“I beg your pardon,” he said, his gaze flicking towards her and then away, down to his clasped hands in front of him.

  Julia took in the sight of his clothes and the general state of him. He looked mussed and tired, his jacket dusty and creased, his neckcloth a rumpled bulge of fabric that appeared to have been already halfway through removal before he knocked on her door. “My pardon? For what?”

  “I’ve disturbed you,” he said, and took a small step back from the door. “It’s late, I know. And for that, I apologize. I was hoping to make it back to the house before Zora went to bed, but I just looked in on her and saw that she’s already sound asleep. Many thanks owed to you, I’m sure.”

  “And a story about a dragon,” she said, and fought to pull in a full breath. She wanted to pretend that she didn’t know why the unexpected sight of him at her door should rattle her nerves, but that much would be a terrible falsehood. Her gaze caught on the narrow expanse of his bare throat above his collar and disassembled neckcloth, snagged there like a scrap of cloth on a patch of thorns. There was the shadow of a beard beginning to grow on his face, and a smudge along the edge of his jaw like dirt wiped from the back of a sweaty hand. “Though I’m sure the three helpings of cake she had after dinner played their part as well.”

  And he smiled at that. Only for a moment, before the corners of his mouth sagged again as though drawn down by the weight of an emotion she could not begin to recognize. “I thought I might…” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” he apologized again. “I had hoped you would not already be in bed for the night, but—”

  “What is it?” She stood up straighter, prepared to help him with some emergency pertaining to the house or his daughter, though she wasn’t sure why one of the other servants — someone more acquainted with the house and its surroundings — could not help him with what he needed. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “You’re not keeping me from my sleep, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I had planned to sit up and read for some time yet.”

  He shifted his weight as though he wanted to look around her and into the room, but held himself back. “Mrs. Benton, I wondered if you would join me for a small supper.”

  It was not what she had expected him to say. Or rather, she hadn’t really any idea of what he’d been about to ask of her, but an invitation to share a meal with him was the least likely of candidates.

  “I—” she managed, before her tongue seemed to adhere itself to the roof of her mouth.

  “Forgive me.” He retreated again. Another step, and Julia feared he would sink into the shadows entirely. “It was an impertinence. As I said, it’s probably too late, and I was selfishly in want of some company at the end of a long day.”

  He began to turn away from her. She didn’t raise a hand to stop him. Her arms seemed frozen at her sides. “Wait,” she said, before he could leave her completely, that single word a tremulous creature, tip-toeing out on a thin crust of ice.

  Mr. Halberd stopped and looked back at her.

  “Yes, I-I’ll dine with you.” If you wish, she nearly added, but kept those words to herself. Because they implied she was only agreeing in order to please him, as a sort of favor, when that wasn’t at all the truth.

  He brushed his knuckles along the side of his jaw, demonstrating how that streak of dirt must have found its way to his skin. “Does my study suit? I usually take my meals in there when I’m alone, but if it’s too… private,” he said, in a way that sounded as though he had sorted through and discarded several other choices before settling on that one. “I can arrange something else.”

  “No, that will be fine.” She knew what he alluded to, that it might be unseemly for them to spend any extended amount of time together unsupervised. But they were neither of them particularly young anymore, and she doubted that anyone could take a single look at her and derive something scandalous from her presence.

  “And you remember how to find your way there?”

  “Yes.” Or, at least, she hoped she did.

  He nodded. “Allow me a few minutes to, um…” He gestured vaguely towards himself, the dirt and the sweat and the creases highlighted with that sweep of his hand. “... slough off the work of the day and I’ll meet you there in… oh, shall we say twenty minutes?”

  “Twenty minutes,” she echoed, and waited until he had turned away again to shut the door behind him.

  For a full minute of the twenty still before her, she stood with her back against the door, one hand at her throat. Her pulse fluttered beneath her fingers, too fast, too erratic. She wanted to close her eyes, to squeeze them shut until she saw stars. But she feared if she blocked out the world for too long, what had just happened would pass into something out of a fantasy, out of her imaginings, and it would slip away from her as quickly as the last dream of the night upon waking.

  It was absurd, she thought. He had only asked her to eat with him, nothing more. No doubt he was lonely, and tired, and simply wanted someone to talk to while he ate his final meal of the day. But still, she looked down at her dress, plucking at her skirt and its faded flowers, its thin spots where stains of years’ past had been diligently scrubbed away.

  Her gown, her hair… She reached up and tugged at a loose strand that had worked itself free of the pins she’d pushed into place that morning. She wasn’t presentable. It was one of the things her husband had used to lament, that she would not take the time for elaborate hairstyles, to dress herself as an important personage in the town. As though she had failed him, by not gilding herself in lace and ribbons and intricate braids.

  Did Mr. Halberd expect her to change? She opened her wardrobe, more out of curiosity than with any real intention, and searched through the gowns there. The same gowns she had worn for years, done over again and again, the hems repaired and the sleeves trimmed shorter to disguise the fraying and…

  She shut the door to the wardrobe with a snap.

