Miss Collard hesitated a moment longer. Then, slowly, she nodded.
“Very well, my lord. I shall be in my room if you need me.”
“I shall remember that.”
She rose from the bed, and Nathaniel saw her wince at the movement—a fleeting flash of pain she immediately sought to suppress. Without thinking, he reached out and caught her arm.
“Are you certain you can walk? Should I send for Mrs McConnor to assist you?”
“I am quite capable of reaching my own room, my lord.” Yet her voice was strained, and she did not immediately draw away from his touch.
“At least allow me—”
“My lord.” Her tone was gentle but firm. “I have been managing this particular difficulty for many years. I assure you, I know how to get myself to bed.”
Heat rose unbidden to Nathaniel’s face as the implications—of her words and his own—caught up with him. “I did not mean to suggest—that is, I was not implying—”
“I know you were not.” Something that might have been amusement flickered in her tired eyes. “I am merely observing that your concern, though touching, is not strictly necessary. I can manage myself.”
“I know you can,” Nathaniel said, “It’s simply that you are… you are so… important. To the children. To this household. To—” He stopped himself in time. “It would be a great inconvenience if you were to exhaust yourself entirely through sheer refusal to rest.”
“An inconvenience,” Miss Collard echoed. Her lips twitched. “How very flattering.”
“I have never been celebrated for my eloquence.”
“No,” she agreed. “You have not.”
They stood thus for a moment—Nathaniel holding Rosie, now drowsing heavily against his shoulder; Miss Collard leaning slightly into the steadying contact of his hand—and something passed between them. Unspoken, but weighty all the same.
Another roll of thunder broke the stillness, and Rosie stirred with a small, unhappy sound.
“Go,” Nathaniel said quietly. “Rest. I have matters well in hand.”
Miss Collard nodded and stepped back, letting his hand fall away. “Goodnight, my lord.”
“Goodnight, Miss Collard.”
She moved toward the door, her steps careful, measured. At the threshold, she paused and turned back.
“My lord?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For understanding. For not…” She searched for the phrase. “For not making this more awkward than it need have been.”
“I suspect I made it considerably more awkward than strictly necessary,” Nathaniel said ruefully. “But you are welcome nonetheless.”
She almost smiled—he saw it, the brief curve of her lips before restraint reclaimed it—and then she was gone, the door closing softly behind her.
Nathaniel remained in the centre of Rosie’s room, holding his sleeping niece, and tried to persuade himself that the warmth spreading through his chest was no more than the satisfaction of having done what was right.
He did not succeed.
Chapter Fifteen
The storm raged on.
Nathaniel settled into the chair beside Rosie’s bed, the little girl tucked securely beneath her blankets, her grip on Marianne only slightly less desperate than before. Each crash of thunder made her flinch even in sleep, small whimpers escaping her lips, and each time Nathaniel reached out to smooth her hair or take her hand, murmuring reassurances until she settled once more.
