Chapter One
“You understand, Miss Finch, that this household requires a governess of unimpeachable character?”
Lady Bellingham turned a folded letter between her fingers as she said it.
“I understand it perfectly, Lady Bellingham.” Juliette kept her hands folded in her lap. “I have prepared for very little else these three weeks.”
“Three weeks?” Lady Bellingham looked up from the letter. “You have been at liberty three weeks?”
“I have been seeking a suitable family for three weeks. Liberty is a generous word for it.”
Lady Bellingham studied her a moment. “You are candid about your circumstances.”
“I am poor, madam, not ashamed,” Juliette said evenly. “The two are frequently confused.”
The fire had been laid small, a mean red line behind the grate. Juliette had sat before four such fires of late, and she read them now as plainly as any letter of character.
“You have two daughters, I understand.” Juliette glanced towards the schoolroom door across the hall.
“Cecily is nine. Frances is six, and will not sit,” Lady Bellingham said dryly.
“Then she and I shall suit. I did not care to sit at six either.”
“And how would you teach a girl who will not sit?”
“On her feet.” Juliette opened one hand towards the window. “Geography may be walked, sums counted upon the stairs. A child learns nothing while she is made to hold still and hate you for it.”
Lady Bellingham glanced at the letter again. “Her last governess held that stillness was the beginning of discipline.”
“Her last governess is not, I collect, still in your employ?”
Lady Bellingham’s brows lifted at the question. “She is not.”
“Then perhaps stillness was not the whole of it.”
That won the ghost of a smile, quickly put away.
“The wage is thirty pounds a year.” Lady Bellingham set the letter on her knee. “Sundays to yourself, and a half day at the quarter.”
“That is fair.” Juliette turned her gloves once in her lap. “I would ask one thing beyond it.”
“Already?” Lady Bellingham asked mildly.
“A key to the schoolroom. Not to lock the children in. To keep the household out.”
“That is an unusual request, Miss Finch.”
“I have taught in houses where there was not a door I might close.” Juliette met her gaze without apology. “It is not an error I mean to repeat.”
“Lady Bellmore gave you three lines.” Lady Bellingham tapped the folded paper. “Three, for two years of service.”
“She is not a woman given to enthusiasm. Three lines from her hand amounts to a monument.”
“She does not say why you left her,” Lady Bellingham said.
“The position ended after a misunderstanding within the household.” Juliette held her voice level. “I would not trouble you with another family’s private affairs.”
“That is the trouble. A blank is a loud thing in a character.”
“I would sooner offer you a blank than a lie.” Juliette smoothed one glove across her knee. “A blank you may fill with a question.”
“And the misunderstanding? Was it of your making?” Lady Bellingham asked quietly.
“No. But it wore my name by the end, as these things will.”
“You will say no more than that?”
“I will not carry one family’s linen into another’s drawing room.” Juliette lifted her chin a fraction. “If I would gossip of them to you, I would gossip of you to the next.”
“A governess who keeps her employer’s secrets.” Lady Bellingham turned the notion over. “There are worse habits.”
“It is the whole of my trade.” Juliette held her gaze a moment. “Children confide everything to the person who teaches them.”
“And you have received a great many confidences?”
“Enough to know their value.” Juliette glanced towards the small, cold fire. “Children observe more than we suppose, madam, and repeat less when they know they are trusted.”
“You are a singular applicant,” Lady Bellingham said slowly.
“I am an honest one. Singular is the word people use for honesty when it inconveniences them.”
“That is either wisdom or insolence.”
“At my wage, they are frequently the same coin,” Juliette answered.
“You have a ready answer for everything, Miss Finch.”
“Only because the questions never change.” Juliette turned her gloves in her lap. “I have simply heard them more often than most.”
Lady Bellingham held her gaze a moment past politeness, and whatever she found there seemed to answer a question she had carried into the room.
“You speak sensibly. I expected a good deal less.” She leant towards the bell. “Perhaps we might now discuss the particulars of the post.”
The drawing room door opened without the courtesy of a knock.
A man entered as though the room had been arranged that day for his convenience. He was tall enough to make the doorframe appear badly measured, and he wore black.
Lady Bellingham started. “Your Grace. We had no notion you meant to call.”
Juliette’s stomach dropped the instant he crossed the threshold.
***
Three Days Earlier
Juliette had entered the bookseller’s shop to consult the advertisements and found a child being questioned as though the fate of the Crown depended upon his answer.
The boy stood behind the counter with rain darkening his hair and the shoulders of his coat. He could not have been more than eleven. One ink-stained hand gripped the edge of the counter, while the other twisted a length of packing cord until it had reddened his fingers.
Before him stood a tall gentleman dressed entirely in black.
