“Yes, well.” The woman—housekeeper, Lorraine assumed—closed the door firmly against the wind and subjected her to a thorough inspection. Whatever she saw appeared to satisfy some internal measure, for her expression softened a degree. “I am Mrs Potter. We corresponded.”
“Indeed.” Lorraine set down her valise and cast her own swift survey of the entrance hall. Magnificent, as expected—vaulted ceilings, ancestral portraits, a staircase sweeping upward into shadow—but cold. The sort of cold that spoke oftoo few fires in too many rooms. Of a house that had forgotten how to be lived in. “The journey has been long, Mrs Potter, and I confess I should be glad to see my room—and perhaps take some tea. But first, I should like to meet my charge. The boy. Thomas, is it not?”
Something flickered across Mrs Potter’s face. “Master Thomas is in the nursery. He is… not inclined to take well to strangers, miss. Perhaps in the morning—”
“Children seldom take well to strangers upon first acquaintance,” Lorraine returned gently. “That is rather the purpose of subsequent meetings, is it not?” She softened the words with a smile. “I shall not overwhelm him. I wish only that he might see my face before he sleeps, so that when he wakes tomorrow, I shall not be entirely unfamiliar.”
Mrs Potter studied her for a long moment. Then, slowly, she inclined her head. “This way, miss.”
***
The nursery was at the top of the house, as nurseries so often were—tucked away where the noise of children might not intrude upon the important occupations of adults. Lorraine climbed three flights of stairs behind Mrs Potter’s candle, noting the portraits that lined the walls—stern-faced ancestors, every one—the suits of armour set into alcoves, and the general air of magnificent neglect.
“His Grace,” she said carefully, “is he in residence?”
“His Grace is always in residence.” Mrs Potter’s tone was studiously neutral. “He does not go to London. Does not go anywhere, in truth. Not since he returned from the war.”
The war.Lorraine stored this away. The Duke of Ravenswood had served, then. Many men had, in those long years of fighting Napoleon. Many had returned altered.
Some had not returned at all.
“The boy’s father,” she said. “He was a soldier as well?”
“Captain William Harding. Served under His Grace in Spain.” Mrs Potter paused with her hand upon a door. “Killed at Badajoz. The mother followed not long after—fever, they said, though I believe it was grief that truly carried her off. The boy was taken in by his mother’s family and remained with them for some years, until they too passed on. With his grandparents in India unable to come at once, he was sent here. Master Thomas came to us five months ago.” She looked at Lorraine with eyes that held too much understanding. “He does not speak much. Nor does he trust easily. Four governesses have come and gone since his arrival.”
“Four in five months?”
“His Grace is… particular. And the boy is difficult. And the house is—” She broke off. “Well. You shall see for yourself.”
She opened the door.
The nursery, at least, was warm—a fire crackling in the grate, lamps lit against the gathering dark. The walls were papered with cheerful scenes of rabbits and birds, oddly at variance with the sepulchral air of the rest of the house. Toys lined the shelves, fine and costly, yet seemingly untouched. And there, in the corner, seated very straight in a chair too large for him, was the boy from the window.
Thomas Harding was small for his six years, with the sort of stillness children acquired when they had learned that notice often led to pain. His hair was fair, his eyes brown, his little face as solemn as a judge’s. He watched Lorraine enter with an expression of careful blankness.
Oh,she thought, with a pang she resolutely suppressed.Oh, I know you.
“Master Thomas,” said Mrs Potter, “this is Miss Weston. She is to be your new governess.”
The boy said nothing. His hands, Lorraine observed, were folded in his lap with unnatural precision. A child should not sit so. A child should fidget.
Lorraine did not go to him. Instead, she lowered herself to the floor—an action that caused Mrs Potter to draw a sharp breath—and arranged her skirts about her as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a lady to sit upon a nursery carpet.
“Good evening, Thomas,” she said. “I have had a very long journey and am quite fatigued, so I shall not stay long tonight. I wished only to see your face before I sleep, so that tomorrow, when we meet properly, you will not be wondering who the strange woman in your nursery may be.”
The boy watched her. She returned the look, steady and unhurried.
“I am to be here for a little while,” she continued, her tone light and easy. “I cannot say precisely how long. But while I remain, I should very much like for us to be friends. Not the sort who are obliged to like one another—the real sort, who choose it.”
Still no reply. Yet something in his eyes—a flicker, swiftly suppressed—suggested he had heard her.
“You need not decide tonight,” she went on. “You may consider it. And tomorrow, if you determine that you would like to attempt friendship, we may take breakfast together, and you may tell me what you most enjoy. And if you decide you would rather not—” She gave a small shrug. “That is perfectly acceptable. I shall not take offence.”
She rose, brushing her skirts smooth, and found Mrs Potter observing her with an expression she could not quite interpret.
“Good night, Thomas,” she said from the doorway. “Sleep well.”
She was halfway down the corridor when she heard it—so soft she might almost have imagined it.
