“No, I mean…” Why couldn’t she stop talking? Was it the comfort of both the meal and the room? Or was it him? Every time she looked at his face, every time their gazes caught, she wanted to speak to him, to tell him things better kept to herself. “Why me?” she asked instead. “Why come to the schoolhouse and make the offer you did?”

  He sighed. At first, she did not think he would answer. Perhaps she had gone too far, asking questions of her employer to which he might not believe she had a right to a reply. He glanced away from her, towards the open door of the study, but there were no footsteps to interrupt, no sounds of anyone near them.

  “There is something in you, Mrs. Benton.” His voice was low, as if he spoke more for his own benefit than even her ears. And so she found herself leaning forward in her seat, straining not to miss a single syllable. “A reserve of strength, I think, that has carried you through. I can only know a portion of what you’ve endured, and I won’t claim to know the precise measure of your suffering. But you’ve come through it better than I. Of that much, I’m certain.”

  No doubt he referred to that night, five years earlier, when he had lost his wife and she had lost Frederick. She hadn’t considered his own difficulties during that time, leaving him the sole parent of a young child. Perhaps she should have done more to reach out to him during the years, but she had been so wrapped up in herself, mourning not only the loss of her husband but the loss of who she had been. Or who she had spent so many years trying to be.

  No longer a wife, and with that the quick demise of any hope she’d ever maintained about becoming a mother.

  But if she were to be honest with herself, that particular realization had wrapped its fingers around her long before Frederick had breathed his last. Though it wasn’t until she’d watched them pile the damp, loamy earth onto his coffin that she had finally accepted the failure for what it was.

  “I will do my best with Zora,” she said, her fingers busy tearing the last crust of her toast to crumbs on her plate. “And I thank you for… thinking of me. For her.”

  Mr. Halberd finished off a bite of sausage, the back of his hand held to his mouth as he chewed. “I wouldn’t have considered anyone else,” he said, once he swallowed. He looked at her from his place near the fire, the black and silver of his hair catching the shifting light of the flames so that he almost appeared an otherworldly creature. “You are…” But whatever he’d been about to say, he didn’t seem inclined to finish. Instead, he twisted around and tipped his head back, seeking out the clock on the mantelpiece. “I fear I’ve kept you up too late.”

  “Oh, no. Not at all,” she said, without bothering to check the time herself. She could’ve stayed there all night, she realized, just warming herself by the fire, eating such simple and delicious food prepared by the man in front of her. Wasn’t this what she had always wanted with her husband? An uncomplicated existence, filled with quiet moments fueled by mutual respect and…

  She smiled to herself, lowering her chin as she did so. No, it wasn’t only respect that she felt for Mr. Halberd. Because she remembered all too well that day she had first met him. He and his wife sitting in their front parlor at the vicarage, Frederick taking on the effort of entertaining them while she bustled about in the kitchen, trying to put together a tray for their unexpected guests. And then she had spotted him stepping out of the parlor and into the hall. Mr. Halberd. His gaze darting around as though he was searching for something.

  Searching for her.

  He wasn’t, of course. He couldn’t have been. What impression could she have made on him in only a few minutes that he would even bother to spare a thought for her when she was no longer in the room?

  But he had followed her into the kitchen, dipping his head as he passed through the low doorway. “Are you in need of any assistance?” he had asked.

  She had stood there, in her drab gown and her stained apron, her hair already slipping out of its pins. The new vicar’s wife, already a disappointment before she had even begun.

  “Thank you, no,” she had said. Twelve years later, and she could still recall every — brief — word that had passed between them, every glance as he had stepped around the table to where she stood, that quick brush of his hand against hers as she had reached for the teapot and he for the matching cups.

  She raised her chin, and there he still sat before her. Deftly arranging the tray that held the remains of their supper, as though hardly a minute had passed between when he had helped her in the vicarage kitchen and today.

  “I am usually up quite late,” she assured him, stepping back into their previous conversation as though her mind had not tripped back a dozen years. “It’s all too easy to fill those midnight hours with books and my own repetitive thoughts. And I must confess, I don’t sleep for as many hours as I did when I was younger.”

  He chuckled at that. His attention switched from the tray to the fire, which had begun to burn down as they’d eaten. “When I was a child, I did everything within my power to avoid naps or going to bed early. And now that I am an old man, I spend half of every night wishing for rest as it continually eludes me.”

  “You are certainly not an old man,” Julia protested. “For if you are an old man then I am not far from becoming an old woman, if I’m not already there. And I am not at all prepared to view myself in such a declining light.”

  She had spoken in jest, but his smile faded. It was an abrupt change, like a cloud sweeping into the room, casting its shadows on his features. “I fear that might be part of the curse of growing older, that we struggle so hard against it only to find it has already washed over us before we’d noticed.” He gave the fire a particularly forceful prod with the poker and scattered the coals as the sparks snapped upwards. “And here, I’ve asked you to distract me for an evening and in exchange for your company I infect you with my own dismal musings. Forgive me, Mrs. Benton.”