“When did you last see the parcel?” the gentleman asked.
His voice was quiet. That made it worse. A raised voice might have spent itself in anger; this one suggested a patience capable of continuing until the boy supplied an answer or ceased to possess one.
“This morning, sir.”
“At what hour?”
“I do not know, sir. Before the rain.”
“The rain began before nine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then was it before nine?”
The boy swallowed. “I think so.”
“You think so, or you remember it?”
Juliette closed the shop door behind her. The bell above it gave a small, unnecessary jangle.
Neither of them looked towards her.
The bookseller was nowhere in sight. A curtain behind the counter stood partly open, revealing a narrow passage and a flight of stairs. The tables were crowded with stitched pamphlets, sermons, maps and several new novels displayed with their pages still uncut. Near the window lay the morning newspapers Juliette had come to inspect.
She ought to have taken one and kept out of the matter.
A woman with three shillings remaining had no business interfering with a gentleman who appeared capable of purchasing the entire shop merely to improve its organisation.
“The parcel was wrapped in brown paper?” he continued.
“Yes, sir.”
“And sealed?”
“With the shop seal.”
“Addressed to Ravenscroft House?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What did you do with it after you wrapped it?”
“I put it with the deliveries.”
“Where?”
The boy looked towards a stack of parcels at the end of the counter. “There.”
“It is not there.”
“No, sir.”
“And you cannot say who removed it.”
“No, sir.”
The gentleman’s gloved hand came to rest upon the counter. The boy flinched although the hand had landed nowhere near him.
Juliette had seen children react that way before. It seldom meant that the person before them had struck them. More often, it meant that someone else had done so frequently enough to make every sudden movement a warning.
The gentleman noticed the flinch. Something in his expression altered, though his manner did not soften.
“Who entered the shop after you placed it there?”
“I cannot remember.”
“You must try.”
“I have tried.”
“Try again.”
The boy’s face crumpled before he could prevent it.
Juliette set down her gloves.
“I do not believe terror improves the memory, sir.”
The gentleman turned.
He was younger than she had supposed from his voice, perhaps not yet thirty. Severity sat upon him with the ease of long practice, but there was nothing careless in his attention. His eyes passed over Juliette’s plain blue gown, the worn reticule at her wrist and the newspaper she had not yet taken up.
“This matter does not concern you,” he said.
“It concerns the boy, and he appears in no state to answer you.”
“I have asked him several straightforward questions.”
“You have asked each one as though the wrong answer might see him transported.”
The apprentice stared at her.
The gentleman’s face remained still. “A parcel entrusted to this shop has disappeared.”
“Then searching for it may prove more useful than frightening the person most likely to remember where it was placed.”
“I am not frightening him.”
Juliette looked towards the boy.
A tear had escaped and was travelling down one rain-chilled cheek. He scrubbed it away with the heel of his hand.
“Evidently not,” she said.
The gentleman followed her glance. His mouth tightened.
“Were you charged with the parcel?” Juliette asked the boy.
“Yes, miss.”
“And your master?”
“Upstairs with the physician. His wife is ill.”
That explained the empty shop and something of the panic. The boy had been left responsible for more than a child could reasonably manage and knew that any failure would appear entirely his.
“If it is lost, Mr Dobson will turn me off,” he whispered.
“Has he said so?”
“He said I must learn to attend to what I am about.”
“That is not quite the same thing.”
“He dismissed Will for spoiling a set of engravings.”
The gentleman in black spoke before Juliette could answer.
“No one has proposed dismissing you.”
The boy looked unconvinced.
“You required him to account for something he cannot presently find,” Juliette said. “A child who depends upon his wages may supply the consequence without your assistance.”
“I require the parcel, not his position.”
“Then we are agreed upon what ought to be found.”
She came nearer the counter.
The gentleman watched her. “Do you work here?”
“No.”
“You appear remarkably well informed about what occurs in the shop.”
“I possess eyes.”
“An increasingly uncommon qualification.”
She declined to reward that.
“What was inside the parcel?” she asked.
“A volume belonging to my father.”
The answer checked her. It explained the control in his voice, if not the pressure he had placed upon the boy.
Juliette looked towards the apprentice. “When did you wrap it?”
“After I swept the front, miss. I fetched the brown paper from below and tied it here.”
He indicated the centre of the counter.
“Then?”
“A customer came for a map. I put the parcel aside.”
“Where?”
“With the deliveries.”
The answer came too quickly. It was the answer he had already given, not necessarily the thing he remembered.
Juliette lowered herself until her eyes were level with his.
“Do not tell me where you believe it ought to be. Tell me what your hands did.”
The boy stared at her.
“You wrapped the book,” she prompted.
“Yes, miss.”
“You tied the cord.”
“Yes.”
