“I only suggested that grief and joy need not be mutually exclusive,” she replied. “That loving those we have lost does not require perpetual misery.”
Lord Greystone was silent for a time. When he spoke, his voice was low.
“Did you learn that from experience, Miss Collard? Or from books?”
The question was too personal. It crossed lines that should not be crossed, asked for confidences that Serena had no business sharing. She should have deflected, redirected, returned to safer ground.
Instead, she said quietly, “My mother died when I was ten. My father when I was sixteen.”
His expression altered at once—not dramatically, but unmistakably.
“I am very sorry.”
“So am I.” Serena turned her gaze to the stream, watching the light scatter across its surface. “For many years, I believed that losing them meant I must never allow myself to care deeply again. It seemed the prudent course. One cannot lose what one never allows oneself to possess.”
“And now?”
“Now I think that was a mistake.” She drew a steadying breath. “Withholding affection does not spare one from pain. It only ensures that whatever sorrow comes must be borne alone.”
Lord Greystone said nothing, but she could feel the intensity of his attention like a physical weight.
“The children,” she continued, more firmly now, “have lost so much. But they have not lost their capacity for attachment.That remains. It only required reassurance that such feeling was not dangerous—that it was still permitted.”
“And you gave them that reassurance.”
“I endeavoured to.”
“You succeeded,” he said quietly. “Miss Collard, you must understand—”
A shrill cry cut through his words, bright with excitement.
“Uncle Nate! Miss Collard! Come quickly! Samuel won the sack race!”
Rosie came running toward them, her face radiant, Marianne bouncing at her side.
“He won?” Lord Greystone’s face transformed. “Truly?”
“He beat everyone—even the older boys! Ella says it’s because he has excellent balance, Mrs McConnor says it’s because he ate his porridge, and Samuel says it’s because he is the fastest boy in England!”
Lord Greystone laughed and lifted Rosie into his arms. “Then we must congratulate him at once. Lead on, my dear.”
Rosie pointed eagerly toward the green, and Lord Greystone set off with her perched on his hip, his stride long and eager.
Serena followed more slowly, her thoughts in quiet disarray. She watched him—Nathaniel, for he was Nathaniel in her mindnow, whatever propriety might dictate—watched the ease with which he carried his niece, the pride already gathering in his expression as his nephew ran to meet him.
Something settled within her then, gentle but irrevocable.
She had known it for some time, though she had refused to name it. Now she could no longer deny its presence.
It was folly, of course. He was a marquess; she was a governess. The distance between them was not merely social but structural, immovable. Whatever kindness he showed her sprang from gratitude and shared concern for the children—nothing more.
The conversations, the glances held a moment too long, the sense of being seen—these were surely coincidences of proximity, nothing that could or should be given meaning.
And yet.
When they reached the green and Samuel rushed forward, flushed and breathless with triumph, Lord Greystone drew the boy into a fierce embrace. Over Samuel’s shoulder, his gaze lifted—and met Serena’s.
Something passed between them then, fleeting but unmistakable.
