The Nursemaid and the Heir
PREVIEW
Chapter One
Berrington House, the fashionable townhouse in the very heart of London, was never more impressive than in the winter months, or so Christopher often thought. Its richly appointed interiors, the deep mahogany panelling, sumptuous velvet curtains, and crackling hearths, seemed all the warmer and more inviting when contrasted with the biting chill and bustling chaos of the streets beyond. It was a place where one could escape the harsh realities of the outside world and be enveloped in quiet comfort.
Yet, for all its charm, Christopher had been in no great hurry to return to it. His Grand Tour had been an adventure, an education, and a welcome reprieve from the pressures of home, but it had also served as a means of avoiding the responsibilities that now loomed before him. He had delayed his return for as long as decency would allow, only coming back when it became absolutely necessary. The letters from his aunt and closest friend, warning him of Scarlett’s entanglement with a most disreputable suitor, had left him no choice. He had come to London with all possible speed to put an end to the affair, and in doing so, saved his sister from what could have been a most disastrous match.
Now, with Scarlett’s reputation restored and her marriage to Roland Aldwick settled, and with Viola similarly married and residing in the country, there was a strange stillness in the house. Once filled with the sound of his older sisters’ voices—Scarlett’s unceasing chatter and Viola’s calm, measured tones—it now felt oppressively quiet. Christopher had never imagined the place could feel so empty, and yet, here he was, left to inhabit the vast rooms without them while having two younger sisters for whom to provide care.
It was not simply the absence of Scarlett and Viola that unsettled him, but the new reality that had crept into his life in their wake. His father, once a strong and commanding presence, had grown noticeably weaker, his health in decline. The physicians had offered little hope for improvement, their vague pronouncements doing nothing to dispel Christopher’s growing sense of unease. Lord Berrington had been reticent about the severity of his illness, and now, as the signs became increasingly undeniable, the full gravity of his affliction began to weigh heavily upon the family.
Christopher, as the eldest son, was expected to take on the mantle of responsibility, yet he found himself unprepared for the task. It was one thing to be a dutiful son, quite another to assume the role of future head of the family, with all the obligations that entailed. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he might have turned to Viola for counsel—her steady hand and practical nature had always been a source of quiet strength—but now she was occupied with her own household, leaving him to navigate this uncertain path alone.
In this reflective state of mind, Christopher made his way to his father’s rooms. He had grown accustomed to the unpredictability of his father’s condition; some days, Lord Berrington was as sharp and forceful as ever, while on others, he could scarcely muster the energy to rise from his bed. Today, however, appeared to be a better day. As Christopher entered the room, he found his father seated at a small table near the window, his frail figure bent over a ledger. The light from the window, pale though it was, illuminated his grey hair and lined face, lending an air of quiet dignity to his form.
The sight of his father absorbed in the ledgers was both reassuring and disconcerting. There was comfort in the familiarity of it—Lord Berrington had always taken great care in managing the estate’s finances—but it was also a stark reminder of the duties that would soon pass to Christopher. He had always known this day would come, yet it had arrived with a speed that unsettled him. He was no longer the carefree younger man of his travels; he was heir to an ailing father and a sprawling estate.
For a moment, Christopher stood in the doorway, watching his father in silence. The years had not been kind to Lord Berrington, yet there remained a spark of determination in his eyes, a refusal to yield entirely to his illness. It was that same indomitable spirit that Christopher admired, even as it made him acutely aware of the shoes, he would one day have to fill.
With a quiet breath, he stepped forward to greet his father, the weight of his new responsibilities heavy on his mind. Whatever uncertainties lay ahead, he could not afford to hesitate any longer.
“You look well this morning,” Christopher greeted his father brightly, his voice carrying a warmth that he did not entirely feel. He had long since learned the art of masking his emotions, but today his anxiety was sharper than usual, pressing against his chest like a heavy weight.
“Indeed, I’m feeling quite well,” Lord Berrington replied, his voice firm though his pale complexion betrayed the lie. “Look here,” he added, immediately beckoning to his son with a casual wave, as though the matter were of no great importance. He had always been reticent about his health, even in the days when he was in the full bloom of his strength. Now, with age and illness creeping upon him, he stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. To his mind, there was little to be gained by discussing such matters aloud, and perhaps even less to be gained by showing weakness. “Look here, Christopher,” he repeated, gesturing to the ledger before him. “These are the accounts of the tenants in Ashford Hollow.”
