A former employer, perhaps. That was the most sensible explanation. Miss Collard had served in other households; continued correspondence would be natural.
Or perhaps—a former suitor.
The thought arrived unbidden and unwelcome, lodging itself in Nathaniel’s mind like a splinter. Miss Collard was four-and-twenty. She was handsome, intelligent, and possessed of a wit that cut through pretension with surgical precision. It was inevitable that men would have noticed her. That some might have pursued her.
The idea was intolerable.
Nathaniel pushed back from his desk and stood abruptly, pacing to the window and back again. This was madness. He was jealous—actually jealous—of a letter. A letter he had not read, from a correspondent he could not identify, regarding matters that were absolutely none of his concern.
He needed to get hold of himself.
He needed to remember who he was, and who she was, and the strict boundaries that governed such distinctions.
He must cease thinking of Miss Serena Collard altogether.
A knock at the door interrupted him.
“Enter,” he said, perhaps more sharply than required.
His butler appeared. “My lord, Mr Andrew Fairfax has called. He wishes to speak with you on parish business.”
Fairfax—the vicar’s son, recently returned from Oxford. Nathaniel had met him once or twice: amiable, well-mannered, possessed of the easy confidence of a young man who had not yet been tested by life.
“Show him in,” Nathaniel said, grateful for the diversion.
Moments later, Fairfax entered. He was fair-haired, open-faced, and comfortably assured—neither arrogant nor diffident. The sort of man who inspired confidence. The sort of man, Nathaniel thought with sudden irritation, who would make an excellent husband for a sensible young woman seeking stability.
He dismissed the thought at once.
“Mr Fairfax,” he said, indicating a chair. “What brings you to Greystone Hall?”
“Thank you, my lord.” Fairfax settled into the offered chair with easy grace. “My father asked me to call regarding the harvest festival. As you know, the parish relies heavily on Greystone’s support for the event, and he wanted to confirm the arrangements.”
They spoke for several minutes of practicalities—the donation of goods, the use of the village green, the minor logistics such occasions required. It was necessary business, but uninspiring, and Nathaniel found his attention drifting despite himself.
His gaze strayed to the window, to the garden beyond, where Miss Collard was still engaged with the children. From this angle he could see her profile—the elegant line of her neck, the inclination of her head as she bent to examine whatever treasure Rosie now held aloft.
“—most grateful for your generosity, my lord.”
Nathaniel jerked his attention back to his visitor. “Of course. The parish may always depend on Greystone’s support.”
“Excellent.” Fairfax smiled, open and unguarded. “My father will be much obliged. He speaks highly of your family’s longstanding commitment to the community.”
“We do what we can.”
A pause followed—the natural conclusion of the call, the moment when Fairfax ought to take his leave and allow Nathaniel to return to his correspondence.
Instead, Fairfax’s attention followed the same path Nathaniel’s had taken moments before.
“I see your nieces and nephew are enjoying the fine weather,” he observed. “And is that—pray forgive me, I do not believe we have been introduced—the new governess of whom I have heard so much?”
Nathaniel’s jaw tightened. “Miss Collard. Yes.”
“The village has been quite abuzz with talk of her,” Fairfax continued, apparently oblivious to Nathaniel’s sudden tension. “They say she’s worked wonders with the children. That young Samuel has started speaking again, and that Miss Ella is quite transformed.”
“The village gossips about many things.”
“Indeed.” Fairfax laughed. “But in this instance, the reports seem favourable. My father met her at church last Sunday and was much impressed. He described her as a young woman of uncommon intelligence.”
