Emma was conscious—thank goodness—blinking and sputtering, her soaked dress clinging to her limbs. She reached weakly for Maggie.
“I dropped my flowers,” she whispered.
Maggie let out a ragged sob and threw her arms around the little girl, pulling her into a tight hug. The front of her dress was quickly soaked, but Maggie could not have cared less.
Wet, squelching footsteps heralded Neil’s approach. A pair of shiny-wet Hessians appeared in her field of vision, and she glanced up at him.
His hair was plastered to his head, darker than usual, and water streamed from his soaked clothes. He breathed raggedly, each breath catching in his throat. His eyes seemed to have darkened too, turning from a deep blue to a stormy black, the colour of a sky moments before thunder began to roll.
“Is she—?” he began, unable to finish.
“She’s safe, I think,” Maggie murmured. “Unhurt, only shaken. We must get her home at once.”
Neil let out a ragged breath, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I did not see her fall. I—Maggie, I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t been watching her.”
Her heart stuttered.Maggie.He had called herMaggie.
“It isn’t your fault, your Grace,” she said softly. “Children find trouble quicker than we can blink.”
He crouched beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat of his skin through the chill damp, and smell the clean, green scent of lake water.
“Thank you, Maggie,” he said quietly, his gaze steady. “I believe you saved her.”
Her throat went dry. “Saved her? No—I wasn’t fast enough.”
He reached out, and for one breathless moment, she thought he meant to pull her close. But his hand passed her by, reaching instead for Emma. He gathered the child carefully into his arms. Emma nestled against him at once, her forehead pressed to his neck, her wide eyes darting about in dazed confusion.
I could tell him,Maggie thought, her heart beating painfully.I could tell him everything—why I fled London, what I saw, who Victor truly is.
Surely, he would understand. Surely, he would see that she was more than a governess—more than what she pretended to be.
She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Lady Westbrook arrived, breathless but composed, eyes sharp as glass.
“She must be taken home at once,” she declared. “I’ve sent a footman for the carriage.”
“It will be quicker if I carry her myself,” Neil replied, already rising. “Aunt, see to the rest of the party. The picnic is over.”
“Naturally,” Lady Westbrook murmured.
He passed her at a jog, Emma clasped close. Lady Constance reached out, saying something Maggie couldn’t catch, but he didn’t slow.
When Maggie turned, Lady Westbrook was watching her closely.
“I am glad you were paying attention, Miss Winter,” she said at last. “You seem to know precisely what you are doing.”
The remark might have been praise—or something else entirely. Lady Westbrook gave her no chance to respond before turning back up the hill.
There was nothing to do but follow. Maggie found that going upwards was much harder than coming down, weighed down as she was by her wet dress and her own worry. She was fairly certain that Emma would be safe. Jenny would be ready at the house with a hot bath and clean, dry clothes, and the little girl would be put to bed to recover.
When she reached the top of the hill, she found that Lady Westbrook had already outpaced her and begun her descent. The picnic was mostly packed away, the footmen concentrating on their tasks. Lady Constance puffed up the hill behind her, sour-faced, and moved over to where her parents stood.
“Such nonsense,” Lady Constance hissed. Her voice carried easily on the still air. “That child is the most spoiled little creature I have ever encountered.”
Maggie stopped dead, realising with horror that they were speaking ofEmma.
“I don’t care for her either,” Lord Farendale grunted. “But the duke dotes on her. You’ll have to humour the brat.”
Lady Constance pouted. “Shehatesme.I daresay she threw herself into the lake just to ruin the afternoon. The duke barely looked at me—he was all concern for that child.”
