He knew her discomfort was because of him. He told himself this was the cost of restraint, the necessary discomfort of choosing composure over want, and turned his attention instead to Tessa, who chattered happily as they descended the steps, blissfully unaware of the careful balance the two adults beside her were trying so desperately to maintain.
By the time they were settled inside the carriage, the house already receding behind them, the air had shifted. Wilhelm sat opposite Madeline, his legs angled to avoid brushing against hers, though every jolt of the wheels seemed to conspire to bring them together. He watched her through lowered lashes. She kept her face turned slightly toward the window, her bonnet brim shadowing her features, one hand braced against the seat.
Every time the carriage slowed in traffic, her fingers gripped the edge of the velvet seat until her knuckles turned white. Her gaze scanned the street, tracking the faces of the pedestrians with a frantic, rhythmic intensity.
She is terrified,Wilhelm realized, a cold spike of protectiveness driving through his chest.
He had thought her anxiety was a reaction to the impropriety of that night in the garden, but this was something else. Thiswas the vigilance of a creature who expected a blow from any direction.
“You are safe, Madeline,” he said softly, leaning forward so only she could hear over Tessa’s excited chatter about the toy shops.
Madeline started, her eyes snapping to his. She forced a smile, but it didn’t reach the tightness in her brow. “Of course, Your Grace. It is just… the noise. I am used to the quiet of the country.”
He didn’t believe her. He wanted to reach across the space and take her hand so he could lace his fingers through hers. He wished he could promise her that no threat could ever touch her while he stood between them. He thought of her in the garden, the way she had shouted that she wasn’t who he thought she was.
Who are you?he wondered.And who taught you to fear the world so much?
When they finally stepped out onto the bustling pavement of the street, the sun was bright, catching the copper highlights in Madeline’s hair where a few strands had escaped her hood. She tucked them back with a nervous, jerky motion, her head staying down.
Wilhelm acted on instinct. He saw a small, elegant florist’s stall on the corner, overflowing with late-season blooms—deep crimson roses, pale lilies, and sprigs of lavender that scented the smoggy air.
“Wait here,” he commanded.
He returned moments later with two small arrangements. The first he handed to Tessa: a neat bundle of daisies and cornflowers tied with plain twine. Her delight was immediate and unrestrained.
“For me?” she breathed.
“For you,” he confirmed. “Something bright to keep you company.”
Only then did he turn to Madeline.
The second posy was smaller, more restrained: violets and white jasmine, wrapped in a scrap of lace rather than ribbon. He held them out to her, his fingers brushing hers as she took them.
“They are for you,” he said, his voice low. “A bit of the country to carry with you through the city.”
Madeline looked down at the flowers, and for the first time that day, the tension in her shoulders broke. She drew a long, shaky breath, inhaling the sweet, clean scent of the jasmine. When she looked up, her eyes were wet, her expression raw with a gratitude that felt far too heavy for a simple bouquet.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she whispered.
Her words felt like a physical touch, a caring hand sliding over his heart. He felt a surge of triumph—he had made her forget the fear, if only for a second.
They did not go far at first. Wilhelm chose the quieter streets, away from the worst of the crowds, where the shops were smaller and the pace slower, and where Tessa could walk without being jostled. She skipped between him and Madeline, her gloved hands held securely in theirs, the rhythm of her steps uneven but joyful.
“There,” Tessa said suddenly, tugging Madeline’s hand and pointing through a narrow shop window crowded with toys. “Look.”
Wilhelm followed her gaze and felt something tighten in his chest. Wooden figures filled the display, carefully painted and arranged in small scenes: horses, dancers, tiny carriages frozen mid-turn.
“May we?” Tessa asked, already angling her body toward the door.
“Yes,” Wilhelm said at once, before Madeline could even form the answer.
Inside, the shop smelled of wood shavings and oil. A bell chimed softly overhead. Tessa drifted toward the counter at once, her attention caught by a small carousel no larger than her two hands put together.
“This one,” she said, reverent now, as though she understood instinctively that this was something to be chosen carefully. “Papa.”
Wilhelm lifted it, testing its weight. The wood was smooth, the paint slightly worn at the edges, the horses frozen mid-gallop. He turned the key once, and a thin, tinkling tune spilled out, delicate and old-fashioned.
Tessa gasped. “Let me try it, Papa.”
