“She’s been impossible for years,” Mrs. Beale continued, her tone becoming almost confessional. “Her Grace, God rest her soul, passed after she gave birth to Lady Cassandra. And His Grace… well, he’s a good man, but he’s no mother.” She paused, giving Augusta a long, measuring look. “It’s good to see her happy.”
Augusta felt a prick of pleasure at the words. “Thank you,” she said. “I like her, very much.”
The housekeeper nodded, satisfied. “That makes all the difference.”
On that very same evening, Augusta was summoned to Hudson’s study for the first of what Mrs. Beale had ominously termed “progress meetings.” The message arrived with the evening tea delivered by Cassie herself, who knocked once and entered without waiting for permission.
“He wants to see you,” she announced, holding the note as though it were evidence of a crime. “And he said not to be late.”
“Thank you, Cassie,” Augusta said, accepting the folded card.
Her pulse skittered unreasonably at the prospect of seeing Hudson in private. She chided herself. He was her employer. Nothing less, and certainly nothing more.
“Are you anxious, Miss Norton?” Cassie asked, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “You look anxious.”
“I am not,” Augusta lied. “But I would appreciate your company as far as the study.”
Cassie shrugged and fell into step beside her as they made their way down the corridor.
They reached the study at precisely the appointed hour. Cassie gave Augusta a theatrical wink, then flitted away, leaving her alone before the heavy oak door.
Augusta straightened the skirt of her new dress, gathered her courage, knocked, and entered.
The study was dimly lit, the lamps low and the fire burning with a steady, contained heat. Hudson stood at the window, his back to the room, hands clasped behind him in a posture that looked both military and restless. The moment she entered, he turned, and she felt heat rising to her cheeks as he looked at her.
“Miss Norton,” he said after a loaded silence. “Thank you for coming.”
“You sent for me,” she replied, her tone measured. “I would not have refused.”
He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Sit, please.”
She did, folding her hands in her lap and keeping her posture straight.
Hudson moved to the other side of the desk but did not sit, choosing instead to lean against the edge, arms loosely crossed. The distance between them was only a few feet, but it felt charged, as if every particle of air had been shocked into alertness.
“You have been with us for a few days now,” he began. “I would like to hear your opinion on Cassie’s progress.”
Augusta resisted the urge to blurt out all her prepared answers at once. She forced herself to meet his eyes, which were impossibly blue and, at this distance, revealed the tiny lines at the corners, a sign of someone who had learned to keep his smiles private.
“Cassie is bright,” she said. “And willful. She is used to being underestimated, which has made her both fiercely independent and, at times, contrary. But she is also lonely and wishes very much to please you, even when she pretends otherwise.”
For a moment, Hudson looked away.
“She was not always so,” he said. “There was a time when she had… Well, she has never had a mother, and my attempts at parenting are… haphazard.”
There was nothing Augusta could say to that.
She shifted uncomfortably, uncertain if it were her prerogative to comfort the man.
The silence stretched between them, until Hudson broke it by moving to a decanter on the sideboard. He poured two small glasses—one for her, one for himself—and handed her the first.
“Thank you,” she said, accepting the drink. She tasted it, letting the warmth of the liquor embolden her. “You are kind for saving me and giving me… all of this.”
“You are quite welcome.”
She released a deep breath. “I…”
“You have something you need?” he asked with a shadow of a smile.
