Serena retreated before he could turn and discover her. She moved swiftly along the corridor and did not stop until she reached a window alcove far enough away to be unheard.
There, hidden from view, she rested her forehead against the cold glass for a brief moment.
She had thought she understood grief. She had thought that her own losses—her mother, her father, the parade of families who had come and gone through her life—had taught her everything there was to know about the weight of absence.
But this was different.
This was a child’s grief, raw and unguarded, set down in letters that would never be read. This was an eight-year-old boy attempting to make sense of a world that had taken everything from him and offered nothing in recompense.
And she could not mend it. That was the hardest part. She could not bring his parents back. She could not undo the accident, could not rewrite history, could not give him the one thing he most needed.
All she could do was remain. Listen. Comfort. Help him bear a burden no child ought to carry.
It was not enough.
But it was all she could give.
***
She found Samuel in the garden a quarter of an hour later, seated upon a bench beneath an old oak. He looked up as she approached, his expression guarded, but not unwelcoming.
“Miss Collard,” he said, his tone carefully even. “I am sorry I wandered off. I know I am meant to inform you before I go anywhere.”
“It is quite all right.” Serena seated herself beside him, leaving a respectful distance. “I suspected you might require some time alone. Everyone does, now and then.”
Samuel was silent for a moment. “Do you ever require time alone, Miss Collard?”
“Often. I am not nearly so sociable as I appear.”
That earned her the faintest hint of a smile. “You seem very sociable.”
“That is because I have learned toappearso. It is a useful skill for a governess. One must converse with employers, manage children, and navigate households, all while remaining agreeable.” She paused. “But beneath the performance, I am rather private.”
Samuel considered this gravely. “Why?”
“Because thoughts are valuable things. Not everyone is entitled to them.”
He turned to look at her directly then—a rare occurrence, she had noticed, for a boy who spent most of his time avoiding eye contact. “Miss Collard, do you think I’m too quiet?”
“I think you are precisely as quiet as you need to be. And I believe that when you have something to say, you will say it.”
He studied her as though searching for falsehood, then relaxed.
“Miss Pearson said I was disturbed,” he stated. “She told Mrs McConnor that a child who does not speak is a child with something wrong in his head.”
Serena felt a flash of anger toward the old governess.
“Miss Pearson,” she said carefully, “was mistaken. Being quiet does not mean there is anything wrong with you. And if she could not see that, then it is as well that she did not remain.”
Samuel’s eyes widened slightly. “Miss Collard, I do not think you are meant to criticise other governesses.”
“Quite true,” Serena replied, lowering her voice. “In that case, I suggest we keep the matter between ourselves.”
The ghost of a smile returned, slightly stronger this time.
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, listening to the wind rustle through the oak leaves overhead. Then Samuelreached into his pocket and withdrew the folded letter Serena had seen him read aloud.
“I write to them,” he said quietly. “I know they cannot read the letters. But it helps. To imagine that they can.”
