll have to mark that down as a serious infraction. I suppose your uncle will want a full report.”

“You won’t really tell him, will you?” Lydia asked anxiously.

“Of course not. I’m not a spy, Lydia. I’m here to teach you, not to report on your every expression. Besides, I rather like your laugh. It’s a pleasant sound. This house could use more pleasant sounds.”

They were interrupted by the arrival of lunch, more grey food that seemed designed to discourage any enthusiasm about eating, and then spent the afternoon on geography, which Valerie livened up by describing the places she’d actually been, limited though they were, and imagining what the places neither of them had seen might be like.

“Have you ever wanted to travel?” Valerie asked as they studied a map of Europe.

“I used to,” Lydia admitted quietly. “When Mama and Papa were alive, they would tell me stories about their travels. They went to Italy on their wedding journey. Mama said the light there was different, golden and warm, like honey. She said the food tasted of sunshine.”

It was the first time Lydia had mentioned her parents voluntarily, and Valerie was careful not to react too strongly, sensing that any excessive interest might cause the child to retreat.

“That sounds lovely,” she said simply. “Perhaps someday you’ll see it for yourself.”

“Uncle Adrian says travel is unnecessary and disruptive to routine.”

“Your uncle says a great many things,” Valerie observed. “But you know, saying something doesn’t make it true. Even dukes can be wrong sometimes.”

Lydia looked shocked. “You shouldn’t say such things.”

“Why not? Is your uncle infallible? Has he been blessed with perfect knowledge of all things? Because if so, that’s quite remarkable and probably should be studied by scholars.”

“He’s very intelligent,” Lydia said defensively.

“I’m sure he is. Intelligence and infallibility aren’t the same thing, though. Some of the most intelligent people I’ve known have also been wrong about a great many things. Intelligence without wisdom is like having a very fast horse with no idea where you’re going—you’ll certainly get somewhere quickly, but it might not be where you intended.”

They were just finishing their geography lesson when the door opened and the duke himself entered. Lydia immediately straightened in her chair, her face returning to its mask of solemnity. Valerie found this transformation deeply troubling.

“Uncle Adrian,” Lydia said formally. “Good afternoon.”

“Lydia,” he acknowledged, then turned his cold gaze on Valerie. “Miss Reede. I trust the lessons are progressing satisfactorily?”

“Quite satisfactorily, Your Grace. Lydia is an excellent student. Her French pronunciation is particularly good, and she has a natural aptitude for geography.”

“I see.” He moved to look at their work, examining the maps and notebooks with the kind of attention that suggested he was looking for flaws. “This seems adequate. However, I notice you’ve deviated from the prescribed curriculum.”

Valerie had been expecting this. “Only slightly, Your Grace. I’ve found that adding context and narrative to the lessons helps with retention. Dry facts tend to slip away, but stories stick.”

“Stories,” he repeated in the same tone one might use for “pestilence.” “My niece does not need stories, Miss Reede. She needs education.”

“With respect, Your Grace, stories are education. Every history lesson is a story. Every scientific discovery began with someone wondering ‘what if?’ Even mathematics tells the story of relationships between numbers. We are narrative creatures by nature; it’s how we make sense of the world.”

“That is sophistry,” the duke said coldly. “You’re attempting to justify filling my niece’s head with nonsense by dressing it up in philosophical pretensions.”

“I’m attempting to make learning enjoyable,” Valerie countered. “A child who enjoys learning will learn more and retain it better than one who is forced to memorize through dull repetition.”

“Enjoyment is not the purpose of education.”

“Then what is?” Valerie asked, genuinely curious. “To create a person who can recite facts but has no context for them? Who knows the rules of grammar but has never thrilled to a beautifully constructed sentence? Who can point to France on a map but has no sense of what makes it different from England beyond geographical boundaries?”

The duke’s jaw tightened. “You exceed your bounds, Miss Reede.”

“I’m simply trying to understand your educational philosophy, Your Grace. It seems to be based on the principle that anything pleasant must be suspect, which I find curious. Why should suffering be more virtuous than joy? Why is difficulty more valuable than ease? If we can achieve the same goal, or indeed, a better outcome, through pleasant means rather than unpleasant ones, why choose misery?”

“Because life is not pleasant,” the duke said sharply. “Life is difficult and painful and full of disappointments. Better my niece learn that now in small doses than be shocked by it later.”