  Whatever he expected, he would get Mrs. Julia Benton in her decade-old gown, with the smudges of ink still around her fingernails, with her hair simply brushed and braided and pinned like a pork pie to the back of her head.

  When she arrived in the study, it was empty. The servants, however, must have already been directed to prepare the room, as a bright fire had been built up in the fireplace and a half a dozen candles burned in various places, lending their additional light to the space.

  Julia breathed. Slowly in, and slowly out again, her fingers twisting and twisting until she thought she might pop her knuckles irrevocably out of place. She had seen little of the house so far, only a brief tour provided by Zora on their way up to the nursery. But now that she was here again, she realized how different Mr. Halberd’s study was from the other rooms, as though the hand responsible for decorating the rest of the house had not been granted access here.

  It was Mr. Halberd’s space. It smelled of him, of smoke and soap and the heady, rich aroma of leather. Another breath and she caught that bright tang of tobacco she had noticed the other day, an undercurrent of cherry sweetness threading through everything else.

  And there, just as if she had conjured him through her senses, she turned and saw him standing in the doorway, watching her.

  “Ah,” he said. “You came.”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t?” She had not meant it to sound so much like a challenge, a forced battle waged between them despite the fact she had no idea what they could be fighting over.

  He shook his head, and it took her a moment to realize that was all the reply to her question she was to receive.

  She studied him then, taking in the dampness of his hair, the rumbled cleanliness of his shirt and waistcoat, the simplicity of his neckcloth, seeming to be there for no other reason than because it would have been less respectable of him to be without it. He hadn’t shaved though, and there was still tiredness evident beneath his eyes, smudges of shadows resting atop both cheekbones.

  He looked his age, she thought, and not unkindly. The gray in his hair stood out more in the glow of the candlelight, fanning out from his temples. He was older than her, but she wasn’t sure by how many years. A half dozen, perhaps. That would place him only a few years shy of fifty. But he was fit yet, regardless of the lines and the gray and that subtle exhaustion that made his shoulders round slightly forward when he thought she wasn’t gazing at him.

  She knew she carried it herself, the weight of all the years she’d endured up until that moment. She felt it in the tightness of her joints in the morning, the slow and subtle rounding of her figure, the silver in her own hair as she brushed it out every night before bed. An amazing thing, how her body could display the signs of so much experience when her life had only ever felt like a thing half-lived.

  Mr. Halberd moved further into the room as a servant came in behind him, a young woman bearing a large tray laden with more food than Julia thought it would be possible for two people to eat in one sitting. “Set it near the fire,” he instructed her, leaving Julia to wonder why it wouldn’t be placed on a table or even the desk at the other end of the room.

  “My meals are generally informal,” he explained, as if he had the power to delve into her head and read her thoughts. “At the end of the day, I’ve no wish to burden the household with the effort of preparing an elaborate supper, nor do I want to burden myself with the task of digesting it.” He walked towards the fire and knelt down by the foot of it, where the tray had been placed. “Tonight we have bread and cheese for toasting, fresh mushrooms, some sort of sausage…” He picked up a chunk and smelled it, then popped it into his mouth with a low sound of pleasure. “And if we’re fortunate… ah, yes.” He lifted the lid off a small dish. “Some of Mrs. Bastion’s famed pickled eggs.” He replaced the lid and glanced at her over his shoulder. “If you’ve suddenly changed your mind after encountering tonight’s menu, I will take no offense if you turn right around and make a hasty retreat to your room.”

  He was giving her an excuse to leave, should she desire one. Did he sense her hesitation? She still lingered only a few paces from the door, her hands clasped together, fingers tangled in knots at the front of her skirt. If they had been in the dining room, or the drawing room, or some other place less intimate and with servants lurking in the background, she might not question whether or not she should stay.

  On the other hand, she reminded herself they were both older, a widow and widower, an employee and her employer. Weren’t they beyond the age of being touched by scandal and gossip and impropriety? Between the two of them, they had accumulated nearly ninety years of experience. She could have some toast and cheese with him and not need to feel guilty about it.

  She walked further into the room, that first step alone a show of her decision. She thought she saw Mr. Halberd’s shoulders sag as she sank into one of the armchairs near the fire — near him. From relief or some other emotion, she couldn’t tell. But he worked quietly, fixing slices of bread onto toasting forks, doling out small plates and bits of food with all the care and attention to detail of a servant working for his mistress.

  “So, how do you find Langford?” he asked once the first slice of bread was toasted with a hunk of cheese melting atop it.

  Julia took the toast, waiting for it to cool on her plate before eating it. “I’ve been here before,” she replied, unaware she’d avoided answering his question until after she’d finished speaking. “Your wife, Mrs. Halberd. She always hosted a Christmas party. I attended at least one of them, if my memories haven’t yet failed me. But it’s been some years since I was last here. Well, for longer than it takes to warm up in front of the fire.”

  What she refrained from saying was that she hardly retained any memory of the Christmas party in question. A few words exchanged; the heat of the fire and the candles and the assembled guest; Mr. Halberd himself, catching her attention with greater force than any other ornament put on display. Despite the party being an annual event for Barrow-in-Ashton, Julia could only recall that single season when she had been well enough to attend. All of her attempts to carry a child had not been kind to her health. Sometimes she wondered how much of her own life she had missed during her struggles to bring another life into the world.

