Thomas had none of that. Thomas had strangers with slates and copybooks, and a guardian who could not bear to look at him, and a house filled with silence.
“Well,” she said, steadying her voice by force alone, “I am not like other governesses. I have a number of very peculiar ideas about education. For instance—” She leaned forward slightly. “I believe that children learn best when they are interested. And I believe that before we may learn together, we must first know one another. So today, instead of sums, I thought we might simply talk. You may tell me about the birds. And I shall tell you about… London, perhaps. Have you ever been?”
Thomas shook his head.
“It is very loud,” Lorraine said. “And very crowded. And it smells rather dreadful, if I am honest. But there is a park—Hyde Park—where one may see deer. Real deer, wandering about as though they own the place.”
“Deer?” A flicker of interest, swiftly masked. “In a city?”
“Indeed. The King keeps them, I believe. They are quite tame. Children feed them apples.”
Thomas was silent for a moment. Then, very softly: “I have never seen a deer.”
“Well,” she said gently, “perhaps one day you shall.”
She did not promise. She did not offer what she might not be able to give. But she saw something shift—a slight easing, the smallest loosening of those too-rigid shoulders.
It was a beginning.
***
They spent the morning together, not quite talking and not quite silent. Lorraine read aloud from the bird book, pausing now and then to allow Thomas to supply the details she pretended not to know. He told her about rooks—intelligent, sociable creatures, loyal to their colonies—and magpies, clever thieves with a fondness for anything that shone, and the kestrel he had once seen hovering above the moor.
“It stayed so still,” he said softly. “As though it were frozen in the sky.”
She asked questions. She listened. She did not press.
By the time Jenny arrived with the luncheon tray, Thomas had abandoned his chair for the carpet, sitting cross-legged opposite Lorraine with the book spread open between them. His hair had dried into something nearer its natural state—soft, slightly unruly, a far cry from the rigid neatness of the morning. He looked, Lorraine thought, almost like a real child.
“Well now,” Jenny said, her eyes widening at the sight. “Isn’t this cosy?”
Thomas stiffened at once, withdrawing into himself like a creature retreating to its shell. The light that had begun to kindle in his eyes flickered and dimmed.
Lorraine rose smoothly, brushing her skirts free of lint. “Thank you, Jenny. You may set the tray upon the table.”
Jenny complied, casting curious glances between them. She was young—nineteen, perhaps—with a round face and an eager air that suggested she found the household’s small dramas endlessly absorbing.
“Mrs Potter says to tell you luncheon is also laid in the small dining room, miss, if you would prefer—”
“I shall take my meals here, with Master Thomas.” Lorraine’s tone remained pleasant, but firm. “We are becoming acquainted.”
“Yes, miss.” Jenny bobbed a curtsy and withdrew, plainly bursting with news to carry belowstairs.
When she was gone, Lorraine turned back to Thomas. He had not left the carpet, but his shoulders had crept once more toward his ears, his hands returning to that unnatural stillness.
“Thomas,” she said gently, “would you care to take luncheon with me?”
He looked up at her. In his eyes she saw the same calculation—the wariness, the fear, the faint and stubborn hope he seemed determined to suppress.
“The other governesses ate in their rooms,” he said. “Or downstairs.”
“As I told you, I am not like other governesses.” She held out her hand. “Come. We shall eat together, and you may tell me more about the kestrel.”
A pause. A breath.
And then—quietly, cautiously—a small hand slipped into hers.
His fingers were cold. She held them with care, as though they were something fragile and easily broken, and led him to the table.
