Dominic appeared at breakfast each morning, taking his place at the head of the table while Thomas spoke—of birds, of lessons, of the horse, now solemnly namedCaptain. Dominic listened with deliberate attention, asking the occasional question, offering the occasional comment. If his manner was sometimes stiff, sometimes uncertain, Thomas did not seem to notice. He thrived under it.
Dominic began to visit the nursery during lessons. Not every day, but often enough that his presence ceased to startle. At first, he remained in the doorway, observing from a distance. Lorraine felt his attention like a tangible thing—following her movements, lingering when she spoke, resting on her longer than was proper.
One afternoon, he found them bent over a map of England, Thomas attempting to locate Yorkshire among the borders.
“Here,” Thomas declared, tapping the page. “This is where we are. And London is down here—and Miss Weston says there are deer in the parks.”
“Miss Weston is correct.” Dominic’s voice came from the doorway. Lorraine looked up to find him leaning against the frame, arms crossed, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. “I have seen them myself. Great herds, wandering Hyde Park as though it belonged to them.”
“You’ve been to London?” Thomas asked.
“Many times. Before the war.”
“What’s it like? Miss Weston says it smells dreadful.”
“Miss Weston is right about that too.” His gaze shifted to her, and something in it made her breath catch. “But it has its merits. Theatres. Museums. Bookshops that run the length of a street.”
“Could we go? Someday?”
A pause. Lorraine saw the hesitation—then the decision.
“Perhaps,” he said. “When you are older. If you wish it.”
Thomas beamed. Lorraine lowered her gaze, her composure slipping for a moment under the quiet weight of it.
This,she thought,is what healing looks like. Slow. Uncertain. But forward.
She excused herself after the lesson, pleading a need for ink. In truth, she needed air.
The corridor was cool and still. She leaned back against the wall, pressing her palms flat against the plaster, and closed her eyes.
I am in trouble.
She could not afford this. Not the hope, not the wanting, not the quiet, dangerous possibility beginning to take shape in her mind. She was a governess. He was a duke. The distance between them was not merely social—it was absolute.
And yet—
He had given Thomas the horse. He smiled, now, without quite meaning to. He had asked to be called Dominic.
And yet—
She opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling as though it might steady her.
Nothing steadied her.
The hope remained—quiet, persistent, impossible to extinguish.
I do not know how this ends,she thought.Only that I cannot stop it.
The truth came, simple and inescapable.
She was falling in love with him.
She did not try to deny it.
***
That evening, she wrote to Mrs Whitmore.
