“Henry,” she called, unsure of what else she was going to say. Was she to chastise him for running away from his governess? To stop him so she could catch up with him? She was entirely uncertain.
“Marianne!” he said. “Marianne, look!” He opened his hand to reveal a number of dirty rocks.
“Oh,” she said, and took a step back, not wanting to get dirt on her gown. She did not want Juliet’s first task as a lady’s maid to be cleaning one of her dirt-stained gowns.
“Gemstones!” he said.
“They are not gemstones, little master,” the governess said. “They are simple garden rocks.”
“Not if I paint them,” he said, and then looked up at Marianne again. “Do you know I can paint them with different colors, and they will shine like gold and silver, so they will be gemstones?”
They would still simply be stones with paint, she wanted to say, but knew that was probably not the right thing to say to a little boy.
“I am sure they will be very pretty,” she said.
“Yes! Will you help me paint them?” he asked.
She straightened, shoulders back. Paint rocks with a child? Was that what was expected of her now?
“I... I suppose so.”
“Splendid!” he said.
“No, Master Henry,” the governess said, rescuing her. “You are supposed to get changed now for your riding lesson, and after that you will have a bath, and then you will have dinner.”
“Of course!” he said and clapped his hands together, dropping the rocks onto the marble so that they created a clattering sound.
Marianne stood by and watched as the governess picked up the rocks and then picked up Henry, settling him on her hip. Thegoverness carried the boy away, and she stood leaning against the banister.
“Children have a great deal of energy,” a voice came from her left, and she turned to see Lucien standing there. He was in his riding habit.
“Indeed, they do,” she said. “I suppose I never noticed it because I was the youngest, and there were none younger than me—neither siblings nor cousins.”
“I am surprised. I thought you would have had exposure to some children, because you told me that children know more than we are aware.”
She wet her lips as he came toward her. The sunlight streaming through the window illuminated his hair in such a way as to make red strands appear amongst the black.
“I was speaking of myself. When I was a child, my aunt and father often tried to hide things from me—usually my family’s precarious financial situation. But I always knew. There are always signs—paintings that disappeared from the walls, furniture that was sold, and a room rearranged to make it less obvious. Mostly my father’s disposition.”
“I see,” he said. “That is still very insightful. I think you can use that to bond with Henry a little.”
“I thought we had agreed that I would not be a mother to him.”
“Well, it is not what I expected of you. However, some effort would not go amiss. Servants talk. Although I must say, we are in the singular position of having not one but two servants now who are wholly devoted to us—Mrs. Greaves to me, and your friend to you. I saw her arrive. You really are good friends, are you not?”
She smiled. “We are. It is curious; I have really only known her for a few months, but I feel as though I have known her all of my life.”
He nodded. “That is how I felt about Rhys. He and I were close almost from the moment we met, even though there is so much that we do not share in common.”
“I feel that things may be awkward.”
“Because you are now a countess and she is here to serve you?”
“Yes,” she said. “She assures me that it will not be the case, but I cannot help it. She is upstairs right now with Mrs. Greaves, unpacking and getting to know the estate, and I am down here. I ought to be with?—”
“It is difficult to be close to somebody who is socially of a different standing,” he said, “but we must make the best of our situations. Mrs. Greaves was quite close to my mother. And before that, she was a lady’s maid to a grand lady with whom she was very close as well. I believe they are still in contact. Just because there is a difference in station does not mean that there cannot be a true and lasting friendship. It may be more work, butit is worth it. I have learned that when I became a father. It was hard work being a father, especially after my wife died, but it was well worth it. Now,” he said, “I must away to the stables and wait for my son. We are going riding. But you can join us.”
She knew she should say yes—to show that she was taking an interest—but the truth was she was not a very good rider, and she did not think it would be a proper example for the boy to see her struggling on the horse, or perhaps falling off. Nor did she want Lucien to see her fumbling and falling.
