Edward’s eyes sharpened. “I beg your pardon?”
Charlotte steadied herself. “Children require structure, certainly. But they also require joy. Play. Music.” She gestured toward Julian. “It is essential to their growth that they are allowed to express themselves.”
Edward’s jaw tightened. “My son’s education is not a matter for improvisation.”
“No,” Charlotte agreed. “But neither is it a matter for rigidity alone.”
Julian glanced between them, tension coiling visibly.
Edward turned his attention fully to her now. “You will adhere to the schedule provided.”
Charlotte lowered her gaze. “Yes, Your Grace.”
The dismissal was unmistakable.
Edward left as abruptly as he had entered, the door closing behind him with finality.
For a brief moment, Charlotte remained still, her pulse beating a shade too quickly for a simple exchange. She exhaled once, steadying herself.
Then she noticed Julian.
His shoulders had slumped, his gaze fixed on the closed door, as though he were listening for something that never came.
It struck her then that father and son occupied the same house the way strangers occupied the same inn—bound by proximity, but not by familiarity.
Charlotte knelt beside him at once. “Your father is not wrong,” she said gently. “Routine is important.”
Julian nodded, subdued.
“But,” she continued softly, “there are many ways to learn. And I will do my best to speak with him.”
Julian looked up. “Really?”
“Yes.”
He considered this, then nodded once. “Alright.”
She smiled and closed the piano. “We shall make scholars of ourselves yet.”
Julian smiled back—small, but real.
As they returned to their lessons, Charlotte felt something settle within her.
This mattered.
And she would not give it up easily.
Chapter 8
Edward did not return to his study.
He turned instead toward the library, his stride sharp and purposeful, as though the mere act of movement might burn away the agitation coiled beneath his ribs.
The door closed behind him with more force than strictly necessary, the sound echoing off the shelves lined with leather-bound volumes he had not touched in years.
His hands curled at his sides.
The pianoforte.
