Tuesday came, too soon and not soon enough.
The household buzzed in a way Martha did not like. Servants carried dusters and coal scuttles with more haste than usual. Cook muttered darkly about extra courses. Pritchard stalked the corridors like a general surveying battlefield positions.
“He will expect wine,” she said to Richard that morning, folding napkins with savage precision. “We will give him the second-best. He shall not have the ’05.”
“I do not care what he drinks,” Richard muttered.
“I do,” Pritchard said. “He does not merit the good port.”
Martha, standing nearby with a list of lesson adjustments in her hand, bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling.
“You are very… protective of your cellar,” she observed.
“I am protective of my master’s dignity,” Pritchard said. “Some things are expressed in bottles.”
She swept away.
Upstairs, in the nursery, Mabel and Agnes pressed their noses to the window overlooking the drive.
“Will he have horns?” Mabel asked. “He *ought* to. If he stole Mama.”
“Horns,” Agnes said gravely, “are not strictly necessary for wickedness. The curate said so.”
“The curate also said ladies must be meek,” Mabel retorted. “He is wrong about many things.”
Miriam sat on her bed, a book open but forgotten in her lap.
“Miss Harrow,” she said, as Martha entered, “if I throw something at him, will you stop me?”
“Yes,” Martha said firmly. “We throw nothing. We observe. We remember. That is punishment enough.”
“I would prefer tomatoes,” Mabel muttered.
“You would prefer tomatoes whatever the occasion,” Martha said.
She moved to the window.
The oaks along the drive swayed in a brisk wind. The sky was high and pale. The house, its worst leaks patched, its worst cracks mended, stood like a man who had straightened his shoulders for company he did not wish to see.
“He will arrive shortly after two,” Martha said. “We will have just finished luncheon. Agnes, you will remain here with a book. Your lungs do not require excitement.”
Agnes pouted.
“Miriam,” Martha went on, “you may come down with me. We will sit near the door. We will not speak unless spoken to. We will not give him the satisfaction of seeing us ruffled.”
“I do not ruffle,” Miriam said.
“You rustle,” Mabel said. “Like paper. Loudly.”
“Enough,” Martha said. “Mabel, you will stay here. I know you wish to see him, but I cannot trust you not to… explode. You may look from the window. That will be your vantage point.”
Mabel scowled.
“It is unfair,” she grumbled. “I am as much daughter as Miriam.”
“Yes,” Martha said. “And as much powder. We cannot risk lit matches near you on this occasion.”
Mabel folded her arms, but did not argue further.
“And you?” Miriam asked, looking up at Martha, eyes much too old.
“I,” Martha said, “will sit at the edge of the room and watch.”
“And protect,” Miriam said.
“Yes,” Martha said simply.
***
He came, of course, in style.
The Ashcombe carriage was everything the Harrow conveyance had not been: glossy, crested, drawn by matched bays with high-stepping gaits. The harness jingled musically. The coachman sat with the easy arrogance of a man accustomed to turning heads.
Mabel, from the nursery window, wrinkled her nose.
“It is too shiny,” she said.
Agnes, peeking around her cloak, whispered, “He must be rich.”
“Richness,” Mabel said sagely, “does not equal goodness. Miss Harrow said so.”
In the drawing room, Richard stood by the mantel, one hand on the carved stone.
He wore his best coat. It fit well, the deep blue making his eyes look almost silver. His cravat was tied with military precision. From a distance, he looked every inch the marquess: composed, aloof, formidable.
Martha, seated near the door with Miriam beside her, knew how much effort that composure cost.
Her own gown was the same grey merino; she had no others fit for such occasions. She had pinned her hair as securely as she could; still, a stubborn wave escaped to curl near her ear.
“Remember,” she murmured to Miriam, “you may leave at any time. If you feel… too much.”
Miriam’s chin lifted. “I will not give him the satisfaction,” she said.
The clock struck two.
Right on cue, a carriage door slammed. Voices murmured in the hall. Pritchard’s unmistakable tones—cooler than January—reached them.
“Lord Ashcombe,” she announced from the threshold, with just enough respect to satisfy propriety and just enough frost to make her opinion clear.
He entered.
He had not changed much.
Martha had seen him only once before, at a distance, across a crowded assembly room in town. Then, he had been all bright laughter and fashionable negligée, his waistcoat’s embroidery catching the candlelight.
