“Peter says you are from Feltwell.”
She glanced at Mr. Mayfield, remembering that his Christian name was Peter. It fit him. He did not seem inclined to add to the conversation, so Julia looked at Lord Howardsford.
“Yes, though I have been in London these last five years.” She wanted him to know that she was an experienced governess, not some country girl who knew nothing of the world.
“Five years?” He lifted his black-and-gray peppered eyebrows. “You do not look as though you could be a day over twenty.”
She answered him with a nod, not liking to be told she looked like a child. She was a proper spinster of twenty-seven years and deserved recognition for having accomplished such a feat.
“That will be all, Miss Julia,” Mr. Mayfield said with a polite, if not cautious, smile. “You may return to your . . . games.”
Did she hear judgment in his tone? Was he displeased?
“The rain has prevented our usual time out of doors, so we studied letters and numbers in the morning today. We’ve also attended to the dogs already,” Julia said, hoping she didn’t sound as defensive as she felt.
His jaw tightened, and she wondered what she’d said wrong. The dogs, she thought. She should not have mentioned that she and the girls worked with the dogs in front of his uncle. Mr. Mayfield had made it clear that he was concerned about the task being below his daughters’ station. Not hers, though.
“This looks like a very clever use of time and space,” Lord Howardsford said, waving his hand over the haphazard city.
She appreciated his attempt at rescue, but his focused attention made her want to back up a step.
“Yes,” Mr. Mayfield said, then put a hand on his uncle’s arm and turned him toward the nursery door. “I shall return tonight for the girls’ bedtime stories.”
Julia nodded, then watched the two men leave. She let out a breath and returned to the girls, wondering at the tension she felt during the exchange.
She’d been caring for Bumbleberry and her pups for several days now, and she and Mr. Mayfield had interacted several times when they were both attending to animals in the dog yard. She was careful to keep their exchanges professional; Colleen’s warning was still loud in her ears. His visit to the nursery just now had been different, however, with a different tension as though she’d done something wrong. And his uncle, why was he so . . . interested?
“You cannot put a house there, Leah! It’s in the middle of the road.”
Julia looked over in time to see Marjorie throw a boot to the side—presumably Leah’s house.
“Too much road,” Leah pouted, crawling after the boot.
Julia returned to the floor and moved the socks slightly. “This would be a good place for a square, I think.”
Leah returned with the boot and set it in its new place. “We need more buildings.”
Marjorie jumped up and returned with a basket, two more shoes, a bonnet, and a small jewelry box. Once the box was placed in Julia’s hand, she realized it was rather fine for a nursery toy. A scrolling letter S was carved into the inlaid top. She ran her finger over the letter.
“What is this?” Julia asked Marjorie.
“Papa says that was my mama’s, but now it’s mine.”
Julia looked back at the box with new interest. No one in the household talked about the late Mrs. Mayfield; Julia did not even know her name. The girls would tell her something about their mother now and again, but always prefaced it with “Miss McCormick said . . .” Leah would have been only two when her mother died, but Marjorie would have been four, and Julia hoped she had memories of her mother separate from what their former caretaker had told them.
Curiosity got the better of her, and Julia pulled back the delicate clasp on the jewelry box that was not much bigger than her palm. Inside were a lovely silver ring and a ruby pendant, both of which only just fit in the box. She didn’t dare touch either item. In fact, she felt as though she were intruding somehow and closed the lid. She turned her gaze to Marjorie but kept her expression soft. “I do not believe this is meant to be played with, Marjorie.”
Marjorie gave her a quick but guilty look. “We needed buildings.”
“Where was this?” Julia asked.
“I will show you!” Leah jumped to her feet and ran to the small desk set below the middle of the three windows and lifted the top, revealing a lid Julia had not realized was there.
Julia took Marjorie’s hand and moved forward. Inside the desk was an inexpensive beaded necklace, a handkerchief with the monogram of SMK in the corner, and a small portraiture of a lovely woman with brown curls piled on her head and chocolate eyes like Marjorie’s. There were also some rocks, shells, and what looked like a dried-out cricket. A child’s treasures, though some were far too fine for such storage.
“You keep your mother’s things here?”
Marjorie said nothing, her eyes sad and somewhat confused—as though she did not understand why she had put those things there. But Julia knew, and it made her nose sting with tears she would not indulge. She sat down on the floor and pulled both girls onto her lap. She did not tell them her thoughts—about her father and the way she’d treasured the remnants of his life after he passed—but she rested their heads on her shoulders and rocked them gently, like a mother might. There was nothing she could say to ease such a loss, but she could remind them that there was still warmth and love in the world.
Peter
After seeing his uncle to his carriage early the next morning after breakfast, Peter changed into his work jacket and shoes and went out to the dog yard. It would be another cold and wet day—what passed for spring in this part of England—but he did not want the hounds to get lazy, and if he didn’t run them on days with rain, he would rarely run them at all. Henry, the new handler, would arrive at noon to begin his training, which Peter would oversee.
