Miss Grace moved.
She did not lunge or cry out or release Viola’s hand. She simply shifted, catching Thistle with her free arm before the girl could hit the ground, righting her in a single fluid motion that suggested this was not the first time she had performed this particular rescue. Without breaking stride, she checked Thistle’s knee, produced a handkerchief from somewhere about her person, dabbed at a scrape Rhys couldn’t see from this distance, and returned the handkerchief to its hiding place.
Rhys watched this, and something in his understanding of the world shifted slightly.
Miss Grace looked up toward the house, and for a moment Rhys thought she had seen him watching from the window. But her gaze passed over his hiding place without pause, surveying the grounds with the assessment of someone checking for hazards, and then she returned her attention to the children and continued walking.
He stepped back from the window, his heart beating faster than it should.
She was the new governess. Nothing more, a practical woman hired to educate his daughters, no different from the ones who had come before except that she had, apparently, figured out how to stay.
But as Rhys straightened his coat and prepared to introduce himself as the children’s benefactor rather than their father, he found himself thinking about the handkerchief appearing from nowhere. About Viola’s hand held with such easy certainty and the way Miss Grace had looked at his daughters, as though they were puzzles she had already solved and problems she had no intention of abandoning.
Where did Grieves find this woman?
And, more troublingly,What am I going to do about her?
CHAPTER THREE
“Mr. Langford, I presume?”
The voice was calm, composed, and entirely without the flutter that Rhys had come to expect from women meeting him for the first time. He turned from his position by the study window to find Miss Grace standing in the doorway, her hands clasped before her and her expression arranged into one of professional neutrality.
She was, he realised now that he saw her up close, even more unremarkable than she had appeared from a distance. There was a quiet composure in her features that defied any claim to striking beauty, yet her hazel eyes held a depth of intelligence. Her attire was a simple morning dress of grey kerseymere, devoid of any frivolous lace or ribbons, and her chestnut tresses were pinned back with a neatness that spoke more of utility than of vanity.
And yet there was something about her that commanded attention. Perhaps it was the steadiness of her gaze, which met his without flinching or looking away. Perhaps it was the economy of her posture, the way she stood as though every muscle had been arranged for maximum efficiency. Perhaps it was simply that she looked at him as though she were assessing his worth, rather than waiting for him to assess hers.
“Miss Grace.” He inclined his head in greeting.
“I apologise for arriving unannounced. I had business in the area and thought I would take the opportunity to see how the children were settling in with their new governess.”
It was a thin excuse, and he suspected she knew it. There was no business in this part of Cornwall that would concern the children’s mysterious benefactor, and the timing of his arrival, barely a fortnight after her own, suggested an inspection rather than a coincidence.
But Miss Grace gave no sign of scepticism. She simply nodded and stepped further into the room, her movements precise and unhurried.
“The children are finishing their afternoon rest, Mr. Langford. They’ll be delighted to see you when they wake. In the meantime, perhaps I might give you a report on their progress?”
“Please.”
She did not sit, though he had gestured toward the chairs by the fireplace. Instead, she remained standing, her hands still clasped, her posture suggesting that this was a professional consultation rather than a social call.
“I have been at Hartfell House for two weeks,” she began. “In that time, I have had the opportunity to assess each child’s educational needs, temperament, and particular challenges. I shall summarise my findings, if that would be useful.”
“It would.”
“Very well.” Her voice was crisp, organised, the voice of a woman who had given many such reports and had learned to strip them of unnecessary sentiment.
“Annabelle is advanced in reading and arithmetic. She has leadership instincts that, properly channelled, will serve her well. Improperly channelled, she will be running a small country by the age of twelve.”
Rhys felt the corner of his mouth twitch. It was not meant to be a jest, he could tell, but the accuracy of the assessment was undeniable. Anna had been organising her sisters since she could walk, and the household since she could talk.
“And Viola?” he asked.
“Viola reads at a level far beyond her age. She has taught herself, largely through observation and imitation, which suggests considerable native intelligence. She is shy but not anxious.” Miss Grace paused, as though selecting her words with particular care.
“She simply prefers to observe before participating. She needs patience, not pushing. I have found that giving her space to emerge on her own schedule produces better results than any attempt to draw her out forcibly.”
“I see.” Rhys kept his voice neutral, though something in his chest ached at the description. Viola had always been the quietest of the three, the one who watched from corners and communicated in whispers. He had worried, over the years, that her shyness was something he had caused, some failure of his intermittent presence that had taught her not to trust.
