With the corner of his eye, he could see the girls huddled around Miss. Blake on the sofa. She was teaching them embroidery. Every once in a while, the girls giggled as Madeline found it difficult to thread the needle.
Initially, he had endeavored to spend the evening in his study. This would assure him silence and concentration, something he was in desperate need of. However, he realized that in these last few days, he had come to anticipate the company of both Miss. Blake and the girls with much more joy than before.
It had little to do with the fact that the girls’ behavior had improved. Because, according to his own perception, it had not. At least, not much. However, the girls did show an incredible amount of curiosity, and Miss. Blake had an aptitude for transferring her knowledge onto them, something that the previous governesses lacked.
Occasionally, he would lift his gaze from his book, making sure that he did it unnoticed. The girls were so focused on the hoops they were holding, with spread fabric over them. The needles in their little hands were so tiny, Edmund could barely see them.
But the warmth of the giggles and the melodious voice of Miss. Blake guiding their hands was enough to assure him that he hadn’t made a mistake when allowing her to stay on as the girls’ governess.
Perhaps, they just need a woman’s touch. Lord knows I haven’t been able to provide that for them.
He shifted his attention back to his book, when suddenly, a little hand pulled him by the sleeve. He lowered his book into his lap and gazed at the sweetly flushed face of his niece, Cecilia.
“Look, Uncle,” she beamed, showing him her hoop, and a faint outline of a flower that she managed to trace with some colorful thread.
“I see, Cecilia,” he nodded.
But the child seemed dissatisfied with that answer. He could see it in her face. It became less beaming all of a sudden, and he felt responsible for that loss of shine.
When he glanced up at Miss. Blake and Madeline still on the sofa, his eyes urged for help.
What did I do wrong?
Miss. Blake immediately realized what had happened. She gestured at Cecilia and the hoop she was still holding in his field of vision. Still hoping. Still waiting.
It took him a few more moments to reach the conclusion he was expected.
“Oh, Cecilia,” he took the hoop into his hand, and inspected it carefully. “This is exquisite work. Are you certain that this is your first time embroidering?”
He sensed that he was exaggerating a little. An adult could tell. But a child’s tender heart couldn’t see through it. It saw what it wanted to see, and that was praise from someone nearest and dearest.
“I am!” she exclaimed, immediately blushing with pride.
“Why, I can barely believe it,” he shook his head, returning the hoop. “I cannot wait to see what it shall look like when you finish it.”
“Thank you, Uncle,” Cecilia replied.
She seemed to ponder something. Then, she leaned forward to him. She was so close that he feared she would fall right into his arms. But a moment later, she pulled back, as if she had changed her mind about something. He wondered what that something would have been.
But, before he could say anything else, Cecilia skipped back to the sofa, and Miss. Blake continued with her instructions. Edmund went back to his book, but he couldn’t focus. He kept wondering what it was Cecilia wanted to do.
The only logical explanation was that she endeavored to kiss him on the cheek. Indeed, that was what he believed she wished to do.But why did she change her mind?
As he stole a few more glances at the girls, he wondered if he was being too harsh on them. After all, the girls had lost both their parents. He had lost a brother, but he had never known such tragedy and heartache as losing those who were supposed to keep you protected and loved. He wondered if he could ever provide that much love for them. He could and certainly would protect them, but love was something else.
He cared deeply for them. They were blood, after all. But how did love wake in a hardened heart? He had no answer to that question.
“Ouch!” A small voice thundered throughout the library, and a hoop dropped down to the ground.
“What is it, Madeline?” Miss. Blake inquired.
“I pricked myself,” Madeline replied, putting her index finger into her mouth, and gently sucking on it.
“Does it hurt?” Miss. Blake asked again. Madeline just shook her head. “Let me see.”
Without any opposition, Madeline showed her finger. Edmund tried to see from the other end of the room. There was a tiny, barely visible dot of redness.
“It’s nothing, my dear,” Miss. Blake assured the girl, her hand gently resting on Madeline’s head. “We shall just wrap your finger in a handkerchief, and it’ll stop the bleeding.”
