A knock at the door dragged her back to the present. Julia levered herself up from the floor and answered, only to find Mrs. Holland standing there with a small stack of boxes and parcels in her arms.

  “A delivery, for you,” was all the housekeeper said.

  Julia gestured her into the room, helping her with half the boxes as they laid them out on the table. “What is it?” she asked as she fussed with the knotted twine wrapped around the top box.

  “They’re from McKinley’s,” Mrs. Holland told her, which left Julia with as many questions as before, as a parcel from McKinley’s could be anything from a pair of stockings to a book about the amphibians of Australia.

  Julia raised the lid off the first box and found herself staring down at an assortment of paints and paintbrushes. “Oh,” was all she could think to say before opening the next box, this one filled with fine quality paper. The next was a collection of charcoals and pencils and pastels, while the final one held a stack of new slates and chalk. “This is much more than I will need for Zora.”

  “Mr. Halberd informed me that he ordered items for the school, as well.” Mr. Holland brushed her hands down the front of her skirt, as though there was dirt on her hands that needed to be wiped away. “There are also some books, but those will be coming all the way from London if I’m not mistaken.”

  Julia ran her fingers over the bristles of the paintbrushes. They were excellent quality, finer than anything she had ever owned or used. And Mr. Halberd had purchased them for the school, for the daughters of farmers, for girls who would never have access to such expensive materials otherwise.

  “Quite a waste, really.”

  Julia replaced the lid on the box of brushes and moved to do the same with the others. “How so?” she asked Mrs. Holland without looking up from her task.

  The housekeeper sighed. “It is not wise to hire girls who can read and write. Not only does it give them ideas above their station, but it tempts them towards prying into matters that have nothing to do with them.”

  “I see.” Julia swallowed down another dozen words she wanted to say but stopped them before they could leap off her tongue.

  “You give these girls too much credit, Mrs. Benton. They are not people who are capable of thinking for themselves, of making wise choices if left to their own devices. They require guidance and hard work. Without work, they become idle and find their way into mischief.”

  “And is that not an argument for them to be taught?” Julia closed up the last box and looked at Mrs. Holland. “To be educated? So they will know better and be able to make wise and informed decisions towards their own lives?”

  Mrs. Holland shook her head, her lips drawn into a thin line. “There is a place for them, and nothing more. Mark my words—”

  “I’d rather leave them unmarked. Thank you, Mrs. Holland.” There was no point in wasting breath on further argument. Julia had heard the same comments from some of the villagers when she had first begun teaching, that the children of farmers and common laborers — especially their daughters — should not be taught. That they were fit for employment that would never require them to know their letters, marriage and the bearing of children, and nothing more.

  “And here, you think your unconventional upbringing of Miss Halberd will serve her well,” Mrs. Holland continued, even as Julia walked to the nursery door and opened it for her. “But you’ll turn her into something no man will want for a wife. And then what will there be for her?”

  Julia turned to face the housekeeper. She knew that she shouldn’t, that she should ignore Mrs. Holland and allow her to continue nurturing her horrible ideas, as people like her — at least in Julia’s experience — would never change their opinion on such matters, even should the world itself shudder to a halt and begin spinning in the opposite direction. But she turned, and she clasped her hands before her, and she drew in a breath that fueled her next words like the blast of a bellows across the coals of a hot fire.

  “What will there be for her? Anything she wants, I assume. Zora is fortunate to have enough settled on her that she’ll have no need to marry for money or security, if that is not her wish. She may grow up to be a writer, or a historian, or perhaps she will indeed marry and have ten children while painting pictures of far-off places, if that is what she so desires. It is all I want for her, what her father wants for her, the ability to choose the life best suited for her wants and needs.”

  Mrs. Holland began to walk out of the nursery, but she stopped in the doorway, pausing long enough for her gaze to sweep over Julia, eyes narrowed as though appraising her with some new insight. “You are not her mother, Mrs. Benton. You will never be her mother.”

  So there it was, the reason for Mrs. Holland’s dislike of her. She believed that Julia had come to Langford in order to take Mrs. Halberd’s place, either as Zora’s caretaker, or perhaps even more.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Holland. I need to return to Zora.” And she shut the nursery door in the housekeeper’s face.

  Julia turned around and saw Zora still seated beside the fire, teasing her kitten with a feather on a string.

  “Maybe I will be a housekeeper when I grow up,” Zora announced without raising her head, her fingers still making the string dance. “But a nice one, rather than someone who goes around being horrid all the time.”

  “We’ll see,” Julia said, and bit back a grin.

  ***

  Mr. Halberd joined them for dinner, just as he promised. But instead of gathering together in the dining room, with all the fanfare that came with it, he arrived in the nursery as the maid came up with their tray. A simple meal, a venison stew with crusty bread on the side, and perfect for the room’s cozy atmosphere.

