Then Ella did something extraordinary.
She rose from her chair, crossed to him, and placed her hand, tentatively, upon his shoulder.
“Uncle Nate,” she said softly. “I am sorry. I should not have…I didn’t mean to—”
“No.” He covered her hand with his own. “No, Ella. You should have said it. Someone ought to have done so long ago.” He drew a careful breath. “I have been so afraid of makingmatters worse that I have made them worse by doing nothing at all. That ends today. I promise you, it ends today.”
Serena turned her gaze away, feeling as though she were intruding upon something deeply private. Yet she could not prevent the swell of emotion in her chest, the mingling of sorrow, relief, and something warmer that she did not wish to examine too closely.
When she looked back, Rosie had slipped from her chair and crossed the room. She tugged at her uncle’s coat with one small hand, her expression solemn.
“Uncle Nate?”
He looked down at her, his eyes still bright with unshed tears. “Yes, Rosie?”
“May Marianne have a pretend biscuit now? She has been very patient.”
The laugh that escaped him was unsteady, but genuine. “Yes, my dear. Marianne may have as many pretend biscuits as she wishes.”
Rosie nodded gravely, as though this settled a matter of great importance. Then, without hesitation, she climbed into her uncle’s lap and settled there as though it were the most natural place in the world.
Lord Greystone’s arms closed around her instinctively. Over the child’s head, his gaze met Serena’s, and she saw in his eyes something that made her breath catch.
Gratitude. And something more. Something that looked very much like hope.
***
The afternoon passed in a blur of activity. Lord Greystone, having declared his intention to be more present in the children’s lives, proved as good as his word. He joined them in the garden for their after-luncheon walk, asking questions about the flowers and trees and listening with apparent interest as Rosie explained, at considerable length, the proper method of feeding pretend biscuits to rag dolls.
He examined Samuel’s latest drawing and pronounced it excellent, and though the boy did not smile, neither did he retreat. He stood beside his uncle and pointed out the details of his work with quiet pride.
He even managed a civil conversation with Ella about one of her more challenging authors, though Serena suspected his acquaintance with the views in question was limited at best. It did not seem to matter. What mattered was that he was trying. He was present, attentive, and making an effort where there had once been only absence.
By evening, Serena was weary in a way that owed nothing to physical exertion. She had spent the day navigating a landscape of complicated feelings, mediating between a man uncertain how to reconnect with his family and three children who had forgotten how to trust. Yet beneath the fatigue lay something else, something that felt perilously close to satisfaction.
She was tucking Rosie into bed when the little girl reached up and caught her hand.
“Miss Collard?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“Uncle Nate came to luncheon today.”
“He did.”
“He never comes to luncheon.” Rosie’s big eyes were solemn, searching. “Why did he come today?”
Serena considered her reply with care. “I think,” she said slowly, “that he missed you. And that he realised the only way to stop missing you was to be with you more often.”
Rosie pondered this. “So if I miss Mama, I should be with her more often?”
Serena’s heart tightened painfully.
“My dear,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed and keeping hold of Rosie’s small hand, “being with your mama is not something you can do in the usual way anymore. But you can remember her. You can think of the times you shared, the things she taught you, and the way she made you feel loved. When you do that, a part of her remains with you still.”
“Like in my heart?”
“Yes. Precisely so.”
