Rosie’s brow furrowed as she tried to understand. “Like carrying Marianne?”
Serena smiled despite herself. “Yes. Very much like that.”
The little girl was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then, in a voice that was very small, she asked, “Will you stay?”
There it was. The question Serena had been dreading, the one she could not answer honestly without dismantling her own carefully constructed defences.
“I will stay as long as you need me,” she said, and told herself it was not quite the same as promising forever.
Rosie appeared satisfied. She nestled closer, her grip on Marianne loosening, and allowed Serena to stroke her hair in slow, gentle motions.
“Miss Collard?”
“Yes, my dear?”
“You smell nice. Like flowers.”
Serena felt her heart give a little more. “It is lavender. I put it in my soap.”
“I like it,” Rosie murmured, her voice already drowsy. “Mama smelled like roses. But lavender is nice too.”
Within minutes, the little girl was asleep, her breath evening out into the slow, steady rhythm of childhood slumber. Serena continued to hold her for a while longer, not wanting to risk waking her, not wanting to let go.
She was still sitting there, Rosie curled against her chest, when she became aware that she was being watched.
She looked up.
Lord Greystone stood in the doorway.
He was dressed informally, in shirtsleeves without a cravat, his hair disordered, and he was looking at her with an expression she could not easily name. Surprise, perhaps. Or something more complex.
“I—pardon me,” he said quietly. “I came to…” He stopped, his gaze settling on the sleeping child in Serena’s arms. Something passed over his face, raw and painful, and then was gone.
“She had a nightmare,” Serena said softly. “She is sleeping now.”
He inclined his head, but did not move. He remained in the doorway, as though he wished to come closer and could not bring himself to cross the threshold.
“She has them often,” he said after a moment, clearing his throat.
“I am sorry to hear that, my lord,” she said quietly. “The truth is, children who have suffered loss often do.”
Something flickered in his grey eyes. Guilt, she thought. Guilt for being unable to prevent them, or perhaps simply for being alive when his brother was not.
“I should have…” He stopped again, his jaw tightening. “I ought to help with these things. I am their guardian. I am supposed to…”
“My lord,” Serena said, her voice quiet but firm. “You cannot mend everything. Some wounds can only be tended, over time, and with patience.”
He looked at her then, truly looked at her, as though seeing her clearly for the first time. For a brief moment, the mask he wore slipped, revealing the exhausted and grieving man beneath.
“You speak with great certainty,” he said.
“I have some experience with wounds, my lord.”
Silence settled between them, weighted with all that remained unsaid. At last Lord Greystone nodded once and stepped back from the doorway.
“Good night, Miss Collard. I trust you can manage from here.”
“I can, my lord. Good night.”