Here, in the colder north of day, the lines at the corners of his eyes were more apparent. He was still handsome, in that smooth, almost too-perfect way some men had: fair hair, blue eyes, straight nose. His smile flashed easily as he crossed the room.
“Corbyn,” he drawled. “You have not aged a day.”
It was a lie. Richard had aged, and Ashcombe knew it. The dig was subtle, but present.
“Lord Ashcombe,” Richard said, bowing just enough. “Welcome to Broken Oaks.”
“Broken Oaks,” Ashcombe repeated, glancing at the window. “Still standing, I see. Despite the doom-mongers in town who swore you must be eating the trees by now for want of funds.”
Martha’s hands tightened in her lap.
Richard’s mouth thinned.
“You are well-informed,” he said. “As ever.”
Ashcombe laughed lightly.
“I make it my business,” he said. “Ah—and you must be the famous governess.” His gaze flicked to Martha, sliding over her plain dress, her cap, lingering for a fraction of a moment too long on the line of her throat.
She felt, absurdly, as if he had touched her.
“This is Miss Harrow,” Richard said, voice cool. “Miss Harrow, Lord Ashcombe. An old acquaintance.”
“Old friend,” Ashcombe corrected easily. “We drank our way through Cambridge together.”
“And then some,” Richard said.
Martha rose, curtseyed.
“My lord,” she said.
“Miss Harrow,” he said. “Corbyn, you do yourself credit. She is quite… formidable.”
The compliment, such as it was, felt like a hand sliding under a skirt.
Martha’s spine stiffened.
“I am employed, my lord,” she said evenly. “Credit does not come into it. Only performance.”
His smile sharpened.
“Ah,” he said. “Very proper.”
His gaze shifted to Miriam.
“And this,” he said, “must be one of the infamous wild daughters. Which are you? Fire or ice?”
Miriam stared at him.
“I am Miriam Corbyn,” she said. “And I do not belong to the weather.”
He barked a surprised laugh.
“Well said,” he acknowledged. “You have your father’s tongue. And perhaps your mother’s eyes.”
Miriam’s fingers dug into the arm of her chair.
“Tea,” Pritchard announced abruptly, entering with a tray as if she had decided that scalding liquid was an appropriate intervention whenever the conversation threatened to overheat.
Ashcombe took the offered cup, sipped, and made a small appreciative sound.
“Not poisoned,” he said. “Reassuring.”
“Only the second-best leaves, my lord,” Pritchard said. “We reserve the finest for those we hold in true esteem.”
Ashcombe’s brows rose.
“You breed your servants bold in Hertfordshire, Corbyn,” he commented.
“They breed themselves,” Richard said. “I merely… keep them.”
Martha bit back a smile.
The next half-hour was a study in verbal fencing.
Ashcombe spoke at length about London: the opera, the House of Lords, the new fashions. He dropped names with careless ease. He made sly references to the “stuffy morality” of certain country families, to whom he did not, quite, compare Richard.
Richard, for his part, replied with an icy civility that ought to have frozen the tea. He asked after Ashcombe’s estates, his mother, his health. He did not, pointedly, ask after Elizabeth.
Martha watched, weighing every word, every glance.
Ashcombe’s eyes roamed the room. They flickered over the slightly worn furnishings, the repaired but still visible cracks. They lingered on the books, the portrait of Richard’s parents, the small table near the door where she and Miriam sat.
“You are… comfortable here?” he asked at one point, voice loaded. “No London, no balls. Nothing but hedgerows and philosophy.”
“I find,” Richard said, “that hedgerows and philosophy suffice.”
“And the charms of clever company,” Ashcombe added, with a glance at Martha. “You have that advantage at least.”
Richard’s jaw tightened.
“You have something to say, Ashcombe,” he said. “Say it. I am too old to enjoy your pirouettes.”
Ashcombe smiled, slow and languorous.
“Very well,” he said. “I saw Elizabeth last month.”
Silence thudded.
Martha’s breath caught. Miriam went very, very still.
“She is… well,” Ashcombe went on. “As much as one can be in this miserable climate. She has taken up painting. Landscapes, mostly. Poor things. She cannot make the Thames look like the Serpentine, however she tries.”
