“Not precisely my approval, my lord,” Serena replied evenly. “More a… tacit non-objection.”
His eyes narrowed. “Is there a distinction?”
“A meaningful one. Approval implies encouragement. Tacit non-objection merely indicates that I did not physically restrain her from an activity which, while perhaps unconventional, presents no serious danger to her health or safety.”
He exhaled sharply. “She could fall.”
“She could,” Serena agreed. “Children do, on occasion. It is part of learning how to move through the world.”
“And if she breaks an arm? Or worse?”
Serena met his gaze directly now. “Then we shall send for a physician and address the consequences. But I think it far more likely that she will descend unharmed and considerably pleased with herself, having accomplished something she was told she ought not attempt.” She paused. “May I speak candidly, my lord?”
Something in his expression shifted—wariness, perhaps, or reluctant curiosity. “You have shown little inclination to do otherwise.”
“Very well.” Serena folded her hands before her, adopting the posture of one long accustomed to delivering unwelcome truths. “For two years, Ella has been treated as though she were made of glass. Shielded from every difficulty, protected from every risk. The result is not a child who feels secure, but one who believes the world is dangerous and that survival depends upon avoiding it entirely.”
Lord Greystone was silent. Serena wondered, briefly, whether she had gone too far.
“You think I have been overprotective,” he said at last.
“I think you have been afraid,” she replied, more gently than she had intended. “And that is understandable. But fear cannot be the foundation of a child’s life. They must be allowed to test themselves, to fail now and then, and to learn that failure is not ruin. They need to discover their own strength.”
He studied her closely, his gaze intent in a way that made Serena acutely aware of herself. Colour rose, unbidden, to her cheeks, and she looked away.
“And if somethingdoeshappen?” he asked quietly. “If she falls, and I lose her as well?”
The rawness of the question struck her hard.
This was not a man worried about propriety or the impropriety of tree-climbing. This was a man who had already lost too much, who lived in constant terror of losing more, who had built walls around himself and his household in a desperate attempt to keep the world’s cruelties at bay.
“You cannot protect them from every harm,” she said softly. “I know how much you wish to. But keeping them safe by keeping them afraid does its own damage. One that lingers far longer than a broken bone.”
The silence that followed was heavy. When Lord Greystone spoke again, his voice was carefully controlled.
“You speak as though you know this from experience.”
Serena thought of her father in those last years after her mother’s death. How he had tried to keep her safe, keep her close, keep her wrapped in the cocoon of his grief until she could barely breathe. How she had loved him and resented him in equal measure, grateful for his protection and suffocated by it.
“I have some familiarity with the subject,” she said, and offered nothing more.
He regarded her for a moment longer, then inclined his head in a gesture not quite a bow.
“I shall observe this tree-climbing expedition,” he said. “If only to satisfy myself that my niece has not come to serious harm.”
“That seems prudent, my lord.”
He turned to go, then paused.
“Miss Collard,” he said without looking back, “I find your candour… instructive. If occasionally inconvenient.”
Before she could respond, he was gone, striding toward the garden with the determined air of a man accustomed to decisive action.
Serena remained where she was a moment longer than necessary, her heart beating faster than was reasonable, her cheeks still warm beneath the memory of his gaze.
This was becoming troublesome.
She could not afford such awareness. Could not indulge thoughts of the way his voice softened when he spoke of his brother, or the fierce restraint with which he loved his nieces and nephew.
