Edward groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “Already?”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Good Lord,” he muttered. “This will be the seventh, then. I had hoped we might at least reach double digits before exhausting the supply of suitable women in the county.”
Mrs. Channing did not smile. She rarely did. “This young woman comes with a recommendation.”
Edward lifted a brow. “They all do.”
“From Mr. Hathaway,” she continued evenly. “The town clergyman.”
That gave him pause. Edward regarded her more closely. Mr. Hathaway was not a man given to frivolity or poor judgment. If he had put his name behind this girl, it meant something—though whether that something would translate to endurance remained to be seen.
“I am told she is well read,” Mrs. Channing added.
Edward snorted. “So they claim. And then they attempt to instruct my son in poetry while he climbs the bookcases.”
“She appears earnest,” Mrs. Channing said carefully. “And … resilient.”
Edward’s gaze flicked back to the window, where Julian had now abandoned the wooden sword in favor of flinging clumps of frost toward the retreating maid.
“Resilience,” he said flatly, “will be tested.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
He turned back to the desk, irritation prickling beneath his skin. “The curriculum remains unchanged. Lessons are to be followed as outlined. No deviations. No indulgences.”
Mrs. Channing inclined her head. “Of course.”
He hesitated, then added, “I will meet her myself.”
That earned him a faint, almost imperceptible look of surprise.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
When she turned to leave, Edward spoke again. “And Mrs. Channing?”
She paused.
“If this one departs before the month is out, I expect a full account.”
Her lips pressed tighter. “Naturally.”
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Edward sat very still for a moment.
He did not know why he had insisted on meeting the governess himself. In the past, he had left such matters to the housekeeper, content to review reports afterward.
Perhaps it was simple exhaustion. Or perhaps—though he would not admit it aloud—he was tired of being told, over and over, that his son was impossible.
He turned back to the ledgers, but the figures refused to cooperate.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the idea of another stranger walking Ashford’s halls, another woman stepping briefly into Julian’s life only to leave it again, carrying with her some fresh failure for which he would be expected to account.
Thomas would have known what to do.
The thought slipped in before Edward could stop it, sharp and unwelcome. His brother had always possessed a rare balance of authority and warmth. Where Edward was methodical and reserved, Thomas had been instinctive, generous with praise, easy in his command.