“Life can be difficult,” Valerie agreed. “But it can also be beautiful and surprising and full of unexpected delights. If we only prepare children for the worst, we rob them of the ability to recognize and appreciate the best when it comes. And worse, we might convince them that the worst is all there is.”

She glanced at Lydia, who was watching this exchange with wide eyes, and softened her tone. “I’m not suggesting we should shelter children from all difficulties or pretend that sadness doesn’t exist. But surely there’s a balance between preparing them for hardship and allowing them to experience joy?”

“Joy,” the duke said, and the word seemed to taste bitter in his mouth, “is a luxury we cannot afford.”

“Cannot? Or will not?” Valerie asked quietly.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. The duke’s grey eyes fixed on her with an intensity that would have sent most people fleeing.

“You forget yourself, Miss Reede. Again.”

“I remember myself quite well, Your Grace. I remember that I’m here to help this child learn and grow, not to perpetuate an atmosphere of unnecessary misery. If that puts me at odds with your preferences, then perhaps we should discuss whether my continued employment is in anyone’s best interest.”

It was a gamble, and Valerie knew it. She’d been there less than a full day, and already she was essentially threatening to leave if things didn’t change. But she also knew that she couldn’t and wouldn’t spend months or years watching this bright, curious child be slowly crushed under the weight of her uncle’s grief.

The duke stared at her for a long moment, and she could practically see him weighing his options. Then, unexpectedly, he turned to Lydia.

“Are you learning?” he asked abruptly.

Lydia looked startled to be addressed directly. “Yes, Uncle.”

“More than with your previous governesses?”

Lydia hesitated, glancing at Valerie, then back at her uncle. “Yes,” she said quietly. “Miss Reede  makes things… clearer.”

“Clearer,” the duke repeated. “Not more enjoyable?”

Lydia lifted her chin slightly, showing a spark of courage that made Valerie proud. “Both,” she said firmly. “Clearer and more enjoyable. I remembered all fifteen irregular verbs because of the story we created. With Miss Henderson, I could never remember more than five.”

The duke absorbed this information in silence. Finally, he said, “Continue with your lessons. But remember, Miss Reede, you are on trial. One month. I will be watching.”

He swept from the room, leaving Valerie and Lydia in a silence that felt somehow louder than any noise.

“That was brave of you,” Valerie said finally. “Telling him the truth.”

“Was it?” Lydia asked. “I thought it might have been wrong. Uncle Adrian doesn’t usually want to hear about enjoyment.”

“Telling the truth is never wrong, even when it’s difficult. Especially when it’s difficult, actually. That’s when it matters most.”

They continued with their lessons, but Valerie could see that Lydia was distracted, her mind clearly elsewhere. Finally, she set aside the arithmetic they’d been working on.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked gently.

“Christmas,” Lydia admitted in barely a whisper, as if even saying the word might summon her uncle’s wrath. “I was thinking about Christmas.”

“What about it?”

“The villagers are probably preparing for it, aren’t they? Even though we don’t celebrate here, they do in the village. I can see the church from my window, and last year I saw them carrying in greenery. It looked… pretty.”

“Have you ever celebrated Christmas?” Valerie asked carefully.

“When I was very small, with Mama and Papa. I don’t remember much, just… warmth. Laughter. The smell of oranges and cinnamon. Papa lifting me up to put a star on top of a tree.” Her voice grew wistful. “Sometimes I dream about it, but the dreams are fading. I’m forgetting what their voices sounded like.”

Valerie’s heart broke a little. “Would you like to tell me about them? Sometimes talking about people we’ve lost helps keep them present.”

“Uncle Adrian doesn’t like me to talk about them. He says dwelling on the past is pointless.”

“Your uncle,” Valerie said carefully, “is dealing with his own grief in his own way. But that doesn’t mean it has to be your way. Remembering people we love isn’t dwelling…it’s honoring. There’s a difference.”

Before Lydia could respond, there was a knock at the door. Lady Ellen entered, looking pleased.

“Ah, excellent, you’re both here. Valerie, I wondered if you might join me for tea? I think Lydia could use some time to practice her piano. You do still practice, don’t you, dear?”

“Yes, Aunt Ellen,” Lydia said dutifully. “Every day for exactly one hour.”

“Exactly one hour,” Lady Ellen repeated with a slight eye roll that only Valerie caught. “Of course. Well, off you go then.”