He turned to look at her. She had not realized she had been standing so close. Their proximity had felt… natural.
“I work quicker alone,” he said. “Do not trouble yourself on my account, Amelia. Be off.”
“Then I will ensure that you are not disturbed.”
“Please do.”
Amelia nodded with finality, untying her apron and leaving it on the counter. She turned at the entrance to the kitchens, stopping to look back at him.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Oh.” She smiled. “I am only thinking how glad I am that you did not become an actor after all.”
“That is all well and good,” Amelia declared, leading her company of young actors down the stairs from their attic where they took their rehearsals. “And I am so glad that you are honing your directorial voices. But we will not be able to train a donkey in time, I am afraid. Not even if we started now.”
Mary, one of the oldest children at St. George’s, scolded the others from the bottom of the staircase.
“I told you not to ask her, Charlie!” she cried, scowling at the young boy holding Amelia’s hand. “Really, Ididtell him, Miss Amelia. But he would not listen to me. He never does.”
Amelia laughed. “I do admire your ambition, Charlie. But perhaps a donkey’s head would suffice?”
The children squealed in terror, then with laughter, and Amelia realized her error. She scooped up one of the young boys trailing far behind, still dressed in fairy wings, and carried him down on her hip.
Mrs. Thatcher exited the schoolroom just as the children arrived on the landing. She stroked Charlie’s light brown hair and pulled him in close, her face brightening at the sight of them.
“What is this I am hearing about donkeys and their heads?” she asked.
“We were discussing our props for the play,” Amelia replied, setting the smallest child down at her feet.
He filed into the schoolroom behind the others, giving Amelia and Mrs. Thatcher a moment alone.
“I am starting to wonder whether I have burned the candle at both ends with this one,” Amelia sighed, watching the tips of the fairy wings disappear through the door. “There are only four weeks left until their first performance.”
“More than enough time to set things into order—or to find and behead a donkey.” She wrapped an arm around Amelia’s waist and embraced her. “Will you be getting off now, Your Grace?”
“I suppose I must.” Amelia pulled the chatelaine from her pocket and inspected the time. It had been an hour and a half since shehad left Nicholas in the kitchens. “Merciful heavens! I had no idea the rehearsals had lasted so long.”
Bidding a quick farewell to Mrs. Thatcher, Amelia raced through the house. Panting as she arrived in the cellar, she fluffed her hair and composed herself before she entered the kitchens, and found Nicholas where she had left him.
He turned on his stool, and the sight of him warmed her heart.
“Back already?” he asked.
“It has been an hour and more, Your Grace.”
“Ah,” Nicholas mouthed, rising. He raked his hands over his face. “I find that I am impossible to distract once I set my mind to something.” He reached for his coat. “Did you… Were the children… well-behaved?”
Amelia suppressed a laugh, fetching her cloak from the coat room. “One day, I will show you that children need not alarm you so,” she promised upon returning. “Though there must be a reason for your disdain for them?”
A side-smile. “Disdainis a strong word.”
“I wanted to sayfear,but worried that would offend you.”
“I doubt you could offend me if you tried, dear.” He slipped his arms into his coat. “And why must there be a reason for my dislike of children? People dislike things all the time without just cause.”
“Such as?” she asked.
“You dislikeHaydn’scompositions.”