  They took their seats around the small table, Julia hiding her amusement at how incongruous Mr. Halberd appeared sitting in a chair that was several inches too short for him, spooning stew into a bowl that sat a few inches too low in front of him. And all while Zora regaled him with stories from their morning spent outside in the snow, in-between bites of grave-soaked bread and pauses long enough for her to lick the butter from her fingers.

  “Use a napkin.” Julia pressed the cloth to her charge, only for it to slip off Zora’s lap and onto the floor, quickly forgotten.

  Julia watched Mr. Halberd interact with his daughter, her attention catching on the crinkling of his eyes at the corners, at the bright gleam of his smile when Zora said something that brought up a laugh from deep within his chest. The love in his face shone brighter than any other lamp or flame in the room, and she could only hope that Zora would someday know how fortunate she was to be so thoroughly adored by another person, how rare and beautiful a thing that was.

  After dinner, Mr. Halberd took the tray down to the kitchen to allow Zora her privacy while she washed and changed into her nightgown. When he returned, they spent an hour playing cards on the floor, Zora defeating him soundly four times before her father gave up and Julia declared it time for bed.

  “Is Papa going to read to me tonight?”

  Julia looked at Mr. Halberd. He appeared caught out, his eyes widening as she held out the book to him, a volume of Robin Hood tales and ballads. “Your audience awaits,” she said, and switched places with him on the side of the bed.

  Julia thought she might slip out of the nursery once he began reading and retire to her own room for the rest of the evening. A slight headache throbbed at her temples, and being outside in the snow that morning had left with her a chilled ache in her joints that only several hours of uninterrupted slumber would cure. But the moment he turned to the first page, the moment he began to read, she could not think of being anywhere else.

  His voice was a rich thing. She knew this already, but it grew deeper as he read, insinuating itself among the words on the page, lifting them up and into the air like sparks drifting from a fire. She did not sit, but instead retreated back into the shadows, leaning against the door as she listened to him. Each line was like a spell woven, some ancient magic awakened, and she thought she might no longer belong to herself the more he read, the more pages he turned.

  The silence came suddenly. Zora had fallen asleep a quarter of an hour before, her head lolling off the edge of the pillow. Mr. Halberd closed the book, setting it on his lap before he shifted his daughter’s head back onto the pillow and brushed a few strands of hair from her cheek. Julia stepped forward again and relieved him of the book, slipping it back into its place on the shelf. When she turned around again, he had already begun putting out the lights in the room, leaving only the glow of the fire to illuminate their path to the door.

  “Thank you,” Julia said as soon as they were out in the hall, the door to the nursery clicked shut behind them. “Have you often read to her before?”

  He shook his head, the candle he’d brought with him from the nursery smudging his features into broad swathes of gold and shadow. “Not enough. Not nearly enough. Zora was her mother’s child when my wife was still alive, and then after she passed away it was… difficult.”

  She wanted to reach out to him. To place her hand on his arm, to give him some small amount of comfort she wasn’t sure how best to express it in words. Instead, her fingers fluttered at her side and she took a step back from him. “I should…” she began, as though she had more to say. But she tipped her head towards the door of her own room and shuffled back again.

  “Julia,” he said. Low enough that his voice cracked on the final sound.

  There were a dozen reasons why she should not even contemplate it. They were not married. He was her employer. His child was in her care. It was wrong. It was a sin. It was a sin. It was a sin. And yet she didn’t move when he ate up the distance between them in one long stride. She made no protest when his hand came up to her face, his knuckles gliding along the side of her jaw.

  “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  Her lips parted on a small gasp. As if it was an invitation, he slid his thumb beneath the curve of her lower lip, stroking slowly back and forth. Until she closed her eyes. Until she stopped breathing.

  It was too much, that simple caress. When she looked at him again, he had moved closer to her. And she knew that whatever he wanted, she wanted it, too.

  “My room?” he asked.

  She nodded once. In that moment, she would have agreed to going with him to his room, to her own room, to letting him lift up her skirts and push her back against the wall right where they stood.

  He took her hand, his fingers lacing with hers as he led her down the hall. Julia had never set foot in his bedroom before, had only walked past the door a few times on her way to the main staircase. He released her hand long enough to open the door, and stepped back to allow her to go in first.

  It wasn’t completely dark. There was light from the fire casting the room in soft oranges and red, and there was still the candle in his hand, which he set aside on a small writing desk as soon as he had followed her inside and closed the door behind them. She noticed the bed first, of course. All dark and curtained, and set up on a kind of dais like something she would expect to see from the days of Henry VIII or Elizabethan rule. It made her wonder how many people had stood here before her, how many men and women over the last two centuries had gazed upon that bed in anticipation of what was to come.

  Mr. Halberd—

  No, she couldn’t continue to call him that, at least not to herself. Not anymore. Alexander came around to stand in front of her. He didn’t touch her, though his hands twitched restlessly at his sides, his fingers tapping against his thigh before the movement ceased and he drew in a breath.

  “Tell me what you want.”

