The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. Morgan’s chest tightened. He moved to sit beside Arthur, then plopped onto the sofa.
“I know you miss your uncle. And your new aunt?—”
“Aunt Imogen said she’d take us with her next time, but…” Arthur’s lower lip trembled. “But she’s not even here. What if something happens, and they don’t ever come back?”
“She and your uncle will be back in a few weeks. You have nothing to worry about. And then you’ll go to France together. As a family.”
“But we’re not a family,” Arthur said quietly. “Not really. Our mama and papa are gone.”
Philip abandoned his soldiers and climbed onto the sofa beside Arthur, leaning into his brother. Neither of them looked at Morgan, who felt utterly, completely out of his depth. What would Ambrose say?
“You’re right,” he said carefully, not diminishing their sadness and pain. “Your parents are gone. And I know that’s hard.”
“It is,” they said in unison.
“But your Uncle Ambrose loves you. Aunt Imogen loves you. And I…” He hesitated then. “I care about you both very much. You’re not alone, Arthur. And neither are you, Philip. Even when it feels like you are. And better than that, you always have each other.”
Arthur sniffled but didn’t respond. Philip looked up at Morgan with wide, solemn eyes. “Do you promise?”
“I promise.”
“All right,” Philip rested his head against Arthur’s shoulder. “I decided that I believe you.”
Arthur still said nothing, but he leaned into his brother, and Morgan decided not to push the matter further. They sat in silence for a while, the three of them on the sofa, until Miss Winslow appeared in the doorway.
“Boys, it’s time to wash up for dinner.”
The twins slid off the sofa and trudged toward the door. Philip paused to wave at Morgan, and he waved back.
When they were gone, Morgan sank back into the sofa and rubbed his face.
One week down. Three to go. I am going to need help…
That evening, after the boys had been put to bed, Morgan found himself wandering the house restlessly. It had been months since he was at Kirkhammer and found himself lost in the halls.
He passed the servants’ corridor and heard the faint murmur of voices from the kitchen. The staff were finishing their evening duties, preparing for tomorrow. He thought of Miss Graham.
Ellie.
She’d been here three days now, and she’d proven herself capable and a quick study. More than capable. Mrs. Dawson had even grudgingly admitted as much when he asked for a report that evening. But there was something about her that nagged at him. Something that didn’t quite add up.
He considered the way she sometimes spoke like a lady, not a maid. The way she held herself, straight-backed, composed, even when she was scrubbing floors.
She was running from something. He was certain of it. As he walked toward the library, the quiet corridors stretching long and cool beneath the late afternoon light, he caught a glimpseof her. She stood in the hall beside a narrow table, polishing a set of silver candlesticks with slow, careful movements. Her expression was focused, almost studious, as though the simple task required every ounce of her attention.
He slowed without meaning to. From where he stood, half-shadowed beneath an archway, he watched the faint glint of metal turn beneath her cloth. A lock of dark blonde hair had escaped whatever ribbon or pin held it back, curling softly along her pink cheek. When she tilted her head, the light caught her eyes, that shade of hazel, warm and bright, flecked with green and gold.
They are not the eyes of someone at ease.
It was the look of someone listening for footsteps that might follow and so, Morgan resolved to be quiet as he continued to watch. She was small, petite in a way that made her seem almost delicate. But, her figure curved softly beneath the plain dress she wore. There was no obscuring it. The fabric clung at her waist and hips as she leaned slightly over the table, and he found himself noticing the easy grace of her movements, the quiet strength in the way she held herself, the curve of her backside.
Attractive is too mild a word for this woman.
He had only meant to pass by. Instead, he lingered there, the minutes passing. He just watched the sweeping motion of cloth against silver, wondering.
What is she running from? And why do I care?
Morgan shook his head and turned back toward the library, silently letting his feet guide him there.
