Nancy stood a moment, her hands pressed to the edge of the desk, trying to slow her pulse.
She squared her shoulders, smoothed her hair, and followed him out.
The hallway was cold and empty, except for a compact figure standing at the end of it. The housekeeper, she guessed. The woman approached, hands tucked into her apron, eyes sharp and assessing.
She curtsied with the stiffness of a soldier reporting for duty. “Mrs. Tullock, Your Grace.”
Nancy smiled. “We shall get on fine, I’m sure.”
Mrs. Tullock’s gaze lingered, measuring, then she nodded once and slipped away, her boots silent on the stone.
Nancy watched her go, then turned and surveyed the empty hallway, steeling herself for the battles to come.
You are a duchess now. See if you can survive it.
“I do not want to wear that!” Clara’s voice was a thrown gauntlet, ringing down the nursery hallway and bouncing off the door as Nancy approached.
She found the children mid-rebellion: Clara clutching a battered white nightdress to her chest with both arms, Henry rooting through a trunk as if he might unearth a portal to a better universe. The undermaid hovered nearby, the new nightdress—pale blue, stiff with ruffles—dangling from her hand like a shroud.
The girl turned to Nancy with something like relief. “Your Grace, Miss Clara does not wish to wear her new bedclothes. She insists on the old one.”
Nancy swept into the room, collecting the scene with a glance. “Thank you, Molly,” she said. “I’ll manage from here.”
Molly bobbed a curtsy and fled, mouth set in a line of solidarity.
Clara eyed Nancy, defensive and wary. “He bought it,” she said, brandishing the blue nightdress as evidence. “I do not like it. I want to wear my old one.”
Henry paused in his excavation, looking up at Nancy with eyes as wide and uncertain as a fawn’s. “I like the old one, too,” he added.
Nancy kneeled to their level, smoothing the skirt of her dress as she did. “There’s nothing wrong with old things,” she said, voice low. “Sometimes, they are the best things. But sometimes new things are just as good. You can wear your old nightdress tonight, if you prefer.”
Clara’s jaw relaxed. “Thank you, Nancy.”
Nancy smiled, though it ached a little to do so. “You’re welcome. And tomorrow, if you wish, we can decorate the new one. Add lace, or—” she lowered her voice conspiratorially “—ruin it with ink. Entirely your decision.”
Clara’s mouth curved in a grudging smile, and she nodded. “Ruined with ink is best. But I will try it. For you.”
Nancy helped Clara out of her day dress and into the beloved, threadbare nightdress, careful with the buttons, gentler still with the sleeves. She did the same for Henry, who submitted without protest, except for a single request: “Will you tell us a story?”
Nancy sat on the edge of the bed, the children pressing in on either side, and considered her options. “Very well,” she said. “But only if you promise to close your eyes at the end, and not open them again until the sun is up.”
Clara negotiated: “Only if you promise the story will not be boring.”
Henry’s chin trembled, but he said, “And not sad.”
Nancy thought for a moment. Then she reached for Clara’s hairbrush and began the gentle, ceremonial untangling, her hands steadier than she felt.
“Once, there was a small elf who lived at the edge of a very large forest,” she began. “The elf was smaller than even the tiniest mouse, and everyone in the village said he was too small to be brave.”
Clara settled under the brush, listening with rapt suspicion. Henry snuggled in close, his head on Nancy’s lap.
“The little elf wanted nothing more than to join the hunt for the dragon that had been stealing sheep. But the other elves laughed and said, ‘Go home, little one. The dragon will eat you up before you even see it coming.’”
Clara’s eyes narrowed. “Did he go anyway?”
Nancy nodded, drawing the brush through a particularly stubborn knot. “Of course he did. He packed a bag of bread and cheese and set out alone.”
Henry’s voice was muffled. “Was he afraid?”
