He turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the stillness of the sleeping house.
Serena remained where she was, holding Rosie and watching the empty doorway.
She had come to Greystone Hall expecting difficulty. She had expected grief-stricken children, a distant employer, and the familiar challenges of her profession. What she had not expected, what she could not have anticipated, was the way Lord Greystone had looked at her just now. The way he had stood inthe doorway, wishing to help and not knowing how, longing for connection and yet afraid to attempt it.
He was as wounded as his nieces and nephew, Serena realised. As lost, as lonely, and as in need of being seen.
And that, she thought as she finally laid Rosie back against her pillows and tucked the blankets carefully around her small body, was a very dangerous thing to notice.
Chapter Three
“I am not a child, you know.”
Serena looked up from the lesson plan she was reviewing to find Ella standing in the doorway of the schoolroom, her arms crossed in what had become a familiar posture of defensive defiance.
“I am quite aware of your age, Miss Ella. You are eleven.”
“Eleven and three-quarters.” Ella advanced into the room with the deliberate stride of someone who had carefully observed how adults walked and was determined to imitate them. “Which is practically twelve. And twelve is practically grown.”
Serena set aside her pen and gave Ella her full attention. It was, she had learned over the past three days, the most effective way to manage her: to take her seriously, even when her conclusions were patently absurd.
“By that reasoning,” Serena said mildly, “twelve is also practically thirteen, which is practically fourteen, which is practically fifteen, and so on, until you have reasoned yourself into being a woman of thirty before teatime.”
Ella’s brow furrowed. “That’s not—It does not—”
“I know precisely what you meant.” Serena gestured to the chair opposite her. “Sit down, Miss Ella, and tell me what is truly troubling you.”
For a moment, Serena thought she would refuse, retreating behind that carefully constructed wall of premature composure. But something in Serena’s expression must have reached her, for after a pause, the girl crossed the room and sat.
“I do not need lessons,” Ella said, though her voice lacked some of its earlier certainty. “I already know everything you intend to teach me. I have read all the books in the schoolroom. I can conjugate French verbs, name the kings of England, and calculate sums in my head. There is nothing left to learn.”
Serena absorbed this calmly. “I see. And what, precisely, do you intend to do with yourself, if you have already learned everything there is to learn?”
“I shall help with the household accounts. Uncle Nate says I have a head for figures. And I shall manage the younger ones, ensure that Samuel completes his lessons properly and that Rosie does not get into mischief. I am quite good at managing, you know. Mrs McConnor says so.”
Ah. There it was.
Serena studied the girl before her: the too-mature dress, the overly careful posture, the bright eyes that worked so hard to conceal any trace of vulnerability.
“Miss Ella,” she said gently, “who has been teaching you your lessons these past two years?”
The question clearly caught her off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that your governesses did not remain long. Miss Pearson was here for less than a fortnight. Before her, there was a considerable interval without any governess at all. And before that…” Serena allowed the sentence to trail away, watching Ella’s face.
The girl’s jaw tightened. “I taught myself. It is not difficult, if one is clever enough.”
“No, I imagine it is not. You are very clever indeed.” Serena paused, choosing her words with care. “But cleverness and education are not the same thing. One may memorise facts from books, but a book cannot discuss ideas with you. It cannot challenge your assumptions, nor help you examine a question from another perspective. Books present what they know, and they may even be mistaken at times.”
“Books are rarely mistaken.”
“Books are frequently incomplete, Miss Ella. They often present one truth as though it were the only truth, when there are many others waiting to be discovered.” Serena leaned forward slightly. “You say you have read all the books in the schoolroom. Have you read Mary Wollstonecraft?”
Ella’s expression flickered, uncertainty mingling with curiosity. “No. Who is that?”
“A woman who held some very interesting views on education and the place of women in society. Views that maysurprise you, if you are willing to be surprised.” Serena allowed herself a small smile. “I have a copy in my trunk. I brought it in case I should find a pupil clever enough to appreciate it.”
The effect was immediate. Ella’s rigid posture softened almost imperceptibly, and something like genuine interest stirred in her grey eyes.