“The customer entered.”
“He wanted the new road map for Kent.”
“And you moved the parcel because it was in your way.”
The boy closed his eyes, trying to recover the movement rather than the explanation.
“I put it down.”
“Where?”
“I do not know.”
“That is perfectly well. Which hand held it?”
“My left.”
“And where did you reach?”
He moved his hand experimentally towards the shelving beneath the counter, then hesitated.
The gentleman stepped nearer.
The boy’s concentration broke at once.
Juliette looked up. “Would you move back?”
His brows drew together. “I beg your pardon?”
“You are looming over him.”
“I am standing.”
“At your height, the distinction is slight.”
For a moment she thought he would refuse merely because she had asked it.
Then he stepped back.
Juliette returned her attention to the apprentice.
“You had the parcel in your left hand.”
The boy repeated the movement. His fingers passed beneath the counter.
“I put it here.”
He dropped to his knees and searched the lower shelf. There were ledgers, loose paper and a wooden box containing sealing wafers, but no parcel.
His breathing quickened again.
“It is not there.”
“Wait.”
Juliette knelt beside him, heedless of what the dusty floor would do to her gown. The space beneath the counter was dark, and the shelving extended farther back than it appeared from above.
She moved the box of wafers. Nothing lay behind it.
The gentleman came around the end of the counter.
“Allow me.”
“You were asked not to crowd him.”
“I am not crowding the boy. I am offering to move the counter.”
“It is fixed to the floor.”
His gaze met hers. “You have examined it?”
“No. But unlike some people, I am prepared to draw conclusions from visible evidence.”
A faint sound came from the apprentice. It might have been the beginning of a laugh, hastily suppressed.
Juliette reached farther beneath the lowest shelf. Her fingers encountered paper.
“There is something behind it.”
The boy dropped beside her again. Together they drew out a brown-paper parcel tied with cord. Dust marked one corner, but the shop seal remained unbroken and the direction to Ravenscroft House was plainly written across its face.
The apprentice made a sound of such relief that Juliette felt it in her own chest.
“I remember now. The map was too large for the counter, so I pushed the parcel below. I meant to take it out again.”
The gentleman looked down at the recovered package. It had rested no more than three feet from the polished toe of his boot.
“You had not lost it,” Juliette said. “You had put it somewhere safe.”
“And forgotten where,” the gentleman replied.
“He is a child.”
“That does not improve the location.”
“No, but it ought to moderate the interrogation.”
He regarded her for a long moment, then turned to the apprentice.
“I pressed you too hard.”
The boy’s eyes widened.
The apology appeared to cost the gentleman something. Juliette respected him slightly for paying it.
“Dry yourself before your master comes down,” he continued. “And in future, write the location of every parcel in the delivery book when you set it aside.”
“Yes, sir.”
The boy took the recovered package in both hands.
The gentleman reached for it, then stopped when the apprentice flinched again.
“Set it upon the counter,” he said instead.
The boy obeyed.
Juliette rose and brushed dust from her skirts. The marks did not improve the gown, but little could have done so.
The gentleman’s gaze dropped to her mouth before returning to her eyes, and the severity of his expression altered by a degree too slight to name. Juliette became uncomfortably aware of his height, the breadth of his shoulders and the fact that irritation did not make a man less handsome.
She reached for her gloves.
“You came to purchase something?”
“To consult the advertisements.”
“For employment?”
“That is generally why one consults advertisements headed ‘Situations Vacant.’”
His gaze returned to the worn seams of her gloves, though not before lingering once more upon her face. She disliked the speed with which he appeared to take an inventory of her circumstances, and disliked still more her awareness of being examined by him.
“What sort of position?”
“That does not concern you.”
The answer produced the slightest shift at one corner of his mouth.
“No,” he said. “I collect that it does not.”
Chapter Two
“You,” Juliette said.
The gentleman from the bookseller’s shop stopped a pace inside the door. His gaze settled upon her face, then travelled with measured deliberation over her plain blue gown.
Lady Bellingham rose. “Your Grace. We had no notion you meant to call. May I present Miss Juliette Finch?”
Juliette had not known his rank when she confronted him in the bookseller’s shop. Lady Bellingham’s startled greeting now supplied what his bearing had only suggested.
“Miss Finch.” He inclined his head by the smallest degree. “What are you doing here?”
“Seeking a position.”
His gaze moved to the letter in Lady Bellingham’s hand. “Then the advertisements proved useful.”
“They appeared to have done so.”
“Until I entered.”
“You perceive the difficulty quickly.”
His mouth shifted, though the movement had no intention of becoming a smile.
“I came to ask Lord Bellingham a question concerning a payment made last spring,” he said. “It appears the question must keep.”