The muddy ground sucked at Peter’s boots with every step as he made his way to the whelping shed. He looked in on Bumbleberry every morning, but she still growled if he came too close and would not let him handle the puppies, whereas Julia and the girls could hold them in their laps. It wasn’t fair, but only a schoolboy would say as much. He made a point of practicing that soft tone of voice Julia always used with the dam even though it made him feel silly—he was far more accustomed to sharp commands. But he wanted to earn Bumbleberry’s trust the way Miss Julia had; the way his own daughters had.
Aside from brief visits from the outside of the pens, the girls had never had much interaction with the dogs before Julia arrived. Allowing Marjorie to name his first collie—a favor he had already accepted as a grave mistake on his part—had been his attempt at involving the girls more, but that hadn’t made much difference. Then Miss Julia had come and started taking them to see the dogs every day, and now they were holding the puppies before he did and giving them ridiculous names he refused to consider—Lollydrops, Butterfly, and Sultana Pudding. Sharing his love of the dogs with his daughters was something he had not realized he wanted so much until Miss Julia had made it happen. But he wanted to hold the puppies too!
Peter opened the door of the shed and stepped onto the mat, only to find Miss Julia already there. She stood from where she was sitting on the stool from the kitchen, cradling a black-and-white puppy in her arms while the dam and the other pups slept.
“Good morning, Mr. Mayfield.” She spoke in a whisper.
He removed his dripping hat. “Good morning, Miss Julia. I am simply checking on Bumbleberry. It looks as though all is well.” He nodded and turned to exit the shed.
“Wait.”
She had still only whispered, but her tone was commanding. Julia crossed the space between them and held the puppy out to Peter.
He did not take it, even though he wanted to so badly. “Bumbleberry has growled at me every time I’ve tried to touch the pups.”
“It is time she got used to you, then,” Miss Julia said, extending the puppy further. The little creature—equal to a squirming loaf of bread, really—mewled, and Bumbleberry’s head instantly came up. “Do not look at her,” Miss Julia said in that same soft, soothing voice. “Take the pup, hold it close to your chest, and calm it while she looks on.”
Peter removed his gloves and put them in his coat pockets, then took the puppy, feeling ridiculous that he needed Julia’s guidance and yet eager for the opportunity. He stroked the puppy’s silky head, and the tiny thing nuzzled into his chest. Bumbleberry watched him steadily from the whelping box, but she did not growl. The pup began rooting around, and so Peter put his pinky finger near the puppy’s mouth. The pup instantly began to suck on the tip of his finger. Peter chuckled, then realized Miss Julia was watching him, and forced his expression closed again. It would be wise to keep from feeling too comfortable in her presence.
How on earth will I turn her out?
“You can return the puppy to Bumbleberry, now,” Julia said, waving toward the dam.
Peter hesitated, then wiped his boots on the mat as best he could before doing as Miss Julia had instructed. He knew Miss Julia kept the shed clean, despite him telling her she did not need to perform such tasks. She’d put in nails to hold hats and coats, reorganized the bits and bobs that had been added to the shed in recent years, and folded the old blankets into a crate.
A woman’s touch, he thought. In a whelping shed.
“After you return the puppy, try to pet Bumbleberry.”
Peter nodded his understanding as he laid the puppy gently into the box. Bumbleberry watched him but did not react. He paused, then moved his hand slowly to Bumbleberry’s head. She growled, and he instantly pulled back his hand. A smaller, softer hand took hold of his wrist, keeping him from withdrawing fully. Julia had come up beside him without his notice, and suddenly he could not breathe. The touch was not intimate, he told himself, and yet it somehow was. He swallowed, unsure what to do.
“No, Bumbleberry,” Miss Julia said in a firmer tone than usual. “It is time you remembered who your master is.”
Julia shifted her hold until her palm was against the back of his hand, then she moved both of their hands forward. Bumbleberry growled deep in her throat again, and Julia paused to chastise the dog again, but she did not pull back.
The shed was cool enough that Peter could feel warmth radiating from Miss Julia beside him. He swallowed and, despite his better judgment, turned to look at her. Her face was near to his own, but her attention was centered on the dog. He’d never looked at her so closely before, but the smoothness of her skin and perfect shape of her nose and chin impressed upon him just how beautiful she was. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a braided bun that shined in the muted morning light coming through the window.
The sudden desire to touch her hair took him by surprise, and he inhaled deeply, only to fill his lungs with the scent of her perfume. Some spice, he thought. Sybil’s vanilla scent had remained on her pillow for months after she’d died but was long gone now. Sometimes he would smell something baking from the kitchen and be transported to those easy days when spending the rest of their lives together had been an expectation they could take for granted.
Peter looked back to Bumbleberry while shifting away from Miss Julia as best he could, which was only an inch. Not enough. Miss Julia guided his hand forward, and he tried very hard to focus on the dog. Aside from hugs from his daughters, he didn’t think anyone had been this close to him since Sybil’s death. Certainly no one had made him feel so aware as she did. Did he feel guilty for the awareness? No. But should he?
His hand touched fur. The dog was not growling, but still watched him.
Miss Julia said softly, “Leave it there a moment.”
