“The children are well,” Rhys said. “There’s a new governess who seems competent.”
Serena’s eyes narrowed slightly, catching something in his tone.
“Merely competent?”
“More than competent.” He heard the admission in his own voice and found he could not take it back.
“She’s remarkable, actually. The girls adore her.”
“And you?” Serena asked, with the directness that made her simultaneously terrifying and invaluable.
“I barely know her.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Rhys thought about Miss Grace standing in the study doorway, telling him she knew what it was to wait for someone who did not come. He thought about the way she had looked at him, seeing past the performance to something underneath that even he had lost track of.
“She makes me uncomfortable,” he said finally.
“In ways I can’t entirely explain.”
Serena and Benedict exchanged a glance, the kind of marital communication that required no words.
“Interesting,” Serena said. “Perhaps we should meet this remarkable governess sometime.”
“Perhaps.” Rhys drained the last of his brandy and set the glass on the terrace railing.
“For now, I should return to the ball before my absence generates speculation.”
He left them on the terrace and made his way back into the glittering chaos of the ballroom, but he carried their conversation with him like an additional weight. Benedict’s assessment was perfectly just. Serena’s intuition was equally sound, and Miss Grace, too, perceived the truth with singular clarity.
He had been playing at fatherhood, and his children deserved better.
The next morning, before the household had fully stirred, Rhys sat at his desk in the quiet of his study and composed three letters.
The first was to Anna, written in simple language that a five-year-old could understand, telling her that he missed her already and that he would be returning to Hartfell in two weeks instead of four. He told her he was proud of her attendance register and asked her to keep careful track of the time until his next visit, notbecause he wanted her to count the days, but because he valued her organisational skills.
The second was to Viola, shorter and gentler, asking about her drawings and her books and promising to bring her a new sketchbook when he returned. He told her he had been thinking about Robinson Crusoe and wondering what happened next in the story. He told her he missed her quiet presence and her watchful eyes.
The third was to Thistle, and it was the hardest to write. How did one capture Thistle in a letter? How did one match her energy and her fearlessness with words on a page? He told her about the stones in his pocket, the ones she had left on his desk, and promised to carry them with him until he saw her again. He told her Brutus would be proud of her for sharing her treasures, and asked her to find him something even more remarkable for his next visit.
When the letters were finished, he sealed them with wax and addressed them to Miss Grace’s care, knowing she would read them to the girls or help them read for themselves. It was not enough. Three letters could not replace presence, could not fill the gaps that his absence created.
But it was more than he had done before.
It was a start.
CHAPTER SIX
“You’re early.”
Anna stood in the entrance hall of Hartfell House with her arms crossed and her expression arranged into the particular configuration of suspicion she reserved for unexpected developments. Behind her, Viola peered around the doorframe of the drawing room, her book clutched to her chest like armor, and somewhere deeper in the house, Rhys could hear the rapid approach of footsteps that could only belong to Thistle.
“I am,” he agreed, setting down his saddlebag and bracing himself for impact.
“Is that allowed?”
Anna gave the question due consideration, her expression serious and deliberate. Her attendance register, he noticed, was tucked under her arm, ready to record this deviation from established protocol.