“A payment?” Lady Bellingham’s hand rose to her collar.
“A trifling matter of bookkeeping.” His tone made it plain that the matter was nothing of the kind. “I shall not disturb your afternoon further.”
He ought to have gone then, but did not. His attention moved from Lady Bellingham to Juliette, as though he had only now understood the cost of his entrance.
Lady Bellingham folded the letter. “Miss Finch, I believe we have taken enough of one another’s time.”
Juliette gathered her gloves and stood.
Lady Bellingham would not look at her now. “A woman who addresses a duke as you have done cannot teach my daughters obedience. I am sorry for it.”
Juliette glanced towards the man whose title had altered the whole complexion of the room.
“I did not know his rank when we met, madam,” she said. “But I take your meaning, and I shall not make you say it twice.”
There was no arguing with a fire laid so small.
“Thank you for receiving me, Lady Bellingham.” She turned towards the door. “I wish you joy of your daughters, and Frances the liberty to stand when she has been sitting too long.”
She did not look at the Duke as she passed him, though she remained conscious of his presence as one remains conscious of an approaching storm.
The street received her without sympathy.
His carriage stood at the kerb, black and crested, its horses stamping in the grey September light. She ought to have walked on. She had three shillings, a room paid for only until Friday and a brother to whom she could not return.
Instead, she stopped beside the carriage.
“You have now cost me a position.”
The Duke had followed her out and stood with one gloved hand upon the carriage latch. “You hold me responsible for the consequences of your own speech?”
“I hold you responsible for entering that room as though nothing within it could matter so much as your business.”
“You might have held your tongue.”
“And allowed Lady Bellingham to mistake silence for obedience?”
His gaze rested briefly upon her mouth before returning to her eyes.
“You are remarkably bold for a woman in want of employment.”
“And you are remarkably troublesome for a man who appears to possess everything.”
“Everything,” he repeated. “You know very little of what I possess.”
“I know what your presence has cost me.” Juliette drew her shawl more closely about her shoulders. “For the present, that is evidence enough.”
He turned towards the carriage, but the footman at its door made a sound that was scarcely a word and recoiled, one hand still upon the latch.
“Your Grace.” His voice had gone thin. “There is a child beneath the seat.”
Juliette reached the open door before the Duke had taken a step.
A child had wedged herself into the darkness beneath the rear bench, her knees drawn to her chest and both arms curved over her head. She appeared to be no more than seven, thin as a winter branch. When the footman bent to coax her out, she struck his wrist with one small fist and shrank further into the shadows.
“Wait,” Juliette said. “I think the sight of us is frightening her.”
The footman withdrew his hand and looked uncertainly towards his master.
The Duke moved nearer. Juliette caught his sleeve without thinking.
“Only a moment, Your Grace.”
His gaze fell to her hand.
She released him at once, conscious of the liberty she had taken. “If we crowd the door, she will believe herself trapped.”
He studied the small shape beneath the seat, then stepped back. With a glance, he directed the footman to do the same.
Juliette knelt upon the dirty stones, leaving some distance between herself and the open door.
“My name is Juliette,” she said without looking into the carriage. “No one will touch you. Neither shall I, unless you wish it. I mean only to sit here and ruin the last respectable gown I possess.”
Nothing stirred beneath the seat.
“It is an exceedingly ugly gown,” she added. “You would be performing a service.”
She traced a crack between the stones with one finger, keeping her face turned away.
“I am very practised at being ignored. You may ignore me for as long as you please.”
A long moment passed. Then the darkness shifted, and a pale face appeared at the edge of the bench. Two enormous eyes fixed upon Juliette.
She remained where she was.
The child emerged slowly at first, then crossed the last of the distance in a sudden rush and flung both arms about Juliette’s neck with such force that she nearly knocked her backwards. Her face pressed against Juliette’s throat, her thin body trembling violently.
“There now,” Juliette murmured into her hair. “You have been found. That is all. You are found.”
Beyond the child’s bowed head, the Duke went very still.
A silver locket hung from a plaited cord around the child’s neck. It had turned outward in her flight, revealing a crest worked into its face. Juliette did not recognise it, but the Duke plainly did. Every trace of their quarrel left his expression.
He stared at the locket as though it had spoken.
“That locket belonged to my father,” he said.
The words were quiet, but the child flinched against Juliette.
The Duke saw it. Whatever question had been forming upon his lips remained unspoken.
“We must take her somewhere warm,” Juliette said, keeping her voice low. “But I do not think she will return willingly to the carriage.”
His eyes remained upon the locket. “My house is not far.”
“If we walk slowly, she may allow me to carry her.”
He nodded once, then turned to the footman. “Take the carriage back. Send word that the nursery is to be opened and a fire lit.”
