And somehow, that small gesture felt like something earned.
***
The first three days of the visit established a pattern that Rhys had never before experienced at Hartfell.
He ate meals with the children in the dining room, but breakfast in the nursery and lunch on the grounds and tea in the schoolroom, surrounded by small voices and spilled milk and Brutus croaking from his terrarium in the corner. He learnedthat Viola preferred her eggs soft-boiled and her toast cut into triangles. He learned that Anna maintained a strict schedule for mealtimes and would not tolerate deviations of more than fifteen minutes. He learned that Thistle ate like a soldier refueling between battles, shoveling food into her mouth with efficiency rather than enjoyment.
He joined their lessons.
This was Mel’s doing. On the second morning, she had appeared at the nursery door while he was reading to Thistle and announced that the schoolroom was expecting him at nine on the hour.
“Expecting me for what purpose?”
“Latin.” Her expression gave nothing away.
“The children are learning declensions. I understand your pronunciation could use improvement.”
“My pronunciation is perfectly adequate.”
“Your pronunciation,” she said, with the devastating precision he was coming to recognise as her particular weapon, “is atrocious. You learned from a tutor who learned from a tutor who had never actually heard Latin spoken aloud. The girls deserve better instruction.”
And so he had found himself seated at the schoolroom table, reading passages from Ovid while Mel corrected his vowel sounds with the resigned patience of someone accustomed to teaching the fundamentally resistant. Anna observed thesecorrections with barely concealed delight, recording each mistake in her notebook for future reference. Viola followed along in her own text, whispering the words under her breath. Thistle had fallen asleep approximately fifteen minutes into the lesson with Brutus firmly perched on her shoulder like an amphibian guardian.
“The emphasis falls on the second syllable,” Mel said, for perhaps the fourth time that hour. “Amo, amas, amat. You’re stressing the first syllable, which makes it sound as though you’re speaking a different language entirely.”
“Latin is a dead language. Who is going to correct me?”
“I am correcting you repeatedly and with diminishing hope of success.”
Anna made another note in her notebook. Rhys caught a glimpse of the page and saw that she had created a tally system for his errors, categorised by type.
“Your pupil is documenting my failures.”
“Annabelle is documenting your learning progress. The failures are merely data points.” Mel’s expression remained composed, but something flickered in her eyes that might have been amusement. “Continue. Amamus, amatis, amant.”
“Amamus, amatis, amant.”
“Much better. Once more, please.””
He took them to the beach on the fourth day.
The walk from Hartfell to the shore which was approximately half a mile, through fields and along a cliff path that offered dramatic views of the Cornish coastline. Rhys had made this journey many times over the years, usually alone, seeking the particular solitude that the sea provided.
Today, he was surrounded by small people who had opinions about everything.
“The rocks here contain quartz inclusions,” Anna announced, examining a specimen she had collected from the path.
“Miss Grace showed me how to identify mineral formations. This one has a high probability of being sedimentary rather than igneous.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s basic geology. Everyone should understand basic geology.”
Behind them, Thistle was attempting to climb a fence post despite Mel’s repeated requests that she remain on the path. Viola walked beside Mel, holding her hand, occasionally pointing out interesting flowers and receiving quiet Latin names in response.
The beach, when they reached it, was everything Rhys remembered: grey sand and darker rocks, waves that crashed against the shore like a Cornish afternoon, intense and compelling, and the vast expanse of water stretching toward a horizon that promised nothing and everything.
Thistle immediately began collecting shells with the methodical intensity she brought to all forms of treasure-hunting. Anna established a base camp near the cliff wall and began organising the expedition’s supplies with military precision. Viola stood at the water’s edge, watching the waves recede and return with an expression of quiet fascination.
