“Maribel.” Thaddeus’s voice had dropped lower. “I wished to—that is, I have been reviewing proposals for tenant cottage improvements. The steward has made recommendations, but I find myself uncertain. Your perspective would prove valuable. Might you review his suggestions?”
She stared at him. “You wish my opinion on estate matters?”
“I wish your counsel, yes.” Something shifted in his grey eyes. “You possess practical sense regarding what families actually need. You understand how to balance economy with genuine care for people in ways I do not.”
The request touched something deep within her chest. That he would value her judgment beyond the nursery—would trust her opinion on matters of consequence—spoke to something she had not dared hope existed between them.
“I would be honoured,” she said softly.
That evening, Maribel found herself seated at Thaddeus’s desk, a stack of proposals spread between them whilst candlelight flickered across carefully inked figures.
“The steward suggests replacing cottage roofs on a rotation,” Thaddeus said, running his finger down a column of costs. “Three per year to manage expense.”
Maribel leaned forward, studying the list of tenant families. “Mrs. Brennan’s cottage appears third on the rotation. But she has an infant—barely two months old. And the steward’s notes indicate significant water damage during last month’s storms.”
“The rotation is based on structural priority?—”
“Based on which cottages are most visible from the main road,” Maribel interrupted gently, tapping the map. “See? The first two are here and here. Mrs. Brennan’s cottage is tucked behind the mill where no one of consequence would see it.”
Thaddeus went still, his gaze moving between the list and the map. “I had not... the steward assured me his recommendations followed sound reasoning.”
“Sound financial reasoning, perhaps. But an infant in a cottage with a leaking roof?” Maribel shook her head. “The child could develop lung fever. The cost of a new roof is considerably lessthan the cost of a tenant unable to work because she’s nursing a sick baby.”
He was quiet for a long moment, then reached for his quill. “You believe Mrs. Brennan’s cottage should be moved to first priority.”
“I believe any cottage housing infants or elderly should take precedence over aesthetics.”
She watched him make a note in the margin—not a dismissive mark, but careful script that suggested he was genuinely considering her words.
“What else?” he asked, looking up at her. “What other assumptions has the steward made that prioritise appearance over welfare?”
They worked thus for hours, with Maribel pointing out drainage issues that affected fields more than houses, suggesting modifications to shared wells that would serve multiple families, questioning why repairs were scheduled for winter when summer would be kinder to families displaced during work.
And Thaddeus listened. Not with the impatience she might have expected, but with genuine attention. He made notes. Asked her to explain her reasoning when he did not immediately understand. Crossed out entire sections and rewrote them based on her suggestions.
“Here,” he said at one point, turning the paper toward her. “I have revised the priority list based on your recommendations. Does this better serve the families’ actual needs?”
Maribel scanned his careful revisions, her throat tightening at the realization that he had incorporated nearly every suggestion she had made.
“Yes,” she said softly. “This is much better. The families will be grateful.”
“They should thank you, not me.” He set down his quill, meeting her eyes. “I would have approved the steward’s plan without question. Would have believed I was being responsible whilst actually prioritizing all the wrong things.”
“You could not have known?—”
“I should have asked.” His voice carried something that might have been regret. “Should have considered that a man who lives in a manor house might not understand what families in cottages actually need.”
The admission settled between them, weighted with significance neither quite knew how to name.
When she finally departed near midnight—later than propriety should permit—Maribel’s hands were ink-stained and her mind buzzing with plans.
But beneath the practical satisfactions, something else stirred. This felt like partnership. Like he saw her as more than merely Oliver’s caretaker. Like he valued her mind, her judgment, her contributions.
It mattered more than she wanted to admit. And as the week continued, she could not help but notice that he sought her opinion—or her company at the very least—more and more.
Thursday afternoon brought more time in the nursery. Maribel sat mending whilst Thaddeus and Oliver played soldiers on the carpet—a scene that had become almost routine but never ceased to move her.
She found herself watching Thaddeus more than her stitches. Watching the way he smiled at Oliver’s enthusiasm—genuine now, not carefully controlled. The way his shoulders had gradually relaxed over the week. The way he looked when his guard dropped entirely—younger, lighter, as though he had finally given himself permission to simply be.
