“Before we begin,” Ambrose said, reaching into his coat pocket, “we brought you something from France.”
He handed Morgan a small, elegantly wrapped package. Morgan raised an eyebrow and opened it carefully. Inside was a leather-bound journal, beautifully crafted, with his initials embossed in gold on the cover.
“It’s exquisite,” Morgan said, running his fingers over the smooth leather, flipping through the parchment pages. “Thank you, both of you.”
“We thought you might enjoy it,” Imogen said warmly. “For your Parliamentary notes, or perhaps something more personal.”
Morgan smiled. “I shall treasure it.”
Ambrose leaned back in his chair, his gaze settling on the boys, who were already reaching for the cakes. “Now then, tell us. How was your month with Uncle Morgan? Did you enjoy yourselves?”
The question unleashed a torrent of excitement.
“It was the best!” Philip exclaimed, his mouth half-full of cake. “We went to the beach every day, and we found shells, and crabs, and?—”
“And Miss Graham showed us how to build a sandcastle that wouldn’t fall down!” Arthur interrupted, bouncing in his seat.
“Miss Graham helped us catch a fish in a tide pool,” Philip added. “She wasn’t even scared of it!”
“And when I hurt my knee, Miss Graham fixed it and made it stop hurting,” Arthur said earnestly.
“Miss Graham tells the best stories,” Philip declared. “Better than Miss Winslow’s, even.”
Morgan noticed the slight pause in the conversation. Ambrose and Imogen exchanged a glance, curiosity flickering across their faces.
“Miss Graham?” Imogen asked gently. “Who is Miss Graham?”
“She’s the nicest person in the whole house, Aunt Imogen!” Philip said matter-of-factly. “She works here, but she’s really our friend.”
“She saved me when I tried to get to Philip out of the water,” Arthur added, his tone reverent. “I almost went under, but she grabbed me just in time.”
Morgan’s jaw tightened slightly at the memory, not knowing the timing of it all.
Ambrose looked at Morgan, one eyebrow raised. “Miss Graham?”
“Yes, Miss Ellie Graham,” Morgan said evenly. “One of the newer maids. She’s been… helpful with the boys.”
“Helpful is an understatement,” Miss Winslow interjected, entering the room with a warm smile. She curtsied deeply to Ambrose and Imogen. “Your Graces, it’s so wonderful to see you again. I must say, Miss Graham has been invaluable this past month. The boys adore her, and she has a natural way with children that has made my job considerably easier.”
At that moment, the door opened, and a maid entered with a fresh pot of tea.
Miss Ellie Graham…
She moved with her usual quiet efficiency, her hazel eyes downcast, her posture careful. Her dark blonde hair was back in a neat bun, though a few stray curls framed her delicate face. She set the teapot on the table and stepped back, preparing to leave.
“MISS ELLIE!” both boys cried in unison, their faces lighting up.
She froze. Her hands tightened slightly at her sides, but she kept her gaze lowered.
“Hello there, Lords Arthur and Philip,” she said softly with a small smile.
Morgan watched her carefully. There was tension in her shoulders, a wariness that hadn’t been there moments ago. She didn’t look at Ambrose. Didn’t look at Imogen. She kept her eyes firmly on the floor. Imogen, however, was watching her. Morgan noticed the Duchess’s gaze linger on Ellie’s face, her expression thoughtful. Curious.
“Thank you for the tea, Miss Graham,” Morgan said, his tone polite but firm. A dismissal.
“Your Grace.” Then she turned and left the room with a curtsy, her movements swift but controlled.
The boys, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension, continued their excited chatter and consumption of sweets.
