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Christopher chuckled. “It might be pertinent to mention that an hour ago she considered stabbing me in the kidney with the sharp edge of a broken broom handle.”

“Nay. That’s not relevant in the slightest.” Hamish glanced up at Sofia’s window. “Shortly after Violet was wed, she gave me a fancy fruit called a prickly pear that some nob had sent over in a basket. Ye have to be careful handling them or their spines and bristles will slice yer skin clean open.” He paused dramatically. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted on me tongue and worth every moment of effort, ye ken?” His mouth stretched into a wide, mischievous grin.

Christopher shook his head with a chuckle, “Yes, I ken.”

Hamish raised a brow at his appropriation of the Scottish word then laughed again.

“Are you waiting on Violet?” Christopher asked.

“Aye, and Northam. Violet’s got it in her head that she needs to build a loft for her goats, and Northam’s keen to show her he’ll satisfy any ridiculous notion she gets.” Despite the implied insult to both Violet and Gabriel, Hamish looked pleased with the observation. “Watching Vi grow up, I never thought she would find the other half of her soul when hers is so singularly unique. If ye think she stands out in a crowd now, ye should have seen her at ten. Fierce little spitfire, too smart by half and without the slightest compulsion to hide it away.”

“You mean, after Nathan? You didn’t think she would find anyone after Nathan?”

Hamish blinked.

“Aye. After Nathan.” Hamish cleared his throat. “Northam is meant for Violet. You’d be lucky to find love half so profound.”

“Speaking of Miss Lioni, I think I will …” Christopher’s voice trailed away. He wasn’t entirely sure how to finish the sentence.

“Aye, go. But if ye ask me, ye should be out here hammering your fingers black and blue with the rest of us.”

“Things to starch, you know.” Christopher clapped Hamish on the back, then moved briskly towards the kitchen entrance.

After her bath and a second bowl of stew, Sofia paced the length of the room. With distance from Oliver and her stomach full, all the arguments she should have voiced while she’d travelled with him toward Northam Hall now buzzed infuriatingly in her ears, mosquitos that refused to be swatted away. She hadn’t found the will to protest long enough or loud enough when those words might have counted for something. Instead, the contentment of having her brother close again had acted as a sort of anaesthetic to her judgement and perseverance. His plan, while reprehensible, had felt too preposterous for her to worry over much about its blatant immorality. After all, searching the duke's study would be impossible unless she was hired on, and what duke's housekeeper would employ a woman who arrived with no appointment and with nothing whatsoever to recommend her?

So Sofia had meekly followed along with Oliver’s demands, then, like an impulsive child, she’d allowed herself to be riled by Christopher Keene and his infuriating dimples. Now, the remorse of her capitulation roiled through her body as surely as her brother’s sick after a night of overindulgence.

Oliver could at least blame alcohol and a bone-deep sense of betrayal for his stupidity. Sofia had no excuse for her actions except a flash of uncontrolled temper. She would have to return to Oliver and appeal to his sense of protectiveness. Surely, he could be made to see the danger to her in all of this? But the truth of her situation crystallised like ice as that conversation played out in her mind. Oliver had come to mean even more to Sofia through his two-year absence, but for her brother, Sofia had come to mean less.

A knock sounded at the door, and Sofia thrust her thoughts away as if they could be seen by whomever had come to call.

“Miss Lioni … Sofia?” Polly opened the door cautiously. “Her Grace asked if you was feeling well enough for a stroll in the garden. She’s out by the goats if you aren’t feeling too piqued.”

“I’m perfectly well now, Polly. Would you please let the duchess know I’ll be out presently?”

Polly giggled. “My, you sound like a governess already. No use wasting all that fancy talk on me! I’ll see you at supper, Sofia.” Polly waggled her fingers and left Sofia to tidy her hair before making her way outdoors.

Approaching her at a leisurely pace, Sofia watched the duchess work. She wore an intense look of concentration as she fastened a lever to a wooden box with sure fingers. Her dress was wrinkled, and sweat-dampened curls clung to the nape of her neck. Whatever hint of aristocratic splendour she’d had that morning had been completely obliterated by wood shavings and the unforgiving summer sun.

