“Ella,” Miss Collard cautioned gently.
“It is true,” Ella persisted. “You are preoccupied as well. You have been contemplating the saltcellar for some time.”
Miss Collard coloured faintly. “I was merely… reflecting.”
“Upon the saltcellar?”
“It is a most curious object.”
Nathaniel felt the corner of his mouth lift despite himself. Even in distraction—even with whatever secret that letter carried—she remained quietly diverting.
“Perhaps we might change the subject,” he suggested. “Miss Collard, how do the children progress with their studies?”
It was safe ground. Professional ground. And Miss Collard took it readily, describing Ella’s work in French, Samuel’s improving hand, and Rosie’s recent mastery of the alphabet.
Nathaniel listened with one part of his attention, offering the occasional nod, while the rest remained fixed upon her. When she spoke of the children, she animated entirely—eyes bright, gestures fluid, her pleasure unmistakably genuine.
And yet, beneath it all, there remained a sense of divided thought. A pause here, a momentary distance there.
The letter. It must be the letter.
By the time luncheon concluded, Nathaniel was no nearer to understanding its contents and considerably nearer to losing all patience with himself.
He excused himself on the pretext of estate matters and withdrew to his study, where he spent the next hour accomplishing nothing whatsoever—staring at the wall and reflecting upon the singular talent Miss Serena Collard possessed for unsettling his carefully ordered life.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning brought Andrew Fairfax back to Greystone Hall.
Nathaniel was in his study when the butler announced the visitor, and his first thought—ungenerous and entirely improper—was to have the man turned away with some polite excuse. He was occupied. He was indisposed. He had been called away on urgent business.
None of these evasions would withstand even casual scrutiny. Worse, Fairfax had been invited. Nathaniel himself had told him to return, had all but given him permission to pursue an acquaintance with Miss Collard.
He had no one to blame but himself.
“Show him in,” he said, rising from his desk with a distinct sense of impending calamity.
Fairfax entered with the same easy confidence he had displayed the day before—pleasant, smiling, entirely unthreatening. He was well dressed without ostentation, his manner warm but not presumptuous.
He was, Nathaniel thought with renewed irritation, precisely the sort of man mothers approved of.
“Mr Fairfax,” Nathaniel said, summoning something like cordiality. “I did not expect you quite so soon.”
“I hope you will forgive the intrusion, my lord,” Fairfax replied. “I was passing through on parish business and thought I might—if it were convenient—take the opportunity to meet Miss Collard, as we discussed.”
It was inconvenient. Profoundly so.
“Of course,” Nathaniel heard himself say. “The children will be at their lessons, but Miss Collard may spare a few moments. I shall have her sent for.”
He rang for the butler and issued the instruction, then gestured Fairfax to a chair. The intervening minutes were filled with stiff observations about the weather, the condition of the roads, and various parish concerns. Nathaniel contributed little, his attention fixed on the door.
When Miss Collard entered, he was unprepared.
She wore a dress he had not seen before—a soft green muslin that set off the colour of her eyes and fit her with devastating propriety. Her hair was arranged as usual, neat and sensible, though a few escaped curls brushed the nape of her neck. Nathaniel found his gaze caught there, absurdly reluctant to look away.
“My lord?” Her voice cut cleanly through his distraction. “You wished to see me?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Miss Collard, may I introduce Mr Andrew Fairfax, the vicar’s son. Mr Fairfax, Miss Serena Collard, the children’s governess.”