Richard’s face remained, outwardly, composed. Only a slight whitening of the knuckles on the mantel betrayed the force with which he gripped it.
“And?” he said, voice flat.
“And,” Ashcombe said, “she wondered, in her airy way, how you fared. Whether you had taken another wife. She laughed at the idea of you in love with some solid, sensible creature who would keep you in the country forever.”
Martha’s stomach turned.
Richard’s eyes darkened.
“She… laughed,” he said.
“Oh, she laughs at everything,” Ashcombe said. “It is her talent. You remember.”
“I remember,” Richard said quietly. “That she laughs when she ought not.”
Ashcombe shrugged.
“She asked after the girls, too,” he added. “Inquired whether they had grown. Whether they were pretty. She hoped—her word, not mine—that they had not grown ‘provincial.’”
Miriam made a small, incredulous sound.
Richard’s head turned, sharply.
“Miss Corbyn,” he said softly. “Remember.”
She bit her lip, flaring her nostrils.
Martha laid a light hand on her forearm. It was not quite a restraining gesture. More… grounding.
Miriam drew a breath.
“What did you tell her?” Richard asked Ashcombe.
“I said,” Ashcombe drawled, “that I had no idea. That you had hidden yourself away like a monk. That your daughters, for all I knew, were being raised by governesses with starched morals and empty heads.”
Martha’s throat burned.
“And do you find my governess’s head empty?” Richard asked, dangerously mild.
Ashcombe’s gaze slid back to her.
“On the contrary,” he said. “I find it… crowded. With opinions.”
“Then you misjudge,” she said coolly. “My opinions are few. They are simply… stubborn.”
He laughed.
“Corbyn,” he said, “you have assembled quite the little court here. A sharp-tongued governess, a dragon of a housekeeper, rebellious daughters. No wonder you do not come to town. You have all the entertainment you require.”
“Not all,” Richard said. “London does provide more… variety. In vice.”
Ashcombe grinned.
“Spoken like a man who misses it,” he said.
“Spoken,” Richard replied, “like a man who has seen the bill and declined to add more to his account.”
Ashcombe’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
“Do you refer,” he said slowly, “to my finances… or to Elizabeth?”
“Both,” Richard said.
The air in the room crackled.
“Ah,” Ashcombe murmured. “There he is. The Corbyn I recall. Less book, more blade.”
“I have always been both,” Richard said. “You simply noticed one more than the other. As did she.”
Ashcombe’s eyes narrowed.
“She was bored,” he said. “With sermons at dinner. With watching you read. With country balls and cow-eyed debutantes. Can you truly blame her for seeking… diversion?”
“Yes,” Richard said simply. “I can. And I do. And I blame you as well.”
Ashcombe spread his hands.
“Then we are at an impasse,” he said lightly. “I regret nothing. She regrets little. You regret everything. Who, in that configuration, is least content?”
“Contentment,” Richard said, “is not the highest good.”
Ashcombe laughed.
“There speaks the philosopher,” he said. “Forgive me if I prefer… pleasure.”
“Pleasure,” Martha said suddenly, “is a fine thing. Until it devours the people around you.”
Both men turned to look at her, startled.
She met Ashcombe’s gaze without flinching.
“You speak,” she said, “as if boredom were a mortal injury. As if a woman who is not entertained is justified in abandoning all her duties. As if a man who offers her entertainment is innocent of the consequences. You are… very childish, my lord.”
The words hung, shocking in their frankness.
Ashcombe’s brows shot up.
“Childish?” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “You think only of yourself. Like a child. Only children have the excuse of ignorance. You, I suspect, know *very* well what you do. You simply do not care.”
Richard’s chest tightened.
Ashcombe’s gaze sharpened.
“You are impertinent,” he said softly.
“No,” she said. “I am employed.”
He blinked. “What?”
“I am engaged,” she said, “to protect these children. From poor education. From bad influences. From careless adults. If I see one in my employer’s drawing room, I will say so.”
He stared at her for a long moment—and then threw back his head and laughed.
“Oh, Corbyn,” he said. “You do collect treasures. Where did you find her?”
“In London,” Richard said. “As one finds most good things.”
“Ah,” Ashcombe said. “But you keep her here. How selfish.”
Martha’s spine prickled. The double meaning was clear.
Richard’s mouth thinned.
“Miss Harrow’s presence here is… none of your concern,” he said.
