“You’re a Valkyrie, a brave warrior maiden,” Arthur explained seriously. “Because you saved us!”
“I’m not a Valkyrie,” Eliza said, her throat tight. “But thank you.”
They followed her through the house, tugging at her skirts and asking her to play games during her breaks. Mrs. Dawson tsked and shooed them away, but Eliza knew that her reprimands lacked real heat.
“They’ve taken quite a shine to you,” Miss Winslow said later that afternoon. She and Eliza were folding linens together in the laundry room. “I think you remind them of Her Grace, the Duchess of Welton.”
“I’m honored,” Eliza said softly. “What makes you say that?”
“From what I’ve been told, she has a soft but confident disposition. You have that… and they trust you.” Miss Winslow’s smile was warm. “So do I.”
Over the weeks, their friendship had deepened and it filled a small hole in Eliza’s heart. Helen, as she’d insisted Eliza call her when they were alone, was kind, intelligent, and blessedly free of judgment. She didn’t pry into Eliza’s past or question her carefully constructed lies. They simply enjoyed each other’s company.
“You’re so good with them, Helen,” Eliza said. “The boys adore you.”
“They’re wonderful children. I only wish,” Helen paused. “I wish they didn’t have to hurt so much.”
“They’re resilient. They’ll be all right.”
“I hope so.”
Morgan had adopted the new habit of leaving small tasks undone in his study. He would set papers slightly askew, books stacked haphazardly, knowing she would straighten them. He pretended to read in the library while she dusted, watching her from behind his book. Once, he called her to his study specifically to rearrange his correspondence, a task he could easily have done himself.
“Miss Graham,” he said as she entered, rising to his feet as if receiving the Queen herself. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” She curtsied. “How may I help?”
“These letters need to be organized by date. Would you mind?”
“Not at all, Your Grace.”
She moved to the desk and began sorting through the papers. Morgan watched her, noting her graceful efficiency, the way she bit her full, pink lower lip when concentrating and the delicate tips of her fingers. She leaned over for a moment, and like a hawk he was drawn to her backside as he watched her move. His gaze fell on the book beside his elbow, a volume of poetry he’d been reading that morning.
“Have you read Byron, Miss Graham?” he asked.
She glanced up, startled. “I… why yes, Your Grace. Some of his work.”
“What did you think of it?”
“I found it… passionate. Perhaps too much so, for some tastes.”
Morgan smiled. “And for yours?”
“I appreciated the honesty of it. The rawness.” She hesitated. “Though I think he is a deeply troubled man.”
“Most great artists are.”
“That’s rather sad, don’t you think? That brilliance so often comes with suffering? Hardly seems fair.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps the suffering gives them something to say that the rest of us can’t articulate.”
Ellie tilted her head, clearly considering his words. “That’s a generous way of looking at it.”
“You’re welcome to borrow it, if you like. Or anything else from the library.”
“Thank you, Your Grace. That’s very kind of you.”
She returned to the letters, and Morgan returned to his book, though he found himself reading the same line three times without absorbing a word.
