“Very good, Your Grace.” He retreated with a speed that was, frankly, impressive in a man of his years.
Nancy spent the next five minutes rearranging papers on her desk, though there was nothing to rearrange. She tried to read the latest missive from her mother, but the words swam. She did not want to think about her mother’s advice, or her own performance as a wife, or the sinking suspicion that the servants were all placing bets on how long the union would last.
It is only for a little while, she reminded herself.You have two months, and then you move into the small house and raise the twins in peace, and he will go back to being the coldest man in England. This is not your life. It is borrowed, at best.
The thought did not comfort her.
A knock at the door. Edith Mercer entered, trim and dignified, her hair in a dark coil so tight it looked as if it might repel bullets.
“You sent for me, Your Grace?”
“Yes, thank you, Miss Mercer. Sit down.”
Edith sat, posture perfect. Nancy watched her for a moment, hunting for the flaw. There must be one—no one could be this composed, this… sanitized.
“I wished to discuss the new timetable,” Nancy said, sliding the paper across the desk. “Have you found it to your satisfaction?”
Miss Mercer glanced at the schedule, then back at Nancy. “It is quite suitable, Your Grace. The twins have responded well to the structure. Clara enjoys the Latin hour; Henry is partial to natural history.”
“I see that you’ve left a gap after luncheon for ‘rest and reflection.’”
“Yes,” Edith said. “The children require time to process what they learn. It is—” she paused, searching for the right word, “—vital to their development.”
Nancy’s mouth curved. “So says every educator since Socrates.”
Edith permitted herself the faintest smile. “Indeed.”
Nancy tapped the page. “I think we might shift the arithmetic lesson to before luncheon. Clara has more energy then, and she’s apt to whine less if she can finish the sums before the midday meal.”
Edith nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Nancy made the change in the margin, but the satisfaction was lacking. She had rather hoped for a debate. Something to test the boundaries of Miss Mercer’s infamous poise.
“Is there anything you wish to bring to my attention?” Nancy asked.
“No, Your Grace. The children are well. They have adapted to the house and the staff. If there are any behavioral difficulties, they are mild and easily corrected.” Edith’s hands folded in her lap, unmoving.
“None at all?”
“Well,” said Edith, “Clara has a habit of reciting Greek mythology at the dinner table, and Henry sometimes buries live insects in the flowerbeds. But these are minor eccentricities.”
Nancy grinned. “They take after their parents, then.”
Miss Mercer inclined her head.
Nancy leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “You are not troubled by any of this?”
Edith blinked. “Should I be, Your Grace?”
How does she do that?Nancy wondered.How does she never once betray anything like a real human reaction?Even now, Edith’s face radiated gentle approval and precisely nothing else.
Before Nancy could try another angle, Wilks reappeared, this time bearing a rectangular parcel.
“A delivery for you, Your Grace. From Madame Sylvestre’s, in Bond Street.”
Nancy stared at the package, a faint line of concern creasing her brow. “I did not order anything from Bond Street.”
Wilks said, “The runner confirmed it was for you.”
