“It is a true perspective.” Moira’s tone softened. “What is it really, Nancy? Is it the children? The house? Or the Duke himself?”
Nancy hesitated, thinking of Oscar’s cool touch, the way his eyes lingered just a heartbeat too long when he thought she wasn’t looking. The way he had, in a rare moment, smiled at the twins as if he actually loved them.
“It’s none of those things. Or maybe all of them.” Nancy brushed a crumb from her lap. “The Duke is as good as any man could be, and better than most. The twins are happy. I am happy. Or I ought to be.” She looked up, voice so low she barely recognized it. “But sometimes I feel like I am standing outside my own life, watching it happen to someone else.”
Moira nodded. “It’s always that way at the start. When I married your father, there had been times when I didn’t know if I wanted to run away or wring his neck. And I loved him very much. Love does not make the difficulties disappear, but it helps you survive them and turn them into strengths.”
“You always seemed so sure,” Nancy said.
“Never sure, just stubborn.” Moira smiled, then took Nancy’s hand in hers, warm and firm. “You were always so certain of yourself, Nancy. It’s all right to be uncertain, now and then. It’s even all right to be afraid.”
Nancy blinked, surprised to feel tears prick at the back of her eyes. “I don’t want to fail at this, Mother.”
“You won’t fail. And if you do, we’ll patch you up and start again.” Moira’s voice dropped to a whisper. “We always do, darling. That’s what families are for.”
They sat for a while in companionable silence, watching the sun slip behind the neighboring roofline, the room softly growing gold.
Nancy thought of Scarfield, of the vast, echoing halls, of the twins curled against her at night, of Oscar’s rare laugh and the impossible, angry joy it brought her. She wondered if this, at last, was what she had wanted, or if she was only now learning to want at all.
Moira rose, smoothing her shawl. “Will you stay for supper?”
Nancy shook her head. “I should return before dark. The children will be watching the windows.”
Moira nodded, then, in an uncharacteristically shy gesture, pulled Nancy close and kissed her brow.
“Write me if you need to talk. Or if you simply want to hear that I think you are a wonder.”
“I already know you do,” Nancy said.
“Then remember it, when the rest of the world tries to tell you otherwise.”
Nancy promised and left soon after, heart strangely light. As she rode back to Scarfield Manor, however, her mother’s words were ringing in her ears. She thought of Oscar, of the children, of the looming prospect of living alone with them.
A shiver ran down her spine, and her fingers tightened around the beads of her reticule.
CHAPTER 25
The children were supposed to adore their new governess, and for the first two days, they performed this duty with the terrifying commitment of born actors.
Henry addressed her as “Miss Mercer,” and Clara pretended to be too exhausted for further mutiny after their daily recitation of Greek gods. If Miss Mercer noticed the sudden, unnatural peace, she did not betray it—she sat in the drawing room on a walnut-framed chair, her needlework held at the precise angle to catch the weak, rain-dampened light from the window, her face a study in serene benevolence.
Nancy watched all this from her station at the hearth, not quite sure if she should intervene. There was nothing wrong, precisely, but the atmosphere was somehow… staged. Henry and Clara chased each other around the settee, bickering in half-whispers, careful not to disturb the sanctity of Miss Mercer’s embroidery circle.
“Don’t be rude to your sister, Henry. Be a gentleman. I know you’re a good boy. So show us all how precious you are,” Edith said, her voice cutting through the air like a sugar knife.
Clara, stung but not cowed, whispered, “He’s not rude, we’re just playing,” at a volume that made it very clear she meant Nancy to hear, and possibly the next county.
Nancy bit down on a smile. She glanced at Miss Mercer, searching for any crack in that glacial tranquility, but Edith’s expression did not move a single muscle. Her lips remained parted in the same sweet curve, her eyes steady on her work.
She must practice in the mirror, Nancy thought.How else does a person look so perfectly pleasant for so long?
The sky outside pressed down with the color of a wet dishcloth. The rain had been unrelenting, and Nancy suspected Edith had deliberately chosen this day to give the children a “free afternoon.” Kids would have begged to go outdoors, rolled in the mud, or hounded the staff into an early grave. Instead, they were trapped in this room, their energy sparking off the carpets and mirrors, with nothing to do but wind each other up and hope for a small disaster.
Henry finally dropped to the carpet, legs sprawled, and sighed with the drama of a prince awaiting execution. “Where is Uncle Oscar?” he asked, voice pitched to the grown-ups now.
The question landed like a brick through the window.
Nancy sat up straighter. “Uncle Oscar?” she repeated.