  “There is nothing to forgive, Mr. Halberd.” She reached out and returned her plate to the tray, then brushed her crumbs from her skirt for no other reason than to give herself something to do. A reason to avoid looking at him now that the mood in the room had undergone such a drastic alteration. “You say you were in need of company? Then I was pleased to provide it. We cannot be left alone with our own thoughts for too long, I fear. Even speaking them outloud to someone else is often enough to release us from the burden of them. At least for a little while.”

  He stood up, and she hated that he did, that it signaled an end to their time together for the evening.

  “Here,” she said. She stood up as well and moved to pick up the tray. “Allow me to take this to the kitchen. My room is on that side of the house, so it will not be far out of my way.

  But he stopped her, one hand on her forearm. A gentle touch, but enough to make her pull back from him as if she’d been burned.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Julia shook her head. “No, you startled me.” And he had, but perhaps not in the way he might have thought. She picked up the tray, holding it between them, an unbreachable wall of bread crusts and cutlery.

  Not because she was in need of protection from him. Oh, no. Though she did worry he might take it that way. Instead, she wanted that barrier there, something to prevent her from leaning in to that touch on her arm, from wondering what it would feel like for him to touch her elsewhere.

  “Goodnight, Mr. Halberd.” She said it quickly. Too quickly. As she backed away from the chairs and the fire and him. “And thank you for the food. It was delicious.”

  She took the tray to the kitchen, then went up the back stairs to her room. It was dark there now. Her fire had burned low while she was gone, and she had blown out the lamp before she’d gone downstairs. She looked at her book, still sitting on the nightstand where she’d left it, the evening she had planned before Mr. Halberd came to her door still spooling outwards as though she’d never left the bedroom at all.

  “I shouldn’t have come here.” The whispered words landed dully in the dim, empty room. The room that was so much larger than any other room she’d ever had to herself before, with its fine furnishings and its lovely prospect from the twin windows.

  Because all this time, she had told herself that she had accepted the position as governess here for Zora’s sake, or for the extra money she would be able to earn and put towards her school. But in the end, she knew the truth of her own heart and her own desires. In the end, she had come here for him.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  Before she had come to Langford, Julia had set about putting together a curriculum for Zora, one that she had altered slightly after their meeting beneath the trees, to incorporate the girl’s budding interests in mythology and ornithology (and most likely some other -ologies she had not thought of yet).

  By the end of the first week, her carefully designed lesson plan had evolved into something else that bore little resemblance to its origins.

  To begin with, Zora never ceased moving. Her mind worked best when she was permitted to walk, or to sit on the floor with an old box of her father’s tin soldiers, her fingers occupied with the task of arranging them into neat rows and formations. And so more and more of their lessons found them moving about the house, often working their way out of doors earlier every day. While Julia concentrated on a piece of embroidery or a small sketch of the landscape surrounding Langford, Zora would lie on the grass, her feet kicking lazily behind her as she plucked blades of grass from the ground and plaited them into small baskets and wreaths. And all while reciting French verbs or a litany of multiplication facts.

  Zora, Julia had quickly discovered, was imbued with an affinity for numbers. She could work out large sums in her head with greater speed than Julia could, even with the help of a chalk and slate in front of her. She had no interest in studying arithmetic, however, only completing enough work in the subject as was required before turning her attention to something that held more appeal.

  They commemorated the end of their first week together by spending the afternoon in the apple orchard, tucked into a corner of Langford’s grounds. Julia sat on a cushion she’d had the forethought to bring outside with her, while Zora dangled upside-down from a low branch on the nearest tree. Julia paused in her work — a ball of yarn and a hook were all she needed to begin on a new shawl for winter — and watched as Zora pulled herself up and climbed higher into the tree. Nimble hands and feet were all the girl needed to seek out the most secure holds before she settled herself on a sturdy branch, her legs stretched out and ankles crossed in front of her.

  “Do you miss him?” came Zora’s unprompted question.

  “Hmm?” Julia sought out her hook and ran the thread of wool between her fingers. “Who should I miss?”

  “Mr. Benton. Your husband. Do you miss him terribly?”

  Julia’s hands stilled. There was perspiration on her palms, though the afternoon was fairly cool. “Of course I do.” As soon as the words were out, she realized how trite they sounded to her own ears. But they seemed to succeed in satisfying Zora’s curiosity for the moment.

  “I should like to miss my Mama,” Zora went on, head tilted up to peer at the leaves drifting down from the topmost branches. “But I think it’s hard to miss someone you cannot remember. There is a portrait, you know, hanging in one of the sitting rooms we haven’t used since coming back from London. It’s of Mama and Papa together. I look at it sometimes and imagine what it must have been like to be held by her, and played with. I wonder what she smelled like? There’s an old bottle of perfume in her room, smells like roses. I don’t care for the smell of roses. It makes me think of old ladies. But it’s all just fancy, I suppose. I was only three years old when she died, and I can’t recall anything about her, not for real.”

