Something had shifted.
Not obedience. Not compliance.
Curiosity. Trust.
Neither of them would have named it then. But as Charlotte opened her book and Julian leaned closer, the distance between them quietly disappeared.
It was the beginning of something that neither had known they were searching for.
And in the nursery at Ashford Manor, amid frost and quiet and the memory of a frog’s cool weight, a bond began to form—slow, improbable, and real.
***
Luncheon brought a natural pause to the morning, though Charlotte felt reluctant to leave the nursery when the time came.
Julian departed with only mild protest, glancing back at her once as if to be certain she would still be there when he returned.
The look stirred something hopeful in her chest. She gathered her book and followed the sound of voices toward the passage beyond the schoolroom, where Clara Bennet waited with a tray balanced carefully in her hands.
“You look pleased,” Clara said, offering a small smile as she set the tray down on a side table.
Charlotte laughed softly. “I believe I am.”
Clara’s brows lifted. “Already?”
“He tried to frighten me with a frog,” Charlotte said, unable to keep the amusement from her voice. “It did not go as planned.”
Clara’s eyes widened. Then she covered her mouth, clearly torn between horror and delight. “Oh.”
“He is clever,” Charlotte went on, more serious now. “And curious. He only needed to be met where he was.”
Clara nodded slowly. “That’s what her grace used to say.”
Charlotte stilled. “The duchess?”
“Yes, miss.” Clara folded her hands together, gaze drifting toward the windows as though seeing something beyond the present walls. “Lady Eleanor was … different. She filled the house with music. Even in winter, even when things were difficult.”
“What sort of music?” Charlotte asked.
“The pianoforte, mostly,” Clara said. “She was gifted. Truly so. The house used to hum with it. Mornings. Evenings. Sometimes late at night if she could not sleep.” A faint smile touched her lips. “She taught Julian herself.”
Charlotte’s heart tightened. “He plays, then?”
Clara nodded. “Exceptionally. For his age.” Her expression softened. “It was the one thing that calmed him after she passed. His grace had the lessons continue for a time, but …” She hesitated. “Well. Things changed.”
Charlotte thought of the piano she had glimpsed in the nursery—closed, polished, silent.
After luncheon, she returned alone.
The nursery was empty when she arrived, sunlight pooling across the floor in pale winter bands. Charlotte crossed to the pianoforte and lifted the lid, fingers hovering uncertainly above the keys.
She winced.
“I am very sorry in advance,” she murmured to no one at all.
When Julian returned, she did not greet him at once. Instead, she placed her hands on the keys and pressed down.
The sound that followed could only loosely be described as music.
