“She’s competent, Your Grace. More than competent. She hasn’t cried once.”
“That is a standard of the most pitiful insignificance, Kemp.”
“The standard is buried in the very dust, Your Grace. Yet Miss Grace has managed to step over it with room to spare.”
Rhys turned from the window to look at his housekeeper properly. In the three years since the girls had come to Hartfell, he had watched Mrs. Kemp age a decade. The stress of managing three small children and a rotating cast of fleeing governesses had taken its toll, and he had grown accustomed to seeing exhaustion in every line of her face.
Today, she looked almost optimistic.
“Tell me about her.”
“She’s quiet, Your Grace. Practical and doesn’t flutter or fuss. The girls tested her, of course, as they test everyone, but she didn’t bend. Anna tried to take over the lessons on the third day, and Miss Grace put her in charge of an attendance register and gave her real responsibility. Anna has been cooperative ever since.”
“And Viola?”
“Still shy, still hiding. But she’s started leaving drawings on Miss Grace’s desk. Little sketches of flowers and such. She’s never done that with the other governesses.”
“Thistle?”
Mrs. Kemp’s expression flickered. “Thistle released Brutus in the kitchen twice, and attempted to ride Mr. Whiskers.”
“Good Gracious! Did the cat survive?”
“Mr. Whiskers is hiding under the stove. He’s refused to come out for three days.” Mrs. Kemp allowed herself a small, tight smile.
“But Miss Grace managed it. Sat Thistle down and asked her what she’d learned. No shouting, no threats. Just… conversation. And Thistle listened.”
“Thistle listened?”
“I was as shocked as you are, Your Grace.”
Rhys turned back to the window, processing this information. A governess who gave Anna responsibility instead of fighting for authority. Who earned Viola’s trust slowly rather than forcing it. Who managed Thistle through conversation rather than discipline.
Either Miss Grace was a saint, or she was a skilled manipulator of children who had figured out that the standard approaches would never work with his daughters.
Either way, he wanted to see her in action before he introduced himself.
“Where are they walking?”
“The garden path, most likely. They should return within the quarter hour.”
“Splendid. I’ll wait here. Don’t announce me yet.”
Mrs. Kemp nodded, understanding without explanation.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
She withdrew, and Rhys positioned himself at the window where he could observe the garden approach without being easily seen from outside. It was a cowardly way to meet his daughters’ new governess, lurking behind curtains like a spy, but he had learned over the years that first impressions told you more when the person being observed didn’t know they were being watched.
***
A sudden movement in the garden caught his eye. A small figure appeared on the path, marching with the purposeful stride of a tiny general leading troops to battle.
Behind her came Viola, walking more slowly, her hand clasped in the hand of a woman in grey. The new governess, presumably. Viola was looking up at her, and though Rhys couldn’t see his daughter’s face from this angle, something in her posture suggested she was speaking. Viola, who barely spoketo anyone, who hid behind furniture and communicated in whispers when she communicated at all.
Then Thistle tripped.
It happened fast. One moment Thistle was ambling along behind her sisters, mud-covered toad clutched to her chest; the next, her foot caught on an uneven stone and she pitched forward with the inevitability of a child who had not yet learned to anticipate obstacles.