The footman hesitated. “The nursery, Your Grace?”
“At once.”
Juliette gathered the child carefully into her arms. The small body stiffened, then settled against her, both hands still knotted in her collar.
“May I?” she murmured.
The child gave no answer, but did not resist when Juliette rose.
The Duke offered his hand. Juliette accepted it only long enough to find her footing, then drew the child more securely against her.
Ravenscroft House was near enough to be reached on foot. They crossed the short distance in silence, the Duke keeping several paces from Juliette without being asked.
The house received them into a hall of cold marble and colder portraits. Servants had begun to gather, drawn by the unusual arrival, and the child’s arms tightened at once.
“Perhaps they might be dismissed,” Juliette said quietly.
The Duke glanced around the hall. “You heard Miss Finch.”
The servants withdrew, leaving only an elderly housekeeper at the foot of the stairs.
“Shall I take her, miss?” the woman asked, approaching with evident care.
The child turned her face sharply into Juliette’s neck.
“Not yet, I think.” Juliette adjusted her weight upon her hip. “Is there a quiet room where she may rest?”
“The nursery has stood empty for years,” the Duke said. “It should be ready by now.”
He led them upstairs.
The nursery held dust despite the servants’ haste, a newly kindled fire, and a rocking horse gone grey with neglect. The child would not allow herself to be laid upon the narrow bed. Each attempt to loosen her hold brought the same silent resistance, so Juliette sat upon the rug before the fire and settled the small body in her lap.
By slow degrees, the trembling eased. The child grew heavy and warm against her, and at last she slept.
The Duke remained near the door throughout. He neither approached nor spoke.
When the child’s breathing had deepened, Juliette looked up at him.
“You may come nearer now, if you are quiet.”
He crossed the room and lowered himself into a chair without a sound.
For some moments, he merely looked at the locket resting against the child’s gown.
“It bears the Ravenscroft crest,” he said at last. “It was made for my father, and I have not seen it since his death.”
Juliette looked down at the worn silver. “Yet you do not know her?”
“I have never seen her before today.” His expression hardened, though his voice remained low. “I do not know how she came to be beneath my carriage seat, who placed her there, or why she carries something that belonged to my family.”
“And you mean to ask her?”
“Not until she is able to answer without fear.”
The reply surprised her into silence.
“You seemed to know what she required,” he continued after a moment. “Have you encountered such distress before?”
“Something like it.” Juliette smoothed one hand over the child’s hair. “Children seldom grow calm merely because they are ordered to do so.”
His glance acknowledged the rebuke. “You were seeking a position,” he said.
“I was.”
“And Lady Bellingham has declined to employ you.”
“With some assistance from you.”
His gaze moved to the sleeping child. “Then perhaps I may repair the injury.”
Juliette regarded him more closely. “What are you proposing?”
“I have a child in my house whom no one else can approach. You are a governess, and she appears to trust you.”
“She has known me less than an hour. That is not trust.”
“No,” he conceded. “But it is more than she has granted anyone else.”
Juliette looked down at the small face against her shoulder. Even in sleep, the child retained a fistful of her gown.
“One month,” he said. “Twice the customary wage. Rooms of your own beside the nursery, with a lock upon the door and the only key.”
Her gaze returned sharply to his. “You heard that?”
“I was standing at the drawing-room door.”
“You were listening at it.”
“The distinction is not material to the offer.”
“It is material to me.”
“Nevertheless, you asked for a key. Here, you shall have one.”
“And authority over the nursery?”
“What sort of authority?”
“The right to refuse entrance to anyone whose presence distresses her. That includes you.”
His expression stilled.
Then he inclined his head. “Agreed.”
“You consent very readily.”
“I do not consent readily. I decide quickly.” His eyes met hers over the child’s head. “You have my word that I shall not overrule you.”
“Why a month?”
His gaze returned to the sleeping child. “A week may be too little. A month gives her time to become accustomed to you and gives me time to discover who she is.”
“And if the matter is not settled by then?”
“We shall decide what is necessary when the month is out.”
Juliette considered him in silence.
It was an extraordinary offer from a man she had called troublesome in the street only that afternoon. Yet her purse held scarcely enough to carry her through the week, and returning to her brother was no choice at all. More compelling still, she had a sleeping child in her arms who clung to her even in sleep.
“She ought to be seen by a physician,” Juliette said. “She is much too thin.”
“I shall send for one tonight.”
“And when she wakes, she should be offered something plain. Not questioned.”
He inclined his head. “I shall see that the household understands.”
Juliette looked at the locket. “You are certain you have never seen her?”
“Quite certain.”
“Then we must wait until she is ready to tell us who she is.”
His gaze settled upon the small face against her shoulder. “And if she does not?”