Her hand—her small, delicate, and feminine hand—remained over the top of his as it rested on Bumbleberry’s head. He could hear her breathing, and for an instant, he imagined turning his hand over so their palms touched and their fingers fit together. She would look at their hands, then look at him with a question in those eyes the color of a summer sky, and everything would change between them.
Just as her mother feared.
Just as it had for his parents once upon a time.
The back of his neck began to sweat.
Peter jumped to his feet, startling Julia, who pulled back sharply, causing Bumbleberry to bark, just once. He offered no apology and turned on his heel. This would not happen!
He’d been disheartened by his uncle’s words yesterday, but now he saw Mrs. Hollingsworth’s prejudice as a blessing. The Mayfield men had proved themselves unworthy stewards for the gentler sex.
He marched to the stable and readied his horse. He needed to run the hounds—no, the foxhounds and greys together, he decided in the moment. The rain in his face and the cold wind whipping at his coat while his pack ran with their tongues hanging out was exactly what he needed to distract himself. And Henry would need to take over Bumbleberry’s care as soon as possible. Miss Julia needed to stay in the nursery where he could more easily avoid her.
He’d promised his uncle he would not turn her out immediately, but he would turn her out as soon as he found a replacement. He had to. He would write to Mr. Hastings that afternoon. That his heart clenched in his chest was certainly for the sake of his daughters, who had taken to her so well.
“Mr. Mayfield.”
He spun around from where he was fitting the bridle. Miss Julia stood in the doorway of the barn, wearing a hooded coat against the rain. “What is it?” he said gruffly. What on earth will I say if she asks why I bolted from the shed?
“I wondered if I could speak to you for a moment about your girls—Marjorie, especially.”
If it were any other topic, he likely could have come up with an excuse to avoid having this discussion when he felt so vulnerable. But mention of his oldest daughter slowed his heart rate and drew his attention.
“I can schedule a time to meet if you prefer.”
Goodness, no, he thought. The anticipation of a more formal meeting would be miserable. “Now is as good a time as any. What was it you wanted to speak with me about?”
She took a few steps into the barn and pushed back the hood so that he could better see her face—he’d have been fine if she’d kept it in shadow. She told him about the jewelry box and the other items she’d found in the desk. She did not say they were Sybil’s, but he could tell by the delicate way she spoke that she knew the items had belonged to his late wife.
“Last night, after the girls were asleep, I moved the items to the top of the bookshelf in their room, where they would not be able to see them. I thought you could fetch them and put them where they belong.”
“Thank you,” he said, the discomfort seeping away as he imagined Marjorie sneaking into his room, finding the drawer where he had kept the few things of Sybil’s that meant something to him. For months after she’d died, he would lay the items out on the dresser and remember: the ruby pendant he’d given her the day after Marjorie’s birth, her grandmother’s earrings Sybil had worn on their wedding day. He hadn’t looked at the mementos for some time, and apparently Marjorie had taken on the task of remembering her mother for him.
“I did something similar,” Miss Julia said, drawing his attention back to her. “After my father passed, I would find things of his—a buttonhook, his cuff links, and a black leather sketchbook that had rows of numbers I didn’t understand. I hid them under my bed, afraid that if I lost them I would lose . . . I don’t know, my memories of him, I suppose.”
“I don’t believe either of the girls remembers her.” They’d never said as much, and since talking about Sybil made him miss her even more, he avoided doing so.
“But they know of her,” Miss Julia said. “They know they had a mother and that she is not here anymore. Marjorie is a wonderful
girl.” She said it with a soft, warm smile as though she had known and loved his daughters all their lives. “And I sense that her desire to have these items of her mother’s close to her was stronger than her knowing that it was wrong for her to take them.”
Peter’s chest tightened with . . . regret? Fear? Sadness? His throat felt thick, and he was suddenly tired, as though he’d been thrust into a weeks’ worth of thoughts in a single morning. He cleared his throat. “Is that all, Miss Julia?”
“Well, there is one more thing,” she said, looking at the floor of the stable, then up again. “Your daughters have missed spending your hour with them after their supper.”
He was confused. “My hour with them?”
“Children’s hour?”
He tightened his jaw.
Julia continued, though her words were quick, betraying her anxiety at having to say them. “Mrs. Oswell told me that sometimes you were too busy, but, well, I have been here two weeks, and you have only ever come to kiss them good night.”
“That is not true,” he said defensively. “I attended them after their supper just . . .” He tried to remember. “Last week.”
She looked doubtful.
Had he truly not attended to them except for bedtime? At most he stayed with them for a quarter of an hour when he looked in on them at night, not wanting to keep them awake too long and often eager for his own bed. He might also have been avoiding the new governess. “It has been a busy few weeks.”
“Oh, yes, I know that,” she hurried to agree. “And I do not mean to say any of this as a reprimand. I just worry that Marjorie’s behavior is perhaps a reflection of missing both her parents.” She cringed slightly as she said the last, which was the only reason he could hear it for the truth it was. If she were being accusatory, he’d be hard against it. But there was no way for him to justify that what she said wasn’t sincere and focused on what she saw as a way to help his daughter.
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