It was exhausting work. It was also, he discovered to his surprise, deeply satisfying.
This was what guardianship meant. Not the ledgers and correspondence and endless estate business into which he had buried himself for two years, but this—sitting beside a frightened child, offering comfort, being present when presence was required.
He should have been doing this all along.
The hours passed slowly. The storm showed no sign of abating; if anything, it seemed to intensify, the intervals between lightning and thunder shortening, the rain battering the windows with renewed fury. Nathaniel remained where he was, watching over Rosie, his thoughts drifting despite himself.
They drifted, inevitably, to Miss Collard.
Was she resting? Was she comfortable? Had she what she needed to manage her… condition?
He should check on her. The thought arrived unbidden and refused to be dismissed. He should ensure she had reached her room safely, that she had not collapsed from exhaustion, that she was not lying alone in pain with no one to assist her.
It was not an appropriate impulse for an employer. Nor, if he were being honest, an appropriate one for a gentleman at all. Ladies’ indispositions were matters to be politely ignored, discreetly unremarked upon—certainly never addressed directly.
But—again—propriety had been a discipline Nathaniel seldom observed with much success.
He checked on Rosie once more—still sleeping, her breathing deep and even despite the storm—and slipped quietly from the room. He left the door ajar, so that he would hear if she cried out.
Miss Collard’s chamber lay just along the corridor—near enough for her to reach the children quickly if needed, yet far enough to afford a semblance of privacy. Nathaniel approached it with caution, uncertain even now of his purpose.
He could not simply knock and ask whether she was well. That would be—well. Entirely improper. Quite impossible to justify if anyone were to observe it.
But he might stand there a moment, he told himself. Might listen. Might satisfy himself that she was not in immediate distress before returning to Rosie.
A thin line of light showed beneath the door; her lamp was still lit. Perhaps she was awake. Perhaps, like him, she found sleep impossible beneath the fury of the storm.
He lifted his hand to knock—then lowered it again.
This was madness. What would he even say?Good evening, Miss Collard; I wished to confirm that your monthly discomfort has not rendered you incapacitated?The very thought made him wince.
He turned to go—
—and heard a sound from within.
A gasp. Quickly stifled, but unmistakable.
A gasp of pain.
Nathaniel knocked before he could reconsider.
“Miss Collard? Are you quite well?”
A pause. Then, her voice strained: “My lord? I—I am quite well. Please, return to the children.”
“You are not well. I heard you.” He rested his hand against the door, as though he might somehow reach her through the wood. “Miss Collard, if you require assistance—”
“What I require, my lord, is privacy.” Her voice sharpened, edged with embarrassment or pain—or both. “This is not a matter in which a gentleman can be of service.”
“Perhaps not. But I cannot simply walk away knowing you are suffering.”
Another pause. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter.
“What would you have me say? Yes, I am in pain—considerable pain, if you must know. But it is familiar pain. One I have endured before and shall endure again. There is nothing to be done but wait for it to pass.”
Nathaniel closed his eyes, frustration and helplessness warring within him.
“Mrs McConnor mentioned warmth,” he said. “Hot water bottles. Do you have one?”
