A few moments later Stedmore appeared. "My lord?"
"If you would be so good as to show Miss Mercer to her chambers. She is to be with us for an as yet undetermined length of time.”
The butler inclined his head. "Certainly, my lord."
Lydia hesitated only briefly before turning toward the door. She paused once with her hand upon the knob, though whether she meant to speak or had merely lost courage Oliver could not tell. Without looking back, she quietly left the room. Once the door had closed behind her, Oliver allowed himself to sink into the leather chair behind his desk, wrung out from the exchange.
For several moments he remained motionless, staring at the empty doorway where she had stood. She had come. Not willingly and not happily, but she had come. For twelve years he had wondered whether he would ever look upon her again. And aside from one brief glimpse at her mother’s funeral, that had held true. Even then, it had been little more than a guess. Dressed in black, heavily veiled, he’d known her not by face or form but by the way she moved. Because even after six years, not even such a minute detail had dulled in his memories of her. But this, looking upon her face, watching her lips shape every word that escaped her mouth and being reminded of countless stolen kisses—it was more than he’d anticipated. And more than he could afford. Because she wasn’t there so he could rekindle their romance. She was there because his daughter needed a governess and because he needed to understand what had passed on that night twelve years before that sent her fleeing into the darkness. He needed to know that it wasn’t because of him.
It was much later,nearly time for supper, as Lydia followed the maid along a broad upper corridor whose windows overlooked the south lawn. Her attention seldom lingered upon the view beyond the glass as there was something about the hypnotic sway of the lavender that made her feel this strange combinationof nostalgia and melancholy. And the last thing anyone needed at Hartwell was more melancholy.
But keeping her attention on the interior of the home brought something else to the forefront of her mind. It was an inescapable fact that Hartwell had altered not at all in twelve years. The carpet beneath her feet was the same one she’d walked in a different life. The paintings on the wall, hunting scenes and allegorical landscapes were either the same or so similar as to go entirely unnoticed. The house appeared almost suspended in time. It was unsettling to discover that she could still have found her way from one room to another without assistance. She had imagined forgetting such things eventually. Instead, she discovered that memory had merely been lying dormant, waiting for the familiar scent of beeswax and lavender to summon it back to life.
"My lord thought it best that you should meet Miss Gemma before dinner," the maid explained as they approached a pair of white-painted doors at the end of the passage. "She's been terribly excited since learning a governess was coming."
Lydia smiled, though there were nerves behind it. What if the child didn’t like her? What if the child took one look at her and found her terribly wanting? She had never worried about such things with any other position she had taken and that was precisely why she should have fled Hartwell when she had the chance. ”I’m very excited to meet her, as well. I only hope I do not disappoint her."
The maid smiled. "I rather think you'll find that impossible.” The maid knocked softly, but it wasn’t a child’s voice that answered. It was Oliver’s as he called out for them to enter. With permission granted, the maid opened the door and stepped inside, leaving space for Lydia to enter after her. "Miss Mercer, my lord."
The schoolroom was warm despite the gathering clouds outside. There were dolls and toys of every variety she could imagine. There were some books as well as a slate where someone had clearly been practicing their letters. The room was vibrant and happy and perhaps the only room within the confines of Hartwell Hall that had changed significantly. She’d seen it once before, when she’d come there as a young bride to be. It had been shrouded in holland cloths and dull with disuse then.
At the large table which occupied the center of the room, there were a few drawings scattered about that showed a remarkably good eye for such a young child. And there was a lovely music box, an automaton with a dancing bear on it, that tinkled slightly anytime someone bumped the table. Beneath the far window was a rocking horse. In its entirety, the room was a child’s dream. And Oliver stood in the center of it, Gemma’s tiny form tucked against his leg and clinging to the tail of his coat. Without any hesitation or even thought it seemed, he stooped and picked the child up, holding her so that she could lay her head on his shoulder.
"Thank you, Deirde. That’ll be all,” he said as the maid withdrew. Then he looked down at the little girl in his arms. ”Gemma?”
The child looked up immediately and met his gaze with one that could only be described as adoration. “Yes, Papa?"
“I'd very much like to introduce you to Miss Lydia Mercer. She’s your new governess. I’ve known her since long before you were even born and I assure you, she is a most excellent governess and a wonderful friend to have."
Gemma lifted her head and eyed Lydia with an expression that was equal parts curiosity and mistrust. “Hello, Miss Mercer… My last governess left.”
“Well, I do not have any intention of leaving unless you decide we will not suit… In that case, I would depart and leave you in peace. Though I’d like to have an opportunity to test out whether or not we might be friends. Do you think we could do that?” Lydia asked her.
Gemma tilted her head thoughtfully before looking back at Oliver. "She doesn't have grey hair like Miss Caster had. And she doesn’t look all pinch-faced, either.”
Oliver's mouth twitched despite himself. “No. I daresay no one has ever referred to Miss Mercer as pinch-faced.”
"My last governess had grey hair,” Gemma informed her, as though she hadn’t just heard the entire exchange.
“And a pinch-faced, though we probably shouldn’t say that. She likely couldn’t help the way her face looked.”
“She could help it,” Gemma protested. “She never looked pinch faced at Stedmore. Only at me and Papa.”
Lydia looked to Oliver for some sort of confirmation or rebuttal, but he just shrugged. “I paid very little attention to how Miss Caster looked at Stedmore. Or me. But she did look rather pinch-faced when speaking to Gemma and I did not care for that at all.”
“Mrs. Beaslington, our housekeeper, she says Papa is very gallon.”
“I think you mean gallant, pet,” Oliver said gently.
Gemma looked once more at Lydia, apparently reassessing her entirely. "I thought all governesses were old."
"I'm afraid you've discovered otherwise."
The little girl considered that for another moment before nodding with complete satisfaction. “Can you climb trees?” At Lydia’s nod of agreement she continued, “Will you let me climb trees?”
“If your father permits and presuming you don’t climb too high to be fetched should it prove necessary, I see no problem with that,” Lydia offered.
Gemma broke into a bright smile. ”Oh, I like you much better than Miss Caster!”