Sofia cleared her throat and dipped into a curtsy, which felt a bit like offering undue deference to a milkmaid. Resolutely ignoring the flustered sensation rising in her stomach, she clasped her fingers and waited. The duchess’s lips stretched into a dimpled grin as if she could read Sofi’s thoughts perfectly well … and agreed.

Feeling uncomfortably transparent, Sofia broke their eye contact and glanced at the duchess’s carpentry project.

“It’s nothing really. I like to build and fix things. When the goat steps on this”—she indicated a foot pedal—“it will move this lever to open up the door here, allowing a few bits of grain to fall onto the ground below.”

Sofia could imagine the battles that would ensue between greedy goats. How many livestock would be stashed away in the kitchens by week’s end to convalesce? Sofia opted not to mention it. Instead, she nodded and then gave the invention a second, more comprehensive examination. It was rather clever.

Retrieving a nail, the duchess began passing it back and forth between her fingers. “There isn’t much point in pretending that you don’t find me excentric, Miss Lioni. I didn’t just wake up different one morning. I've been this way my entire life, and I’m perfectly capable of translating the look of awkward discomfort my peculiarities incite in others. Pretending that you feel otherwise will only foist me into a state of nervous chatter as I attempt to maintain your good opinion.” The duchess laughed then, and there was genuine amusement in the sound without a hint of self-deprecation. Sofia felt her own lips twitch in response. The duchess continued in a softer tone, as if relaying a great secret. “I’ve found I appear infinitely saner the moment I stop trying to convince people of my non-existent conventionality.”

This is it. All Sofia needed to do was respond with some scathing remark and she would be back with Oliver by supper. She had squandered a perfectly good chance to be turned away when faced with Mr Keene and his foil. She could not let another opportunity pass her by. Trying not to think about her words or their cruelty, she opened her mouth and said the first thing that came to mind. “Yes, you are odd. Remarkably so.” And then, God help her, the truth kept coming. But it wasn’t scathing at all. “But so is practically everyone I’ve ever met and bothered to remember.” Blast.

The duchess’s smile slipped neatly back into place at the unintentional compliment. “I’m rather new to being a duchess, and I imagine I get most things wrong. But I haven't gotten this wrong, Miss Lioni. You loved learning as a child. I could hear it in your voice. I think you can help my children love learning every bit as much, and I don’t give a fig if you’re an ideal candidate for governess in the average aristocratic home. The fact that you are undoubtedly not makes you all the more perfect for the children in this family.”

The duchess picked up a hammer and turned it in her hands. “Zachariah has never had formal education beyond what I have taught him at home. He’s intelligent—rather brilliant, actually—but he experiences the world differently.” Her gaze strayed, something vulnerable and almost distressed settling into her expression. “I worried that in trying to learn like everyone else—trying to be like everyone else—he would resent his uniqueness even more, as I did when I was a child.”

She turned back to Sofia with eyes that searched for understanding. “Like any boy, he longs to be understood. To fit in. If forced amongst a flock of ravens, he would pluck every vibrantly coloured feather from his body, feeling the loss of each one but bearing the sacrifice without flinching. Too late he would realise glossy black would never grow in their place. He’s not a raven, and he shouldn’t be made to feel like he is a mistake of nature. You appreciate all the colours, I think.” She paused, and Sofia watched her throat work with a swallow. “I see it when you look at me. I suspect you would find as much fulfilment teaching in the manner you wish to teach as he would learning in the manner he wishes to learn.”

Another moment passed where Sofia remained pinned beneath those penetrating blue eyes. Then the duchess turned away and began tacking more nails in place. The silence continued as she stooped to press the pedal and make further adjustments. There was a peculiar familiarity in the way she slipped into that intense concentration like she’d forgotten altogether about their conversation. With a final adjustment, she pressed the pedal, her head whipping around with an expression of unquantifiable delight as a handful of grain sprinkled to the ground.