She thought of Rosie’s trust, of Samuel’s quiet reliance, of Ella’s watchful respect.
“No,” she said. “Not at all.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. “Then it appears we are both failing in self-defence.”
“So it would seem.”
They stood in silence, the moment stretched thin and fragile, weighted with possibilities neither was ready to name.
“I should—” Serena gestured faintly toward her room.
“Yes. Of course.” Lord Greystone stepped back, clearing the path for her. “Until the morrow, Miss Collard.”
“Until the morrow, my lord.”
She passed him, keenly aware of his nearness, of the quickened beat of her own heart. She had nearly reached her door when his voice stopped her.
“Serena.”
She turned, startled by the sound of her given name. “My lord?”
He stood where she had left him, his face half in shadow.
“I am glad you came to Greystone Hall,” he said. “I am glad you stayed.”
Something in her gave way, quiet and irrevocable.
“So am I,” she said. And she meant it.
She entered her room and closed the door behind her, resting against it for a moment until her breathing steadied.
She was in difficulty. Deep, intricate, and likely beyond remedy. She had come to Greystone Hall resolved to maintain her distance, to do her duty without entanglement, to protect herself from the pain she knew followed every farewell.
And instead, in the space of days, she had come to care deeply for three wounded children and found herself perilously close to feeling something equally dangerous for their guardian.
This was not what she had intended.
Yet as she sat on her bed listening to the quiet settling of the house, Serena found she could not summon regret.
For the first time in many years, she felt she might be precisely where she was supposed to be.
And that, she thought, might be worth whatever pain should follow.
Chapter Seven
“You cannot possibly expect me to believe that you have never climbed a tree.”
Serena looked up from her embroidery, a pursuit she had never greatly enjoyed but which afforded an excellent excuse to sit quietly and observe, and found Ella standing before her with an expression of profound scepticism.
“I assure you, Miss Ella, I have climbed a great many trees in my lifetime. I was, in fact, something of an accomplished climber as a child.”
“Then why will you not climb the oak in the garden?” Ella demanded. “Samuel insists the view from the top is magnificent, and I should very much like to see it. But Mrs McConnor says young ladies do not climb trees, and Uncle Nate would have an apoplexy if he saw me attempting it.”
“Your uncle would not have an apoplexy,” Serena said calmly. “He would merely adopt a very severe expression and make some pointed remarks about propriety, which is far less dramatic but considerably more tedious.”
Ella’s lips twitched. Over the past fortnight, Serena had learned that the surest way to earn the girl’s respect was to address her plainly. Not indulgently, not with false cheer, but with the same dry honesty one might extend to an adult. Ella, who had spent two years being managed and softened andspoken to as though she might shatter at the slightest pressure, responded to directness like a plant turning toward the light.
“So you say that climbing the tree would be improper,” Ella said.
