“It’s irregular,” she said finally.
“I shall permit it.”
“I appreciate your flexibility.”
“I am noting it in the register. Under ‘anomalies.’”
“Very thorough.”
The footsteps resolved into Thistle, who launched herself down the corridor and into his arms with the force of a small cannonball. He caught her easily, from long practice, absorbing the impact and lifting her off her feet in a single motion.
“You came back!” She wrapped her arms around his neck with the fierce grip of a child who had learned not to take presence for granted.
“Miss Grace said you’d written letters. She read them to us. Mine was the best.”
“They were all excellent letters,” Viola whispered from the doorway.
“Mine said you missed my quiet presence.”
“I did miss your quiet presence.” Rhys shifted Thistle to one arm and extended his free hand toward Viola. “I missed all of you. That’s why I came early.”
Viola emerged from her hiding spot and took his hand with the careful deliberation that characterised everything she did. Her fingers curled around his with quiet confidence, and she pressed close to his side as though afraid he might vanish if she released her grip.
Anna was making notes in her register, recording the time and date and circumstances of his arrival with the meticulous attention to detail that would serve her well if she ever pursued a career in military logistics.
“The letters arrived four days ago,” she reported without looking up.
“I have been tracking your expected arrival based on standard postal delivery times and estimated travel duration. You are approximately six days ahead of schedule.”
“I took a faster route.”
“There is only one route from London to Cornwall.”
“I rode harder.”
Anna looked up from her register and met his eyes with an expression that was equal parts satisfaction and assessment.
“Excellent,” she said simply, and then turned and walked toward the stairs.
“I shall inform Mrs. Kemp that you’ll need your usual room prepared. The sheets are already aired. I anticipated a possible early arrival and made contingency plans.”
She disappeared up the stairs, and Rhys found himself smiling despite himself. His eldest daughter was a force of nature, and watching her deploy her considerable organisational powers in his service was unexpectedly moving.
“She made charts,” Thistle informed him, still clinging to his neck.
“Big charts. With lines and dates and probabilities. Miss Grace helped her with the mathematics.”
“Did she?”
“Miss Grace says probability is a useful skill for managing expectations. I don’t know what that means, but Anna seemed very excited about it.”
“I can imagine.”
Movement caught his eye, and Rhys looked up toward the schoolroom window on the second floor. Mel Grace stood there, framed by the glass, her grey dress and practical posture unmistakable even at a distance. She was watching the reunion below with an expression he could not quite read from this angle.
She did not come down to greet him. She did not wave or smile or acknowledge his arrival with any of the flutter that might have characterised another governess witnessing her employer’s return.
She simply nodded.