  Julia let herself wonder what sort of person she might conjure up in place of Frederick if all she had was a few pieces of his life with which to create. A few letters, perhaps. A miniature portrait. A pair of gloves. What manner of man would she paint on the canvas of her imagination? A kind man? Or perhaps a passionate one, someone who nurtured a fire within them like a light hidden under a bushel. And a bitter part of her envied Zora the ability to fabricate the mother of her dreams, dressing her up like a doll and bringing her out to play whenever she wished.

  Zora slipped down from her branch, onto another and another, until she dropped from the tree and landed with a bit of a stagger as she brushed bits of dirt and bark from her hands and her skirt. “Would you like to see it?”

  For an instant, Julia recoiled at the thought. She told herself she had a very clear memory of Mrs. Halberd’s appearance and was certainly not in need of a reminder. The woman had worn beauty and elegance as easily as other women donned their hats. But it was an image that had faded into mist over the last five years, especially when she reminded herself that she had never been particularly close with Mrs. Halberd in the first place.

  “Very well.” She gathered up her crochet work and handed the cushion to Zora to carry. With a flick of her fingers, she knocked a stray leaf from the girl’s unraveling braid. “In one of the parlors? Perhaps we can stop in the library on the way there and search for a few new history books, since you’ve already read through everything I could find pertaining to Hadrian’s Wall.”

  They trooped back to the house, Julia stopping to leave her things in her room before Zora led her to a portion of the house populated with covered furniture and darkened windows. The parlor door was unlocked, and Zora opened it slowly, allowing the whine from the hinges to lend a touch of the dramatic to their entrance.

  The room was dark. Zora went up to one of the three tall windows and dragged the heavy drapes open, letting a broad shaft of daylight into the dusty air. Julia found the painting at once. It was difficult to miss, as the portrait was enormous, taking up a large section of one wall.

  She recognized Mr. Halberd immediately. It was the version of him she had met a dozen years before, or rather an artist’s interpretation of that version. His shoulders were a touch more broad than reality afforded, and his jaw more set. Hard, she thought. No, haughty. And it was jarring, seeing such an uncharacteristic expression on his face. Nothing like the man who had crouched in front of the fire in his study, toasting bread and cheese for her while the glow from the flames licked across his features.

  There was none of the gray in his hair, all of the lines of age and grief that filled out his face like a map of his life were wiped clean away. And his hair was neat and short, his clothing brilliantly tailored and impeccably styled. Nothing rumpled or worn, his neckcloth tied in intricate folds and layers that would have made a geometrician salivate. It was like him but not like him. A paper doll facsimile, one that lacked all of the necessary components to render him human.

  Her attention drifted to the woman in the painting, Anna Halberd. Dark hair, shining green eyes that matched the emeralds dangling from her neck and her ears…

  They made a handsome couple. A stunning couple, Julia amended. She remembered that much of them when she had seen them together, how like two pieces of the same puzzle they had appeared to be.

  “Everyone says that I look like her,” Zora said, interrupting Julia’s thoughts. “And perhaps if I didn’t look so much like her, Papa wouldn’t spend so many hours away from the house every day.”

  Julia placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Your father is seeing to the care and running of an entire estate. It’s a role that takes a considerable amount of time and effort, especially as you’ve been away in London for until recently. But I’m sure he wishes he could spend more time with you, if possible.”

  “Do you think I look like my Papa?”

  She was caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean? Of course you do.” Julia answered without thinking, because it was the correct thing to say. And then she hesitated, because the query made her study Zora’s face more carefully than before, searching for some aspect of Mr. Halberd’s features that was not immediately visible.

  “I hear the servants talk, you know.” Zora looked up at her, golden brown eyes glinting like honey in the light from the windows. “They sometimes talk as if I’m not even there. Probably because they wish that I wasn’t. But I’ve heard them mention how Papa must not be my real father since there’s nothing of him in my face. What do you think, Mrs. Benton?”

  No amount of teaching or lesson planning could have prepared Julia for such a question. How…? was all she could think before her mind stuttered to a halt. How could she answer that question? And how could she speak clearly and calmly while her anger at the servants who had spoken of such things in front of an impressionable child roiled like a storm-tossed ship inside of her?

  “It doesn’t matter whether or not you resemble your father,” she said, choosing her words with so much care she thought she might never pick her way to the end of the sentence. “He is the one who is here, seeing that you are cared for, making certain there is a roof over your head that you have everything you should need as you grow.”

  Zora pursed her lips, a habit she had when she took a rare moment to consider something before saying or doing what she wanted without any prior thought. “Perhaps we should do something. For Papa. Make him a present, or… something kind.”

  “Something kind.” And Julia smiled. “I cannot think of anything better.”

  ***

  They sat outside together the next morning, accompanied by easels and watercolors and stubs of charcoal that stained their fingers black. Zora decided she wanted to sketch a picture of Langford to give to her father, and so they made a circuit of the house, trundling across the lawns with all of their supplies, stopping every minute or so to see if that was the prospect they wanted to record. At long last, they found a shaded area beneath a small copse of elms giving them a view of the front and the western corner of the house at once.