“Then you must discover it without pressing her.”
“I intend to.”
There was no impatience in the answer. For all his severity, he had stepped away from the carriage when asked, dismissed the servants and remained at the nursery door rather than asserting his right to enter. It did not make him agreeable, but it persuaded Juliette that his word might be worth testing.
“One month,” she said. “At twice the customary wage. Rooms beside the nursery, with a lock and the only key. And authority to exclude you from this room if your presence distresses either the child or me.”
“You are very precise in your terms.”
“I believe precision is considered a useful quality in a governess.”
The line of his mouth eased.
Juliette glanced down at the child’s hand, still knotted in her gown. She had nowhere else she wished to go and very little time in which to find it. That alone might have decided her. The sleeping weight in her arms made refusal impossible.
“I accept.”
The Duke rose. “Then I shall leave you to your charge, Miss Finch.”
He reached the door before she spoke again.
“Your Grace.”
He turned.
“When you speak to her, pray lower your voice. She has no reason yet to know that you mean her no harm.”
He regarded her for a long moment. “Nor, I collect, have you.”
“Not yet.”
Something in his expression altered, too slightly for her to name.
“Then I shall have to give you one.”
He left before she could answer.
Juliette listened to his footsteps recede along the passage. In her lap, the child stirred and tightened her hold, but did not wake.
An hour ago, she had possessed no position and no prospect she could bear to contemplate. Now she was governess to a nameless child carrying the late duke’s locket, in the house of a man she neither liked nor trusted.
She looked towards the empty doorway.
It was not safety. But for the first time that day, it was somewhere to remain.
Chapter Three
Six days after the child’s arrival, Damian entered the nursery without knocking.
Juliette looked up from the slate beneath the girl’s hand. The child’s fingers stopped at once.
“Your Grace,” Juliette said quietly. “You were to knock.”
Damian remained upon the threshold. For five days he had honoured the authority he had given her, confining his inquiries to the housekeeper, the physician and the servants who had searched the carriage. He had also spent much of the previous night with his father’s papers spread across the library desk, reading the same three lines until dawn without taking in a word.
“I beg your pardon.” He withdrew a pace and knocked upon the open door.
It was absurd, but the girl’s fingers loosened around the chalk.
“Come in,” Juliette said.
He crossed the threshold more carefully the second time. “I require information.”
“And I shall give you what I have.” Juliette set the chalk beside the slate. “But not if you question her.”
His gaze moved to the silver cord disappearing beneath the girl’s collar. “I have no intention of frightening her.”
“No. But intention is not always enough.”
There was no accusation in her voice, which made the observation more difficult to dismiss.
He drew a chair towards the low table and sat. The girl watched the movement without lifting her head.
“What have you learnt?” he asked.
“That she understands a great deal of what is said to her. She can form several letters, though I do not yet know whether she can read.” Juliette turned the slate so that he could see the uneven row upon it. “She eats whatever is placed before her, but saves part of her bread.”
“For later?”
“I believe so. She no longer hides it in her sleeve, but she keeps a piece beneath her pillow.”
His expression altered. “Is she not being fed sufficiently?”
“She is being fed very well. Her stomach has not yet learnt to trust that there will be another meal.”
Damian’s attention fell to the turned cuffs of her frock and the small, careful stitches along one seam. “Were those repairs made here?”
“No. She arrived in them.” Juliette lowered her voice. “She can wash and dress herself, and she knows how to behave at table. Whatever her recent condition, someone had cared for her before.”
“And somehow she was separated from them.”
“That is all we can safely conclude.”
The thought cast a silence over them.
“She still will not speak?” he asked.
“Nothing I can be certain of.”
“Does she try?”
“She makes herself understood in other ways.” Juliette glanced at the paper beside the slate. “She points. She draws. When she wants something moved, she places my hand upon it.”
“Can she tell you what happened?”
“Not yet.”
His gaze sharpened. “Have you asked?”
“I have given her opportunities. That is not the same as demanding an answer.”
“She wears my family’s crest around her neck.”
“I know.”
“And six days have passed.”
Juliette met his eyes. “Six days in which she has begun to eat without watching the door and has slept twice without waking in terror. I will not undo that merely because uncertainty is uncomfortable for you.”
Damian’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice level. “You believe me incapable of patience.”
“I believe you have seldom been required to practise it.”
The faintest movement touched his mouth.
The little girl reached for the charcoal.
She bent over the paper and began to draw with quick, urgent strokes, using her whole arm. Juliette fell silent. The charcoal hissed across the page until a black bird emerged at its centre, its wings half spread. Above it she drew a crown broken into two pieces. Beneath it lay the rough figure of a man, his arms flung wide.
When she had finished, she pushed the sheet across the table towards Damian without looking at him.
