“Ready!” Rosie declared, bouncing on her toes.
“Then let us be off.”
The carriage ride to the village was filled with cheerful disorder. Serena sat opposite Lord Greystone, acutely aware of the confined space and of his presence within it. He answered Samuel’s questions with genuine attention, recalling the fairs of his own childhood.
“Edward and I used to compete in the sack race,” he said, a faint smile touching his mouth. “He always won. Longer legs.”
“I could win the sack race,” Samuel said, with a confidence Serena had not heard from him in weeks. “I’m very fast.”
“I do not doubt it,” Lord Greystone replied. “We shall see that you are entered.”
Samuel beamed outright, and Serena felt a quiet warmth spread through her chest. This—this ease between uncle and nephew—was what she had hoped for. Whatever confusion she felt on her own account, this alone made her efforts worthwhile.
The fair itself was everything such an occasion ought to be: lively, crowded, and agreeably chaotic. Stalls ringed the village green, offering ribbons, sweetmeats, and roasted chestnuts. Music rose from a makeshift platform, competing with laughter and the calls of vendors. The scent of baking pies mingled with fresh hay, and everywhere there was colour and motion.
The children dispersed at once—Ella pulling Samuel toward the games while Rosie insisted upon the pony rides. Serena moved to follow, but Lord Greystone spoke her name.
“Miss Collard. Might you walk with me?”
It was phrased as a request, yet carried a weight that made her hesitate. Walking alone with her employer—even here—was hardly proper.
“The children—”
“Are attended by Mrs McConnor,” he said, indicating the housekeeper, who followed at a discreet distance. “I thought you might wish to see the fair for yourself, rather than merely supervise it.”
Serena should have declined. She should have cited duty or propriety or any of a dozen sensible reasons.
“That would be very pleasant,” she heard herself say. “Thank you, my lord.”
They walked together through the press of people, Lord Greystone unconsciously shortening his stride to match hers. He pointed out familiar sights with the air of a man revisiting old ground—the puppet show long established in the village, the baker famed for his pies, the ancient oak beneath which, legend claimed, a knight had once proposed to his lady.
“Do you credit the story?” Serena asked.
“Not in the least. But it is a pleasing fiction.” He glanced at her. “Do you?”
“I think people have always relied upon such stories to give shape to their hopes,” she said. “Whether they are literally true matters less than what they allow us to believe.”
“A romantic, then.”
“A practical one,” she replied. “I prefer my ideals tempered by reality.”
He laughed—a brief, genuine sound. “You are admirably prepared for every argument, Miss Collard.”
“I find preparation useful.”
At the edge of the fair, they paused upon a small wooden footbridge. Lord Greystone rested his hands upon the rail, looking down at the water below.
“May I confide something, Miss Collard?”
Her breath caught, though she answered steadily. “Of course, my lord.”
“Before you came—before all this—I had forgotten what such moments felt like.” He gestured toward the green, the sunlight, the distant laughter. “Ease. Contentment. I persuaded myself that to grieve my brother meant I must forgo them altogether.” He turned to her, his expression unguarded. “You reminded me otherwise.”
Serena did not know what to say. The moment felt fragile, significant, like a soap bubble that might burst at the slightest touch.
“I have done very little, my lord,” she said at last. “The children have done the greater part themselves. They merely needed leave to be happy again.”
“And who gave them that leave?”
