“Come down now,” he said, turning back to Thistle.
“Your sisters want to show me the nature collection, and I believe Brutus has been promised his afternoon constitutional.”
Thistle descended with considerably more speed than caution, dropping the last several feet and landing in a crouch that would have alarmed any mother but seemed to merely amuse her father. He caught her before she could sprint toward the house, lifting her briefly to check for scratches, then setting her down with a gentle push toward the garden path.
“Go tell Anna and Viola I’ll be there in a moment.”
Thistle ran, as was the norm for her. Walking was for people with insufficient enthusiasm for life.
Mr. Langford watched her go, and Mel watched him, and without speaking neither of them spoke.
A span of three days had passed in silent scrutiny. She cataloged each detail with the methodical eye of a natural philosopher, until the weight of the evidence became impossible to refute.
Anna had his jaw, the same stubborn set, the same way it tightened when she was preparing to argue a point. When Anna stood her ground about the proper order of afternoon activities, her chin lifted at exactly the angle Mr. Langford’s did when he was debating with Mrs. Kemp about household matters.
Viola had his eyes, the same deep brown, the same habit of watching and assessing before committing to action. When Viola emerged from beneath a table or behind a curtain, she looked at the room the way Mr. Langford looked at the study, cataloging, evaluating and deciding whether the space was safe enough for her presence.
Thistle had his fearlessness. The same absolute confidence that the world would rearrange itself to accommodate her ambitions. When Mr. Langford had climbed the oak tree himself yesterday, responding to Thistle’s challenge with a competitive spirit that was entirely inappropriate for a grown man, Mel had seen the same reckless joy in his face that Thistle wore when scaling forbidden furniture.
They were his children, all three of them. The story was an utter contrivance, and so poorly constructed that the seams were visible to any eye of common sense.
Mel was not shocked by this revelation as she had suspected something of the sort since her first week at Hartfell, when she had noticed the quality of the children’s clothing and the quantity of their books. Illegitimate children were not unusual among the aristocracy; what was unusual was the care this particular aristocrat had taken to provide for his.
Most men in his position would have sent their natural children to a remote farm or a distant relative, providing minimal funds and maximum distance. Mr. Langford had established them in a comfortable home, staffed it with loyal servants, and visited monthly to read them bedtime stories and let them climb on him like a particularly tolerant piece of furniture.
It changed things. It changed everything.
“Miss Grace.” Mr. Langford approached her bench, his rolled shirtsleeves still on display and his hair slightly disheveled from Thistle’s climbing enthusiasms.
“I wanted to thank you. For the logic lessons.”
“Logic is a useful skill.”
“So I’m discovering. Though I might have preferred to learn of its deployment before being defeated in an argument by a five-year-old.”
“Six, soon. Her birthday is in three weeks.”
He went still. Something flickered across his face, quickly suppressed.
“You know their birthday.”
“It’s in the records Mr. Grieves provided. Along with their medical histories, their dietary preferences, and their previous educational assessments.” Mel closed her untouched book androse from the bench, smoothing her skirts with practiced efficiency.
“I make it my business to know everything relevant about the children in my care.”
“Everything relevant.”
“Everything that helps me serve their needs.”
They stood facing each other on the garden path, close enough that Mel could see the individual threads in his waistcoat and the faint lines around his eyes that suggested he slept poorly. He was taller than she had initially assessed, or perhaps he simply seemed taller now that she was seeing him properly, without the filter of his careful performance.
“And what needs have you identified?” he asked.
“Stability,” Mel said. “Consistency. The knowledge that the adults in their lives will not vanish without warning.” She paused, then added;
“They need to know when you’re coming and when you’re leaving. They need to understand the pattern, so they can prepare themselves for your absences rather than being surprised by them.”
His jaw tightened and she distinctly observed the similarities between his and Anna’s jaw. “You think I should tell them when I’m leaving.”