He stared down at it.
The bird was crudely rendered, but the device was unmistakable.
Juliette watched the colour recede from his face. “You recognise it.”
He did not answer at once.
“I have seen that bird three times,” he said finally. “It appeared upon letters sent to my father shortly before his death. Black wax, impressed with a raven beneath a broken crown.”
“Do you know who sent them?”
“No.”
“But you still have the letters.”
“In the library.”
Juliette looked from the drawing to the girl. “She may have seen the same seal.”
“Where?”
The word emerged more sharply than he intended.
The little girl dropped the charcoal. In an instant, she had slipped from her stool and folded herself beneath the table, her arms over her head.
Damian stared at the empty chair.
Juliette did not rebuke him. She lowered herself to the floor and sat at a little distance from the table. “No one is angry with you,” she murmured.
There was no response.
“I did not mean to alarm her,” Damian said.
“I know.”
“What should I do?”
“Sit down.”
He glanced at the carpet beside her.
“Not beneath the table,” she added. “Only where she may see that you are willing to wait.”
Damian lowered himself to the floor, an operation his tailor had never contemplated. Juliette’s mouth trembled, though she had the grace to suppress the smile.
“You may enjoy it,” he said under his breath. “I am in no position to prevent you.”
“I am exercising admirable restraint.”
He rested his back against the leg of the table. “How long do we remain here?”
“As long as she requires.”
“I feared you would say that.”
Silence gathered around them.
From beneath the table came the faint sound of the child’s breathing. Damian kept his hands open upon his knees and resisted the impulse to look beneath the cloth.
After several minutes, one small hand appeared near his boot.
He went still.
The girl crept from beneath the table, though she remained close to Juliette’s skirts. Her attention had fixed upon Damian’s right hand and the white scar crossing his knuckles. She leant nearer and touched it with one cautious finger.
He left his hand where it was.
“That was a horse,” he said quietly.
The girl looked up.
“A grey mare with a very poor opinion of me. There was a fire in the stable, and she declined to leave.”
Juliette glanced at him. “You went in after her.”
“Every man in the yard advised me against it.”
“And naturally you listened to none of them.”
“I was fourteen. Listening would have been out of character.”
The little girl traced the scar.
“She kicked me through the stall door for my trouble,” he continued. “Broke two fingers and lived another eleven years without showing the least gratitude.”
A small change came over the child’s face, not quite a smile but near enough to arrest him.
“You went into a burning stable for a horse that disliked you,” Juliette said.
“I did not pause to consult her sentiments.”
“Were you afraid?”
“Of the fire? No. Of the mare? Constantly. She had opinions.”
“So have you.”
“So, apparently, has the child.”
Juliette glanced towards the girl. “I think her name may be Mina.”
Damian looked at her. “You heard her speak?”
“I am not certain. As she was waking yesterday, she whispered something that sounded like it. I did not know whether it was a name, much less her own.”
“Mina,” Damian said softly.
The child raised her eyes to his. It was the first response she had given him.
Damian looked from the child to Juliette. “And that is the only word she has spoken?”
“The only one I have heard. I have not pressed her for another.”
Mina turned her attention once more to the scar across his knuckles, tracing its pale edge with one finger.
“How long do you suppose her silence will last?” he asked.
“I cannot promise you a day. She may speak tomorrow or remain silent for weeks.” Juliette watched the child’s small, intent face. “Whatever has happened, she appears to have learnt that words are safer kept to herself.”
Damian looked down at the child. The questions pressing upon him had not diminished, but he resisted the impulse to ask them.
Mina studied his open hand for another moment, then curled her fingers lightly around it.
He looked at their joined hands. “Does this mean she trusts me?”
“It means she has chosen not to withdraw. Do not ask more of the moment than she has offered.”
He gave a slight nod and remained still until Mina released him of her own accord. She returned to the low table and reached again for the charcoal.
Damian rose. Juliette moved to do the same, but her foot caught beneath her hem as she emerged from beside the table. She lost her balance and pitched backwards.
He caught her around the waist.
For an instant, her back rested fully against his chest, his arm firm across her middle. Her breath caught. Beneath his hand, he felt the quick rise and fall of it.
“You may release me,” Juliette said.
“Yes.”
Neither moved.
The faint scent of lavender rose from her hair. His thumb rested beneath her ribs, close enough to feel the rapid beat of her pulse, or perhaps it was his own. When she turned her head, her cheek came within inches of his mouth.
Charcoal scraped across paper behind them. The small sound restored the room around them.
Damian loosened his hold, and Juliette stepped away. She smoothed her skirts without looking at him.
“Thank you.”
“It was preferable to allowing you to strike the floor.”
“An observation with which I cannot quarrel.”
