Lorraine set down the chalk with a quiet sigh.
Three days since the storm. Three days since the library—since Dominic had held Thomas, since their hands had met over a candle, since something had shifted, irrevocably. Three days of careful distance by daylight, and restless nights spent turning over every word, every glance, every moment of contact.
They had not been alone since. Their exchanges had been limited to the barest courtesies—“Good morning, Your Grace,” “The lessons progress well,” “Thomas is improving.” Each phrase another careful brick, laid with precision, building a wall she did not trust to hold.
And yet the wall was flawed. She felt him before she saw him, a prickle at the back of her awareness whenever he was near. Caught his gaze upon her in passing, withdrew before it could linger. And at night, she could not forget the sound of her name in his voice—low, unguarded, impossible to ignore.
I am in trouble,she thought.I am in very serious trouble.
“Miss Weston?”
Thomas appeared at her elbow, his own slate clutched to his chest. “I’ve finished my sums. May I show them to you?”
She forced her thoughts back to him. “Of course.”
The sums were correct—every one. He had a quick mind when he chose to use it, and in the weeks since her arrival, he had begun, quietly, to flourish. The guarded stillness remained—it might always remain—but now it was joined by curiosity, by interest, by flashes of humour that caught her unawares.
“Very good,” she said, returning the slate. “You have earned some time in the garden, I think. Jenny is waiting.”
Thomas brightened. “Will you come too?”
“Later, perhaps. I have a letter to write.”
It was not entirely untrue. Mrs Whitmore’s letter still lay unanswered, inquiring after her health and hinting broadly that the position in Hampshire remained open should Lorraine wish to return. She had not yet decided how to respond. Three weeks ago, the answer would have been simple:Thank you, but I am settled here.Now, she was not certain she could use the word‘settled’without choking on it.
“Very well.” Thomas nodded, already halfway to the door.
She watched from the window as he crossed the lawn with Jenny, pointing toward the line of oaks where the rookery stood. The garden still bore the storm’s mark—branches scattered, leaves pressed into the paths—but the sky had cleared to a pale blue, and the light held a fragile promise.
If only it were that simple, Lorraine thought.If only hearts could mend as easily as gardens.
She turned back to her work, restoring order to the nursery with practised efficiency. The small, familiar tasks steadied her.
She was replacing the last of the primers when the door opened behind her.
“Miss Weston.”
She knew the voice before she turned. Knew it in the sudden quickening of her pulse. She counted silently—one, two, three—before facing him.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “Thomas is in the garden.”
“I know. I saw him.” He remained near the doorway, though his presence seemed to fill the room regardless. He wore no coat—only waistcoat and shirtsleeves—as though he had come directly from work. “I came to speak with you.”
“With me?”
“I found something.” He paused, as though uncertain how to continue. “In the attics. I thought the boy might like it.”
He stepped forward, and she saw what he carried.
A wooden horse—small, carefully carved, its paint worn with time. Not perfect, but unmistakably made with care.
“It was mine,” he said quietly. “My grandfather carved it.”
Lorraine moved closer before she could stop herself. The piece was beautiful in its imperfection—the faint marks of the knife, the uneven lines that spoke a work of care rather than craft.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “He will cherish it.”
“I hope so.” Dominic turned the horse over in his hands, his fingers tracing the worn wood. “I treasured it, once. Before I decided I was too old for such things. Before I forgot how to treasure anything at all.”
