“Everything in order, Your Grace?” the housekeeper asked, eyes darting to the garden.
“Perfectly,” Nancy replied, not quite believing it. “The children are…content?”
Mrs. Tullock allowed herself a rare smile. “They seem so. Miss Mercer is already a legend among the kitchen staff. She caught Clara in the larder and had her reading The Pilgrim’s Progress inside of five minutes.”
“Impressive, I suppose,” said Nancy. “I can’t get Clara to sit still long enough to tie a ribbon in her hair.”
Mrs. Tullock laid out the ledger, then studied Nancy with the keen interest of a physicist observing a chemical reaction. “It’s all right to be uncertain, Your Grace. Change always seems alarming. But the twins will be safe with Miss Mercer. She is…formidable.”
Nancy thought of the woman’s steady eyes, her perfect collar, the way she had outmaneuvered both twins within minutes. “She is that.”
Mrs. Tullock lingered at the door. “You’re doing well, Your Grace.”
Nancy managed a smile. “Thank you.”
She turned back to the window as the housekeeper left, and watched Edith shepherd the children through their first lesson, a tidy, relentless march around the hedges.
The nursery was dark except for the single candle Nancy carried. It painted long shadows across the walls, the furniture looming like silent sentries. Clara and Henry lay in their narrow beds, heads just visible above identical patchwork quilts. For a wonder, they were not launching paper projectiles or plottingan escape. They simply stared at the ceiling, as if waiting for a verdict.
Nancy sat on the low stool between them, her dress making a soft shush against the rug. “Teeth brushed, faces washed, toes accounted for. I declare you ready for dreams.”
Clara turned, blue eyes fixed on her. “Is Miss Mercer going to stay forever?”
The question landed with more force than Nancy expected. “She’ll be here as long as you need her,” she said, carefully. “Why do you ask?”
Clara stared at the ceiling again, voice small. “I hope she doesn’t.”
Nancy blinked. “You don’t like her?”
Clara shook her head, curls bobbing. “She’s too perfect. It makes me feel like a bug.”
Henry pulled the quilt up to his nose, eyes round. “I hope she doesn’t stay either,” he echoed, voice muffled. “She smells like soap, and she never blinks.”
Nancy tried to laugh, but it came out thin. “She is new, and sometimes new things are strange. But I promise, she’s only here to help.”
Neither child looked convinced.
Nancy reached for their hands, squeezing gently. “You will always have me, too. I am not going anywhere.”
Henry’s hand was cold, and he held on longer than usual. Clara pressed her lips together, as if sealing in words she dared not say.
Nancy tucked the quilts tighter, then leaned in to kiss each forehead. “No stories tonight. Miss Mercer said she has a surprise planned for the morning, and you need all your sleep to face it.”
Clara’s mouth quivered. “But we like your stories best.”
Nancy softened, brushing Clara’s hair back. “I like them best, too. We’ll have two tomorrow, if you’re brave in the morning.”
Henry made a small, hopeful sound. “Can we have jam biscuits for breakfast?”
“You can have three,” Nancy promised, “if you are very good.”
She rose and crossed to the door, pausing to look back. The twins lay side by side, faces turned in mirror image, eyes still open and trained on her.
Nancy tried to summon confidence, but the children’s doubt seeped through her defenses. She forced a smile, then slipped from the room, closing the door with a soft snick.
Down the hall, the candle guttered in her hand, the flame fighting for air.
It will be fine,Nancy reassured herself. But as she walked, she was not sure if she was lying to the children or to herself.