When she finally raised her eyes, some of her composure had returned, though colour still warmed her cheeks.
“You came for information, Your Grace,” she said. “You have received all I can give you for now.”
It was unmistakably a dismissal, but gently delivered.
Damian looked once more at Mina’s drawing. “The bird appeared upon several letters sent to my father before his death. I shall examine them again.”
Then he went to the door, pausing with one hand upon the latch.
“Your Grace,” Juliette said.
He looked back.
“Tomorrow, you might knock before entering.”
His gaze passed from her to Mina, who had bent once more over her charcoal. “Tomorrow, I shall remember.”
He closed the door softly behind him.
***
By late afternoon, the sky had faded to grey. Juliette took Mina out by the quiet lane behind the house, where the parish church stood beyond a low stone wall and rooks quarrelled in the elms.
The girl walked willingly beside her and accepted her hand when Juliette offered it, though she still stiffened whenever a man passed too near. Juliette therefore chose the least frequented path and kept their pace unhurried.
Silas Finch was waiting at the churchyard gate.
He had dressed with studied respectability, and the pleasant expression he wore did nothing to reassure her.
His gaze went first to Mina. “There you are. And with a little companion. Yours, sister?”
Juliette drew Mina nearer to her side. “What are you doing here?”
“Calling upon my family.”
“We are not family.”
“You bear my father’s name.” He rested one gloved hand upon the gate. “The law is rather less concerned with sentiment than you are.”
“You have no business waiting for me here.”
“Ravenscroft, they tell me.” Silas glanced towards the house visible through the elms. “You have done well for yourself.”
“How did you find me?”
“You have never been difficult to find.” His smile remained in place. “Only difficult to bring home.”
“I am not going anywhere with you.”
“Not today.” His attention returned to Mina. “I see you have duties.”
The child pressed closer to Juliette’s skirts.
“You are frightening her,” Juliette said. “Leave.”
Silas looked almost amused. “A week beneath a duke’s roof, and already you have learnt to issue commands.”
“I required no duke to teach me that.”
“No. Only one to make you believe they will be obeyed.” A pause. “Sir Gideon Falbrook asks after you,” he continued. “He has been patient, but he expects you at Michaelmas. Three weeks, by my reckoning.”
“Then he expects what he will not receive.”
“You cannot refuse him indefinitely.”
“I can refuse him for the remainder of his life. You had no right to promise me to a stranger.”
“He paid your mother’s debts in expectation of the match.”
“A bargain made without my consent is no bargain of mine.”
“It will be when you stand before the altar.”
“He is an old man who believes a settled estate entitles him to purchase a wife.”
“He is a baronet with a clear title and the means to provide for you. You might have fared considerably worse.”
“I can think of nothing worse than belonging to a man who believes he has already bought me.”
Silas’s pleasant expression thinned. “You have mistaken a governess’s wage and a duke’s temporary favour for independence. Neither will endure.”
“My future is no concern of yours.”
“It became my concern when Sir Gideon settled your mother’s obligations.”
He reached across the gate and seized her elbow. His fingers closed hard enough to promise bruises.
“You will come home,” he said. “Like you always have before.”
Juliette did not struggle. She had learnt long ago that resistance only made men such as Silas tighten their hold.
“You are hurting me.”
“I am reminding you of your position. Michaelmas, Juliette. The banns will be read whether you choose to return willingly or must be persuaded.”
“Take your hand from my arm.”
“When you agree to come.”
“I shall agree to nothing while you hold me.”
Beside her, Mina had gone rigid.
Juliette looked down. The child was not watching Silas’s face but the hand gripping her arm. Upon his smallest finger sat a heavy ring, its black stone carved into the shape of a bird with half-spread wings.
A raven.
Mina’s breath came fast and shallow. Her fingers found Juliette’s skirt and knotted in the cloth.
Gravel crunched upon the path. The church sexton appeared from behind the wall, pushing a barrow and whistling beneath his breath.
Silas released Juliette at once. He stepped back and touched the brim of his hat, his manner transformed into one of perfect civility.
“Three weeks, sister.”
He was gone down the lane before the sexton reached the gate.
Juliette remained still until he disappeared beyond the bend. Her arm throbbed where his fingers had closed around it, but Mina’s distress allowed no time for her own.
She crouched beside the child. “Mina. Look at me.”
After a moment, the girl raised her eyes.
“He has gone.”
Mina looked towards the empty lane, then at the marks forming upon Juliette’s arm.
Juliette did not question her. She took Mina’s hand and led her back towards Ravenscroft House.
The girl did not release her at the door, upon the stairs or after they had returned to the nursery. When at last she slept, her fingers remained locked around two of Juliette’s own, as though a hand firmly held could not be taken from her.
