***
Later that afternoon, Edward found them in the lower garden.
Julian sat cross-legged on the cold stone path, a scrap of charcoal smudged between his fingers, his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. Charlotte knelt beside him, her skirts tucked carefully beneath her, watching with an attentiveness that did not hover, did not correct.
Edward stopped at the edge of the path.
“Hold your wrist looser,” he said before he quite realized he was speaking. “You’re fighting the line.”
Julian startled, then brightened. “Papa!”
He scrambled to his feet, thrusting the page toward him. It was rough—trees rendered as crooked shapes, the hedges more suggestion than form—but there was intention there. A patience Edward had rarely seen in his son.
Edward crouched, adjusting Julian’s grip gently, guiding his hand. “Like this,” he murmured. “Let the charcoal do the work.”
Julian nodded solemnly and tried again.
Something eased in Edward’s chest as he watched the boy settle—calmer, focused, content in a way that felt unfamiliar and precious. This was not the restless child who tested boundaries and chased disruption. This was a boy absorbed in the moment, secure enough to be still.
Charlotte rose quietly and drifted a little farther down the path, giving them space without being asked.
Edward noticed.
When Julian’s page was finished—when the charcoal was set aside, and the boy had run off toward the hedges in pursuit of something invisible—Edward straightened and followed Charlotte.
She stood near the old apple tree, her hands folded loosely before her, watching Julian with a softness that unsettled him.
“There is a Winter Solstice Ball,” Edward said, the words coming more quickly than he had intended. “At Pennington Hall.”
She turned, startled. “A ball?”
“The Penningtons are old friends,” he continued. “They wrote to invite Julian and me to stay for the day—and the night following. They wish us to remain after the festivities.”
Charlotte listened intently now.
“They suggested,” Edward added, his tone shifting almost imperceptibly, “that Julian’s governess accompany us. So he would have familiar care while I visit.”
The words hung between them.
“They were quite explicit,” he said more quietly. “They wished Julian to feel secure. And I … agreed.”
Her eyes widened. “I—Your Grace, that is highly irregular.”
“I am aware.” He exhaled slowly. “But Julian would benefit from the experience. And I would not subject him to it without someone he trusts.”
Something flickered across her face—surprise, uncertainty, something like awe. “You would take him? Into society?”
“Yes.” He met her gaze. “And I could only do so with you by his side.”
The admission stunned them both.
Edward felt it the instant the words left him—a line crossed, a truth revealed too plainly. He straightened instinctively, as though posture alone might repair the breach.
Charlotte did not speak at once.
Then she nodded. “If you believe it is right for Julian, I will, of course, attend.”
He watched her thoughtfully. “I trust you with him,” he said quietly. “You have given him something I could not. And I am … grateful.”