  Her gaze flew up to his face. She thought he had looked calm at first, and she couldn’t even begin to fathom how he could manage such a show of composure when she was burning up inside. But when she looked closer, she saw the tension in his jaw, in his shoulders, the flare of his nostrils as he waited for her to respond.

  “What I want?” It seemed an absurd question. When, in all of her life, had anyone taken the time to ask what she wanted, what she desired? “I-I don’t know.”

  He didn’t smile. She thought he might, but he didn’t. Instead, he licked his lips, and she watched that subtle movement of his tongue as though her very existence depended on it. “It wasn’t an exaggeration this morning, when I said you could tell me to do anything and I would do it. So here I stand, asking you—no, begging you—to tell me what you want of me.”

  She remembered he’d said that. That if she said his name…

  “Alexander.”

  He inhaled. As if called to attention, with a slight push back of his shoulders and a lift of his chin, waiting for her.

  “I want…” Anything, he had said. “I want you to undress.”

  Her throat nearly closed up as soon as she said it, and she panicked over whether or not she could draw the words back into her mouth before he could hear them. Oh, God above. What would he think of her?

  “Undress,” he repeated, and nodded solemnly. “For clarification, do you mean you, or myself?”

  She was sure the heat flooding her cheeks could warm the entire household for the rest of the month. “You. I want you to undress. To take off your clothes.” Her throat threatened to catch again, but she pressed forward. “All of them.”

  Would he laugh at her? Surely he would laugh at her. She had never said such things to her husband during all of their marriage, and he had never invited it. Throughout their years together, their relations had never been anything more than… perfunctory. Something expected of them for the procreation of children and nothing more. A duty to be performed, without any superfluous emotions such as passion or desire or want ever being involved.

  But she had imagined how it was supposed to be, how it could have been. Except that all too often those imaginings had replaced her husband with the face and figure of someone else. The man who currently stood before her, the one whose hands reached up to unfasten the top buttons of his waistcoat.

  One by one, she watched the buttons wink in the light as they moved beneath his fingers. He shrugged out of the waistcoat and tackled his neckcloth next, making quick work of its knot before he unwound it from beneath his collar and let the long strip of fabric fall to the floor. His shirt would be next. He grabbed the fabric at his waist, tugging the hem of it out from his trousers as—

  “No.”

  Alexander’s arms went still.

  “Your boots next, and then your trousers.”

  He released the fabric of his shirt. He glanced over his shoulder, as though he had momentarily forgotten the layout of his own room. There was a chair near the fire and he sat down in it, dragging off his boots and stockings one at a time before he stood again and began undoing the falls of his trousers.

  Julia watched him. Goodness, a war could have broken out on the front lawn and she would not have been able to look away from his hands. And then his legs were bare, and he paused, waiting for her to tell him what to do next.

  His shirt came down nearly to the middle of his thighs. Thighs that bore more muscle than her imagination had been able to concoct. And his hips…

  “Your shirt,” she said. She met his gaze, and the hunger in his eyes fueled the ache between her legs. “Take it off.”

  Julia couldn’t recall how many times she had seen Frederick naked. Seven years of marriage to her husband, and everything between them had been in the dark, beneath blankets and dressing gowns, leaving behind the implication that nudity was a shameful thing, that there was no pleasure to be had in seeing another person as God had made them.

  She looked at Alexander as though she was dying of thirst and his body was a cool drink of water brought to her parched lips. He wasn’t built like an Adonis, like a piece of art carved from marble meant to last for ages. But there was leanness and there was muscle, and there was a pride in the way he stood before her, unashamed of what nearly five decades of life had wrought in his figure.

  She wished she could feel as bold as him.

  Her gaze roamed over him, over his shoulders and his chest, skimming across his abdomen and following the trail of dark hair that led her to…

  Well.

  She was not a simpering virgin. Despite the rarity of seeing her former husband fully unclothed, she knew a man’s body, how its various bits and pieces looked and functioned. So she wasn’t surprised by what she saw. And yet her blush wouldn’t abate, and she forced herself to breathe slowly, to keep herself from becoming mired in the question of just what she was supposed to do with him now that she had him there in front of her, naked and prepared to fulfill her every whim.

  A few steps forward and she was near enough to touch him. Her hand trembled as she raised it and placed her palm flat against his chest. His heart thudded a furious tattoo behind his ribs. Was he as nervous as she was? He had been without a wife for as long as she had been without a husband, but she also knew that men were often at greater liberty to satisfy their needs than women. Perhaps he had taken a lover at some point. Perhaps…

  A slide of her fingers down the center of his chest, over his abdomen, down further until she brushed against him. His… manhood? That was what her mother had called it, when she’d taken her aside and given her an awkward and useless pre-marriage talk about what would be expected from her in the bedroom with her husband. But Julia had hated that word and she still hated it now.

  He inhaled sharply as she touched him, as she lightly wrapped her fingers around him. She had never touched her husband like this. Once, she had tried, and he had pulled away from her in apparent disgust. As though a wife should never show any sign of wanting more intimacy than was minimally required.