  “My room is very comfortable,” she went on, when the lull after she had first spoken became an awkward silence between them. She glanced at Mr. Halberd. He sat with his toast near the fire, turning it slowly at the end of his fork so it would not burn. “The nursery should do very well for Zora’s lessons. Though I wonder if we would be permitted to extend our studies into other areas of the house and grounds? For a change of scenery, so to speak. Children do not always do well when confined to one place for an extended period of time.” She had learned this lesson from her own pupils, discovering that a few of them were able to hold a stronger focus on their work if given leave to pace around, to practice their reading outside, with the sun — when it deigned to make an appearance — and all of nature acting as a backdrop to their education.

  “Oh?” He shook his head, his expression one of someone extricating themselves from a deep thought that had nothing to do with the conversation at hand. “Of course you may study wherever you wish! In here, the dining room, the library… I’ve no desire to place any boundaries on your teaching, Mrs. Benton. The house and its grounds are entirely at your disposal.”

  “Thank you.” She finished her toast and cheese and began on another slice, despite the fact she had already eaten with Zora only a few hours before. “I was wondering,” she began again between bites. “I would like some supplies for drawing and painting. Brushes and paints and fine paper. Your daughter shows an interest in art, and I should no doubt sharpen my own skills as well if I am to teach her.”

  Mr. Halberd took a bite of his own food and chewed thoughtfully. “You’ve not made a habit of drawing recently?”

  “No, I…” It would not do to prevaricate with him, she decided. Better to speak the truth and leave it for him to parse as he would. “While I lived with Mrs. Cochran, I could not afford the supplies I needed. I had little income and less to spend on frivolities.” She bit back a scoff. “Nothing for frivolities,” she amended. “And the few times I was able to save an extra coin or two, I would spend it on new primers for the school. New slates. Coal for the fire. Other things they needed.”

  He blinked. “I see,” was all he said, and Julia wondered if he did. “Well, speak to Mrs. Holland about anything you need and she will see that it’s provided for you. Not only supplies for Zora’s education, but new clothes for her, for yourself—”

  Julia drew back in surprise. “Oh, I don’t need anything for myself. Thank you.”

  And there, his eyes found her again, beneath graying brows arched high on his forehead. “I don’t consider myself any sort of expert as to ladies’ fashions, but when did you last purchase a new gown for yourself?”

  “I…” she said, and stopped. She pinched the fabric of her skirt, the faded blots that had once been roses. Or perhaps nasturtiums. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “Not since before…” Before her husband had died. Before she had tried and failed to begin a family. “Well, at least ten years or so.”

  She wanted to look away from him as the warmth increased in her cheeks. She knew the gown she wore was old, that it neither suited nor fit her properly. She also knew that everything else in her wardrobe was old and faded and years out of fashion. If they had even been in fashion when she’d first acquired them. But still, the fact that he had acknowledged it, that he had even noticed in the first place made her quaver between a thrill at being seen and a fear that he would see even more the longer he should look.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Halberd said. “I didn’t mean to…” He closed his mouth, shaping his lips into a tight line, a slash of discontent cutting the lower half of his face in two. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck above his collar, then ran a finger beneath the edge of his neckcloth as though he wanted to tear off the offending thing. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. More urgently, in case she had not believed his sincerity the first time. “My wife…” He paused, his gaze darting towards her. For a moment, Julia thought he was attempting to communicate something more to her in that glance, but she didn’t possess the power to decipher it. “She took care of the running of the household, from top to bottom. There is, of course, still Mrs. Holland to see to the managing of things, but I cannot leave Zora to be raised by a household of servants. She needs—” a mother, was the phrase that filled the heavy silence he created. “Guidance,” he said instead. “And of a sort I don’t feel fully capable of providing. She’s a child yet, but it won’t be long before she is a young lady. I trust you to help her, to teach her how best to navigate her future life.”

  Julia shook her head. The food, the warmth from the fire, her own fatigue that had crept up on her in the last hour all worked together to blur the edges of her thoughts. “I feel I should be flattered you’ve put so much trust in me, but… in all honesty, we hardly know one another.”

  And they didn’t, really. No matter that she had lived at the vicarage for seven years, that she had continued on in Barrow-on-Ashton for another five years after that, their paths had seldom crossed during all that time. More often than not, it had been her husband who had worked with the Halberds on various charitable projects and events, regularly venturing up to Langford to discuss his sermons or other important happenings in the parish.

  But Julia had always remained at home. At first, because the difficulties of pregnancy had confined her there. And then, because attempting to make social calls while everyone around her politely and obviously refrained from speaking about why she was always so ill and tired and reclusive… Well, it was infuriating.

  “Should I have hired someone else, then?” He almost smiled, but not quite. “Placed an advertisement in the papers for a young woman, fresh from the schoolroom herself? That’s how it’s usually done, is it not?”