“I’m glad you approve.”
“I neither approve nor disapprove. I simply observe that it makes practical sense.”
“Anna.” Rhys extended his free hand toward her, the one that wasn’t wrapped around Thistle.
“Come here.”
For a moment, she didn’t move. The composure held, the mask of indifference firmly in place. Then something cracked, some carefully maintained wall crumbling, and she rose from her chair with a dignity that lasted exactly three steps before she was running across the room and throwing herself into the embrace alongside her sister.
“I’m glad,” she whispered against his shoulder.
“I know I shouldn’t admit it. I know it’s not proper to be too pleased about things. But I’m glad.”
“You should always be glad when good things happen. Proper is overrated.”
“Miss Grace says proper has its place.”
“Miss Grace is correct about many things. But I think she would agree that some occasions warrant improper amounts of gladness.”
He looked up to find Viola still standing by her desk, her quiet eyes fixed on the scene before her with an expression he could not quite read. She had not moved, had not screamed or run or thrown herself into the embrace. She simply stood there, watching, her small hands clasped before her.
“Viola?” He kept his voice gentle.
“Would you like to join us?”
She nodded, once, a small movement that carried the weight of everything she was not saying. Then she crossed the room with measured steps, her approach careful rather than impetuous. When she reached him, she did not throw herself into the embrace as her sisters had done. Instead, she took his hand, the one that was not wrapped around Anna and Thistle, and held it with both of hers.
And she did not let go.
She simply stood there, holding his hand, her grip firm and deliberate. Her eyes were bright with tears she was refusing to shed, and her silence spoke more eloquently than any words could have.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Rhys said softly, directing the words to all of them but meaning them especially for her.
“Not anymore, this is home, you are home, and I shan’t be leaving anymore.”
Viola’s grip tightened. Still she did not speak. Still she did not cry. But she moved closer, pressing herself against his side, her small body fitting into the space her sisters had left for her.
They stayed like that for a long moment, the four of them tangled together in the schoolroom that had witnessed so many transformations. Rhys could feel the weight of each of his daughters, could feel the fierce joy in Thistle’s embrace and the carefully maintained composure in Anna’s and the desperate, silent need in Viola’s. They had been waiting for this, all of them, waiting for the permanence that he had finally found the courage to offer.
When he finally looked up, he found Mel watching from her desk.
She had not moved, nor risen to join them or offered words of congratulation or displayed any outward sign of the emotion that must be churning beneath her composed exterior. She simply sat there, her hands folded on the Latin primer, her expression carrying the particular neutrality that he had learned to recognise as her defense against overwhelming feeling.
“Miss Grace,” he said, keeping his voice light despite the weight of the moment.
“You appear to have opinions about this development.”
“I have observations,” she corrected.
“Opinions require the expression of preference. I am merely observing that your announcement has produced a notable reaction among your daughters.”
“And does the reaction meet with your approval?”
“Their reaction is their own, my approval is irrelevant.”
“I disagree. Your approval is quite relevant.” He extracted himself gently from the embrace of his daughters, who released him with varying degrees of reluctance. He crossed the room to where Mel sat, stopping before her desk and looking down at the woman who had changed everything.
“I would like to know how you feel about my decision.”
