“Forgive me. I was merely… contemplating your philosophy. Accuracy over performance. It’s refreshingly unusual.”
“I find that honesty saves considerable time.” She moved toward the door, clearly preparing to escort him back downstairs.
“The children will be waking soon. Shall I have Mrs. Kemp bring tea, or would you prefer to join them in the nursery?”
“The nursery, I think.”
“Very well.” She paused at the door, turning back to face him with an expression that had shifted subtly. There was a question in her eyes now, something she was weighing whether to ask.
“Mr. Langford. May I inquire how long you intend to stay?”
“Three days, perhaps four.”
“I see.” She absorbed this information without visible reaction.
“I ask because the children have come to anticipate your visits. They mark the days on a calendar. It would be helpful to know the pattern, so that I might prepare them for your departures.”
They mark the days on a calendar.
The ache in his chest intensified. He had known, of course, that they looked forward to his visits. The way they greeted him, the way Thistle launched herself at him from whatever height she had most recently scaled, the way Viola pressed close to his side as though afraid he might disappear if she looked away.
But he had not known about the calendar.
“I visit monthly,” he heard himself say.
“The third week of each month, barring unforeseen circumstances. I stay three days, sometimes four.”
“Thank you. I shall incorporate that into our planning.” Miss Grace nodded crisply and stepped into the corridor.
“This way, Mr. Langford. Mind the loose board at the top of the stairs. Thistle has been jumping on it to hear it creak, and I have not yet arranged for repair.”
He followed her down the corridor, past the loose board that did indeed creak alarmingly when stepped upon, and toward the nursery where his daughters were waiting.
Behind him, the drawing of Miss Grace holding Viola’s hand remained pinned to the schoolroom wall, a silent testament to something he had not expected and did not know how to name.
The nursery door burst open before they reached it, and Thistle exploded into the corridor like a small, determined cannonball.
“Papa!”
She launched herself at him with the fearlessness that Miss Grace had so accurately described, and Rhys caught her easily, from long practice, swinging her up into his arms where she immediately wrapped herself around him like a particularly affectionate barnacle.
“You’re early,” Thistle informed him.
“Anna said you weren’t coming until tomorrow. I told her she was wrong. Anna hates being wrong.”
“I made good time on the road.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the particular scent of childhood: soap and grass and something that was probably Brutus. “How is Brutus?”
“Excellent. He learned to jump on command. Well, he jumped. I’m not sure he understood the command. But he definitely jumped.”
“Significant progress.”
From the nursery doorway, Anna appeared with her arms crossed and her expression set in the familiar lines of a child who was indeed annoyed at being proved wrong.
“You were supposed to send word when you were coming. That’s the protocol.”
“The protocol has been noted.” Rhys shifted Thistle to one arm and extended the other toward Anna.
“Come here, general. I’ve missed your protocols.”
