He halted again, half-turned.
“You are not making matters worse,” she said softly. “You are, in fact, improving them considerably. I cannot recall the last time anyone took such trouble on my behalf.”
He faced her fully. She watched him with an expression he could not readily interpret—layered, thoughtful, vulnerable.
“You deserve care,” he said quietly. “Everyone does.”
“That is a gracious belief. It is not, however, the common reality for those in my position.” Her gaze dropped to the bottlein her hands. “Governesses do not receive care, my lord. They provide it. That is the nature of the role.”
“It ought not to be.”
“Perhaps not. But it is.” She looked up again, something like sadness in her eyes. “You should return to Rosie. She may wake again.”
She was right. He knew it. And yet every instinct urged him to remain.
“Is there anything else you require?” he asked. “Anything at all?”
She hesitated. Then, very quietly: “Would you see to the fire before you go? I let it burn low and meant to send for assistance, but the storm—”
“Of course.”
He crossed to the hearth, where the fire had dwindled to embers. A coal basket stood nearby, and Nathaniel—who had never once laid a fire himself—set to work with earnest clumsiness.
“You are using too much coal.”
“Am I?”
“Yes. It will stifle the embers rather than feed them. Here—” She began to rise, wincing.
“Stay. Tell me.”
She settled back, a flicker of gratitude crossing her face. “Begin with the smaller pieces. Set them around the edges, not atop the embers. Let the fire draw breath.”
He followed her guidance, adjusting his efforts as she murmured quiet corrections. It was unexpectedly intimate—her voice steadying him, the warmth slowly returning to the room.
“There,” she said at last, as the flames took hold. “You have managed it.”
Nathaniel sat back on his heels, surveying the fire with absurd pride. “I have never done that before. There were always servants.”
“Then you have acquired a useful skill—for the eventual collapse of civilisation.”
“I should fare poorly. My wits are serviceable at best.”
“That is untrue,” she said quietly. “You are far sharper than you allow. You merely choose to hide it beneath humour and doubt.”
Nathaniel looked at her then—truly looked.
Miss Collard looked back at him, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke. The fire crackled softly. The storm raged on outside. And something shifted in the space between them—some barrier thinning, some distance closing.
“My lord,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “You should go.”
“I know.”
“The children—”
“I know.”
He did not move.
