“I supplemented the assignment with additional research. Independent study is important for intellectual development.”
Rhys laughed, the sound emerging freely and without calculation. This was his family. These brilliant, chaotic, wonderful people who had somehow become the centre of his world.
A six-year-old who ate beetles and screamed with joy. Another six-year-old who analysed romantic attachment with scholarly detachment. A third six-year-old who said nothing but held on with desperate strength. And a governess who found arrangements amenable and considered that a significant admission.
He had spent fifteen years running from this. Hiding from the possibility of affection, of family, of anything that might require him to be present and real and vulnerable. And now, standing in a schoolroom with his daughters watching and his future wife’s hand in his, he could not imagine why he had ever thought that running was easier.
This was not easy, it was terrifying and complicated and full of moments that required him to be better than he had ever been before. But it was also more alive than anything he had ever experienced. It was worth the battle.
“I should return to my lessons,” Mel said, though she made no move to pull away from his grip on her hand.
“The children have Latin exercises to complete, and we’ve already lost considerable time to emotional demonstrations.”
“The emotional demonstrations were important.”
“They were disruptive. Educational continuity requires…”
“Educational continuity can survive one morning of celebration.” He released her hand reluctantly, stepping back to a more appropriate distance.
“But I will leave you to your lessons. I have estate business to attend to, and I suspect Thistle has questions about specimens that I’ve been neglecting.”
“I do!” Thistle bounced in her chair with renewed energy.
“I found a beetle yesterday that has markings I’ve never seen before. I think it might be endemic to this specific cliff face. I’ve been documenting its behaviour patterns, but I need help with the Latin classification.”
“Then we shall address the Latin classification this afternoon.” He moved toward the door, pausing at the threshold to look back at the scene he was leaving behind.
“I’ll see all of you at luncheon. Do not allow Anna to reorganise anything that doesn’t need reorganising.”
“Everything needs reorganising,” Anna said with dignity.
“It’s simply a matter of priorities.”
He left them to their lessons, their voices following him down the corridor as he made his way toward the study. Behind him, he could hear Mel calling the lesson back to order, her practical voice cutting through the lingering excitement to redirect attention toward Latin conjugations.
The study was quiet when he arrived, the familiar space filled with morning light and the particular peace that had come to characterise his days at Hartfell. He settled behind his desk and looked at the correspondence waiting for him, they were letters from Mr. Grieves about estate matters, notes from his solicitor about the legal arrangements for his daughters’ futures, invitations to London events he would now be declining.
He began with the declinations. One by one, he composed polite refusals to balls and dinners and gatherings that would have consumed his time and energy without offering anythingof value in return. Each letter was a small act of liberation, a confirmation that he had chosen this life over that one.
When he finished, he turned to the more substantive correspondence. The arrangements for the wedding, which would take place at the small chapel on the Hartfell grounds in three weeks’ time. The legal documents that would establish trusts for each of his daughters, ensuring their financial security regardless of what society might think of their origins. The plans for improvements to the estate that would benefit the tenants who had waited too long for a landlord who cared.
It was the work of building. Slow, steady and unglamorous. The opposite of everything he had been during his years as London’s most notorious rake. But as he worked, as the morning turned to midday and the pile of completed correspondence grew, he found a satisfaction in it that no scandal had ever provided.
He was doing something real. Something that would last beyond the gossip sheets and the social seasons and the endless cycle of entertainments that had once consumed his life. He was building a family, a household, a legacy that his daughters could be proud of.
The door opened, and Viola appeared in the doorway.
She was alone, which was unusual. The children typically moved as a unit, Anna leading and Thistle causing chaos and Viola observing quietly from the margins. To see her alone, seeking him out, suggested something significant.
“Viola.” He set down his quill and gave her his full attention.
“Is everything all right?”
She nodded, though she didn’t speak immediately. She crossed the room to his desk, her steps measured and deliberate, and stopped in front of him with an expression he could not quite read.
“I wanted to tell you something,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I’m listening.”
