At last, the sounds softened. The words faded into rough, uneven breaths. Silence followed—heavy and fragile.
Charlotte exhaled shakily.
She could not remain there. She should not remain there.
Drawing her shawl tighter, she stepped back from the path and turned toward the house, moving quickly now, pulse hammering in her ears. She slipped through the garden doors and up the stairs without meeting another soul, her mind still echoing with his voice.
Back in the shared chamber, she closed the door gently and leaned against it for a moment, eyes shut.
Clara did not stir.
Charlotte returned to her bed and lay staring into the dark, the sounds of Ashford settling once more around her.
She thought of the duke’s son—untamed, restless, flinging snow as though daring the world to notice him. She thought of the man who ruled the house through silence and distance, carrying nightmares behind locked doors.
And she wondered—quietly, cautiously—whether she had been brought here only to teach lessons and manage schedules.
Or whether, in helping them, she might find some small way to mend herself as well.
Sleep came slowly after that.
When it did, it was filled with snow, echoes, and the strange, unsettling knowledge that Ashford Manor held more than one wounded soul within its walls.
***
Charlotte woke with the pale winter light already pressing against the windowpanes.
For a moment, she lay still, listening to the hush of the house, to the distant creak of settling timbers, to the unfamiliar rhythm of a place that was not yet hers but would be, at least for a time.
The weight she had carried since her arrival felt lighter this morning. Not gone but eased. As though the night had loosened something tight in her chest.
She rose quickly, eager in a way that surprised her.
Today would be her first true day with Julian.
She dressed with care, choosing a simple gown that allowed ease of movement, pinning her hair back but not too tightly.
When she glanced at her reflection, she looked—if not confident—then at least resolved. This was why she had come. Not to dwell on the duke’s silences or the echo of grief in Ashford’s halls, but to work. To be useful.
She made her way to the nursery with confident steps, rehearsing nothing, expecting very little.
After yesterday’s display, she fully anticipated chaos.
The door stood ajar.
Charlotte slowed, brow furrowing slightly.
Inside, the nursery lay quiet.
Julian sat at the small table near the window, his legs dangling, hands folded with exaggerated neatness before him. He stared straight ahead, back rigid, expression solemn in a way that would have been impressive had it not felt so utterly contrived.
As Charlotte crossed the threshold into the nursery, she paused—just a heartbeat. For an instant, she expected the familiar warmth of her mother’s voice behind her, reminding her to straighten her collar, to smile.
The silence answered instead.
She drew a steady breath and stepped fully inside.
“Well,” she said lightly, “this is unexpected.”
