“That seems to me a very sensible way of keeping them near.”
“Ella says it is childish.”
“Ella is trying very hard to be grown, and sometimes in doing so, one forgets that certain childish things are, in fact, very wise.” Serena spoke gently. “There is nothing wrong in writing to your parents. That is not childish. It is love.”
Samuel nodded. “Sometimes I picture them reading the letters. Papa at his desk. Mama by the fire.” His voice wavered. “It makes me feel less alone.”
“Then it has served its purpose.”
She laid her hand upon his shoulder, slow and deliberate. “You are not alone, Samuel. You have your sisters, your uncle—and you have me, for as long as I am here.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then, so softly she almost missed it: “And how long will that be?”
There it was. The question she had been dreading.
“I cannot say,” she answered honestly. “But I can promise you this: I will not leave without explanation. Or without—”
“—without saying goodbye?”
“Yes.”
He shifted closer, and her arm settled more fully around him.
“Thank you,” he said. “For saying there is nothing wrong with me.”
“I mean it,” she replied. “There is nothing wrong with grieving.”
They remained beneath the oak as the afternoon waned, and Serena allowed herself, for just a moment, a dangerous thought.
That perhaps, in this quiet house and among these wounded hearts, she had finally found something that would endure.
Chapter Six
Serena became aware of Lord Greystone’s presence only when a shadow fell across the grass before her.
She had not heard his approach. His footsteps were softened by the turf, and she was too absorbed in the stillness of the moment to notice anything beyond the warm, trusting weight of Samuel against her side. When she looked up, she found him standing a few paces away, watching them with an expression she could not read.
Samuel had fallen asleep. His head rested against her shoulder, his breathing slow and even, the letter still clasped in his small hand.
Lord Greystone did not answer at once. His gaze remained fixed on his nephew, on the peaceful slackening of his features, on the way his small body had settled without fear into the governess’s embrace.
“He hasn’t slept during the day since they died,” he said finally, his voice low. “Mrs McConnor says he often lies awake at night, staring at the ceiling, and then refuses to rest during the day because he insists he is not tired. She’s been worried about him. We all have.”
Serena looked down at the sleeping boy, her heart filled with something both tender and fierce. “He was tired,” she said simply. “He only needed to feel safe enough to let go.”
Lord Greystone moved closer, his motions careful and deliberate. He sat on the bench at Samuel’s other side, near enough that Serena was conscious of his presence, of the quiet steadiness of another adult in a moment that felt too fragile for words.
“What did you say to him?” he asked.
Serena hesitated. “Nothing remarkable. I listened. And I told him that his grief was not something to be ashamed of.”
“Thatisremarkable,” he said; his voice rough with emotion. “It is more than anyone else has done. Including me.”
“My lord—”
“I have been afraid of saying the wrong thing,” he went on, still not looking at her. “Of making matters worse. Of opening wounds I hoped might be closing. So, I said nothing. I did nothing. And all the while, he was carrying this entirely alone.”
“You could not have done much.”