“Everything in your house is my concern,” Ashcombe said lightly. “When it amuses me.”
“And when it does not?” Martha asked.
“Then I leave,” he said.
“You left before,” she said. “And yet here you are again.”
His smile cooled.
“You do not like me,” he observed.
“No,” she said. “I do not.”
“Delightful honesty,” he said. “We do not always get that with governesses. They tend to simper at rank.”
“I simper at nothing,” she said.
“I noticed,” he murmured.
Miriam made a faint gagging sound, quickly disguised as a cough.
Ashcombe smirked.
“Well,” he said, draining his tea, “this has been diverting. I had half-feared you would hide in your library, Corbyn, and send Pritchard to say you had died of boredom. I am… reassured.”
“I aim only to set your mind at ease,” Richard said.
“Do not aim too well,” Ashcombe returned. “I enjoy worrying about you.” He rose. “I must return to my cousin’s. They will wonder what trouble I have found.”
Pritchard appeared with uncanny timing, as if she had been lurking in the hall waiting for any sign of departure.
“Your carriage is ready, my lord,” she said. “The road is firm. You will have no difficulty.”
“None at all,” he agreed, with an edge that suggested he was perfectly aware she referred as much to his leaving as to the lane.
He turned to Miriam.
“Miss Corbyn,” he said. “It has been… enlightening. Do convey my regards to your sisters.”
Miriam’s lips curled.
“I will convey your name,” she said. “Their regards will be their own.”
He laughed again.
“To Miss Harrow,” he said, with a half-bow that was a fraction too low for propriety, “I extend my sincere hope that your considerable talents are… appreciated here. If ever you find yourself bored, you must let me know. London is full of children in need of… proper guidance.”
Martha’s skin crawled.
“I am not bored,” she said coolly. “Hertfordshire is full enough.”
He straightened.
“To you, Corbyn,” he said, “I say only this: do not ossify. Even hedgerows must be cut back occasionally, or they choke themselves.”
“I will take gardening advice under advisement,” Richard said.
Ashcombe grinned, bowed—properly this time—and left.
The door closed behind him.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Richard exhaled, long and slow.
Martha realized only then that her own hands were trembling.
“You were—” he began.
“Rude,” she said. “Yes. I know. You may dismiss me at once.”
He stared. Then, to her astonishment, he laughed.
“Dismiss you?” he said. “For calling Ashcombe childish? I only regret I did not say it years ago.”
“He will carry tales,” she warned. “To Elizabeth. To London.”
“Let him,” Richard said. “Let him say that my governess called him a selfish child and that I did not contradict her. It may be the only true report he has sent in years.”
Miriam rose suddenly.
“I hate him,” she said, voice shaking. “I hate him, and I hate her. And I hate you a little, for being… polite.”
Richard flinched.
“I…” he began.
“No,” she said. “Do not… explain. Not yet.”
She fled the room.
Pritchard, hovering in the doorway, made a small, sympathetic noise.
“She will… settle,” Martha said quietly. “In time.”
“How much time?” Richard asked, weary.
“As much as it takes,” she said. “For all of us.”
He looked at her.
“You were… magnificent,” he said unexpectedly.
She flushed. “I was… foolish.”
“You were honest,” he said. “In a room where we have all been lying to ourselves in one way or another for far too long.”
His gaze softened.
“Thank you,” he said. “For standing with me. Against him. Against… the memory of her.”
She met his eyes.
“We agreed,” she said, voice low, “that we would not… carry each other’s wishes. But we did not say we would not carry each other’s burdens. That, I am less inclined to forbid.”
His throat worked.
“I… wish—” he began. Stopped. Smiled, pained. “No. We forbade that too.”
“Yes,” she said. “We did.”
They stood, the echo of Ashcombe’s presence still vibrating in the air, the new terms between them humming like a taut wire.
The house, patched and stubborn, held.
Outside, the oaks shivered in the wind.
Inside, the slow, steady burn of something far more dangerous than Ashcombe’s charm continued its work, eating away at old resentments, softening old hardness, making space—for possibility, for pain, for love that refused either to vanish or to declare itself too soon.
And somewhere in London, a woman with bright laughter and careless hands lifted a brush to a canvas and did not know that in a house she had left behind, people she had half-forgotten were, at last, beginning to remember themselves without her.