Mel had watched from the doorway, her expression unreadable but her posture softer than it had been in days. When the children had finally released him and scattered to examine their presents, she had crossed to where he sat and laid her hand briefly on his shoulder.
“That was well done,” she had said, and then she walked away before he could respond.
The touch had lasted perhaps two seconds, but he had felt it for hours.
Now, three weeks later, the household had adjusted to his continued presence in ways both large and small. The children no longer treated his appearance at breakfast as an occasion for excitement: they simply expected him to be there, complained when he took too long with his coffee and demanded his attention with the casual confidence of small people who knew their demands would be met.
This was what Mel had wanted for them. Not a visiting spectacle who arrived in a blaze of gifts and attention and departed before the glow could fade, but a constant. A presence woven into the fabric of their daily lives so thoroughly that his absence would be noticed rather than his presence.
He was learning to be constant. It was harder than he had expected.
The announcement came at breakfast, delivered by Thistle with the gravity of a royal proclamation.
“Papa is taking us to see the horses.”
“Is he,” Mel said. It was not a question. It was the carefully neutral tone she reserved for plans she had not approved.
“He said so yesterday. He said the ponies needed exercise and we could help. Annabelle has made a list of tasks.”
“I have indeed.” Anna produced the list from behind her toast.
“Item one, grooming. Item two, leading. Item three, which is contingent on successful completion of items one and two, a supervised walk around the paddock on horseback. I have allocated one hour per sister.”
“And Miss Grace,” Thistle added, pointing her spoon at Mel with conviction.
“Miss Grace must come.”
Mel’s teacup met its saucer with a quieter click than usual.
“Miss Grace has lessons to prepare.”
“Lessons can wait,” Rhys said from across the table. He was pretending to read a letter from his solicitor, but she could see the corner of his mouth.
“The children have been promised. Their governess is indispensable to the smooth execution of any educational outing.”
“The stables are not an educational outing.”
“They are now. Anna has a list.”
“Anna always has a list.”
“And yet you have never declined one of her lists before.”
Mel opened her mouth to produce a reason, any reason, and found the drawer empty. Three pairs of expectant eyes were fixed on her across the table. Rhys had lowered his letter entirely and was watching her with the mild, curious interest of a man who had noticed something and was waiting to see what it was.
“Very well,” she said.
They walked to the stables after breakfast. Thistle ran ahead with Brutus cupped in her hands, announcing to the toad that he was about to meet his equine cousins. Anna followed with her list. Viola held Mel’s hand and said nothing, which was her way of saying a great deal.
The stables were a low stone building at the far end of the kitchen garden, smelling of hay and leather and the warm, animal sweetness that Mel had spent six years avoiding in other people’s houses. She felt her steps slow as they approached. She corrected them. A governess did not dawdle.
“This is Bess,” Rhys said, stopping at the first stall. A bay mare put her head over the door with the unhurried curiosity of a creature who had met many children and found them adequate.
“She belonged to my mother. She is old enough to have opinions and patient enough to keep most of them to herself.”
Thistle was already reaching up to stroke the mare’s nose. Anna was noting Bess’s coloring in her register. Viola had produced a piece of apple from some private reserve and was offering it on her flat palm with the care of a diplomat.
Mel stood three paces back.
