Bewick’s A History of British Birds.
Lorraine drew it out and turned to face Thomas. He had not moved. Had not spoken. His hands remained folded, his posture perfect, his expression giving nothing away.
She did not go to him. Instead, she lowered herself to the carpet—just as she had done the previous evening—and arranged her skirts about her with the ease of long habit.
“I found this upon the shelf,” she said lightly, holding up the book. “It appears to have been much read. The pages are quite worn.”
Nothing. Not so much as a flicker.
“I confess I know very little of birds.” She opened the book at random—an engraving of a thrush, delicately rendered. “We had sparrows in London, of course. And pigeons. But I imagine the birds of Yorkshire must be rather different.” She glanced up at him. “I do not suppose you might enlighten me?”
For a long moment, she thought he would not answer. His jaw was set, his small hands clenched in his lap, every line of him resisting.
Do not,that small body seemed to say.Do not make me care. Do not make me trust you. You will only go, as the others did.
Then, so softly she almost missed it: “There are rooks.”
Lorraine’s heart tightened. She kept her expression unchanged—pleasant, attentive, wholly unsurprised, as though small boys spoke to strange governesses every day.
“Rooks,” she repeated. “I believe I heard them yesterday, as I walked up the drive. They made a dreadful noise.”
“They nest in the oaks.” His voice was rough, as though unused. “Beyond the garden. There is a whole—a whole colony.”
“A rookery?”
A faint nod. His gaze had shifted to the book in her hands, and there—only for an instant—she saw it: a spark of interest, quickly concealed. As though wanting anything had become dangerous, and he had learned to hide even that from himself.
Oh, my dear child,she thought.What has been done to you?
She turned the pages slowly, allowing him to see the illustrations. “I should very much like to see the rookery,” she said. “Perhaps, when the weather improves, you might show it to me? I should very likely lose my way on my own.”
Another pause. She could almost see the calculation—the weighing of risk against risk, of disappointment against the faint and frightening possibility of connection.
“Perhaps,” he said at last. “If it does not rain.”
It was not agreement. Not trust. But it was not refusal either. It was a door left slightly ajar, and Lorraine knew better than to force it open.
“That sounds quite perfect.” She closed the book and set it gently upon the carpet between them. “Now—there is to be schooling, I believe. Reading and writing and arithmetic, and all the rest. But I think that today we might simply… become acquainted. Would that suit you?”
Thomas looked at the book. Then at her. Then at the book again.
“The other governesses made me do sums,” he said. “On the first day.”
“Did they indeed?”
“And recite verses. And practise my penmanship.”
“How very diligent of them.” Lorraine tilted her head. “And did you like it?”
The question seemed to puzzle him. His brow drew together slightly—a faint crease that made him, for a fleeting instant, look like any other child confronted with an unfamiliar idea.
“Like it?” he repeated.
“Yes. Did it please you? Did it make you happy?”
The crease deepened. “I do not… I do not think governesses are meant to make you happy.”
The words struck her like stones. She thought of the Whitmore girls, who had wept when she left, who had pressed flowers into her hands and begged her to stay. She thought of her own childhood—of laughter, of warmth, of the quiet certainty of being loved.
