The single word landed with quiet certainty, and the calm of it grated against his nerves far more than argument would have. He felt a surge of irritation at her composure, at the way sherefused to be unsettled by his presence, and beneath it all, a more disconcerting awareness that her challenge made him feel unbalanced, as though the roles between them had subtly shifted without his consent.
“With servants working,” he continued, his voice rising despite himself as he gestured toward the room, his gaze flicking briefly to the cook, who had gone noticeably pale beneath his scrutiny. “With hot ovens, knives, and—” His hand cut through the air toward the table, the bowls, the flour-dusted surface, the evidence of disorder. “This.”
As he spoke, he felt the strange betrayal of his own body, the way his attention kept drifting back to Madeline despite his best efforts, to the line of her shoulders, the calm set of her mouth, the way she stood so wholly unruffled by his displeasure.
Tessa’s shoulders hunched, her earlier excitement dimming visibly as she looked between them. The joy she had worn so openly moments before retreated under the weight of his tone. “I didn’t make a mess on purpose,” she said quickly, her voice smaller now, threaded with the instinctive fear of disappointing him. “Miss Watton said it was all right.”
Guilt flickered briefly through the heat of his frustration, but his attention remained fixed on Madeline, on the maddening calm with which she stood her ground, and on the unsettling realization that even as he spoke to her with measured restraint, his pulse had quickened, his breath grown shallower, his composure strained.
Wilhelm felt the familiar sting of guilt as Tessa’s confidence wilted, but irritation still burned hot in his chest, and he turned back to Madeline with a scowl.
“You thought this appropriate?” he asked, the question edged with disbelief.
Madeline stepped subtly closer to Tessa, not touching her but positioning herself protectively between child and father, and the quiet firmness of the movement did nothing to ease his temper.
“I did,” she replied.
His jaw tightened. “Tessa is a lady, Miss Watton. Not a kitchen maid.”
The words fell heavily into the room, and he felt the reaction immediately. The cook froze outright, her gaze dropping to the floor as though bracing for dismissal. Tessa’s mouth parted, her eyes flickering with sudden worry, and her small hands lowered slowly to the table as if the flour clinging to them had become something shameful.
“She hasn’t done anything wrong.” Madeline’s voice was gentle, but there was no mistaking the firmness beneath it.
Wilhelm looked briefly at her, his irritation flaring anew at the ease with which she stepped into the space he occupied as father, as the one who set the boundaries. And yet even as thereflexive anger surged, he was uncomfortably aware of how firm she remained beneath his gaze, how little she seemed to fear his displeasure.
“You presume,” he said, his voice lowering as he felt his authority slipping under the weight of her calm, “to make decisions about my daughter’s upbringing without consulting me.”
Madeline inclined her head slightly, a small, measured gesture that acknowledged his position without conceding ground, and the restraint of it somehow irritated him more than open defiance would have.
“I presume to teach her,” she replied quietly, her tone unruffled, thoughtful rather than defensive. “And sometimes teaching involves experience, not just instruction.”
“And you believe baking biscuits qualifies as education?” he said. The dryness he allowed to seep into his tone was there as an attempt to regain control over a conversation that was slipping inexorably from his grasp.
“Yes,” she answered at once, without hesitation or apology “Household management is a fundamental skill, especially for a young girl who will one day oversee servants and daily operations. Understanding labor fosters respect, and respect fosters leadership.”
Her words landed with irritating precision; each point delivered with such clarity that Wilhelm felt the uncomfortable sting ofrecognition even as he resisted it. While he could not deny the sense in what she said, he also could not ignore the way her intelligence, so calmly displayed, stirred something in him that was perilously close to admiration. He opened his mouth to counter her, only to find himself momentarily stalled, the argument dissolving before it could take shape under the weight of her reasoning.
“I will supervise,” he said after a beat. The words were dragged from him by reluctant concession rather than choice. “Only then may this lesson continue.”
Tessa’s face brightened instantly. Relief and excitement returned so swiftly it made his chest ache. “Truly?”
“Yes,” he muttered, folding his arms across his chest as though the gesture might reinforce the boundary he was already struggling to maintain. “”
Her joy burst free at once, and she turned eagerly back to the table, wholly restored by the permission he had granted. Madeline glanced at him then, just briefly. A fleeting look of gratitude crossed her face, and the simple genuineness of it twisted something painfully in his chest, stirring an emotion he had no desire to examine too closely.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
He responded with a low grunt, stepping aside to observe, telling himself with unnecessary emphasis that he was merely overseeing what he had allowed.
Yet as the minutes passed, his attention remained hopelessly fixed, drawn again and again to Madeline, to the quiet competence with which she guided his daughter, and to the unsettling realization that the more he watched her, the more difficult it became to remember why he had ever believed himself immune to her influence.
It was the faintest change in the air that finally broke the spell.
A thin, sharp note rose beneath the warmth of butter and flour. Madeline paused mid-instruction, her head lifting slightly.
“Oh,” she said, eyes flicking toward the oven.
Cook made a distressed sound from the far end of the table. “The biscuits.”