Christopher moved closer, his gaze falling upon the ledger. He was no stranger to the sight of such papers; indeed, he had been accustomed to seeing his father pore over these accounts since he was a boy. Yet today, the neat rows of numbers and the meticulous hand of his father’s writing seemed more daunting than ever. The pages seemed to stretch on endlessly, a maze of figures that made Christopher’s head spin.
Lord Berrington continued, his tone now more animated as he launched into a long and meandering explanation of his duties as a landowner. “The rents, the harvests, the repairs. Everything must be accounted for. One must know the state of things, or else—” he paused, giving a dismissive wave of his hand, “—else the tenants would take advantage, and we cannot allow that, can we?”
Christopher nodded, his gaze fixed upon the page, though his mind was elsewhere. His father’s explanations were always thorough, but they were also somewhat disorganized, and today they seemed to lack the usual clarity. The words seemed to tumble from his father’s lips in a rush, with little consideration for whether his son understood. Christopher did his best to follow the convoluted thread of the conversation, but the effort required to keep up, only served to heighten the agitation he had felt upon entering the room. His father’s illness was no longer a distant concern; it was real, present, and growing more evident with each passing day.
He glanced at his father, noting the way his once steady hand shook ever so slightly as it traced the numbers on the page. Lord Berrington’s eyes, which had once been sharp and calculating, now seemed clouded by fatigue, and his face, though still strong, had taken on a waxen pallor that spoke of a body strained past its limits. Christopher swallowed his concern, striving to focus on the matter at hand, but his mind kept returning to the knowledge that his father could no longer manage the estate as he once had. The responsibility of overseeing Berrington House—and, indeed, the entire family’s affairs—was now falling on Christopher’s shoulders, whether he was prepared for it or not.
“But I have kept you long enough,” Lord Berrington suddenly interjected, cutting off his own stream of words. “You came to tell me something, didn’t you?”
Christopher’s heart gave a small lurch at the interruption. It was a gentle reminder of his true purpose here, but it also brought with it a pang of guilt. He had not come with any message or pressing news, no questions to ask or reports to make. He had come merely to check on his father’s health, to see how he was faring that morning. They both knew it, but it seemed, as ever, important to his father to pretend that such check-ins were wholly unnecessary.
Christopher gave a wry grin, the muscles of his face tightening slightly in an attempt to appear less troubled. “I did not come with a message, Father. Only to see how you are this morning.” His voice was lighter than he felt, and he hoped his father would not see through the ruse.
Lord Berrington raised an eyebrow, a small but unmistakable sign that he was not entirely fooled. Nevertheless, he waved it off, a faint smile curling at the corners of his lips. “Ah, well, I appreciate your concern, Christopher, though it is hardly necessary. You are always so conscientious.” He paused for a moment, studying his son with an expression that might have been more thoughtful if it had not been so fleeting. “I trust you will see to those matters I mentioned?”
Christopher nodded, though his thoughts were far from the ledgers and accounts his father had described. “Of course,” he replied, his voice quiet. “I shall take care of them.”
The conversation wound down, and, after a brief exchange of pleasantries, Christopher found himself dismissed. He rose to leave, the weight of his responsibility pressing upon him, more palpable now than it had been before. As he turned toward the door, he stole one last glance at his father, who had already returned to his ledgers with a focused air. It struck Christopher, for the first time, that his father’s indomitable will could not stave off the inevitable forever. How long would it be before he—Christopher—was left to shoulder the full burden of the estate, of the family, of everything that had once belonged to his father?
With a sigh, he stepped out of the room, the door closing softly behind him.
Christopher entered the drawing room, his mind still heavy with thoughts of his father. Hyacinth, at the pianoforte, glanced up from the keys with a bright smile, her fingers momentarily halting in their playful, disconnected notes. Charity, however, did not look up from her botany book, her brow furrowed in concentration.
A servant entered with a letter from Viola, and Christopher took it with a quiet nod, his gaze immediately falling upon the familiar script. As he read, his brow furrowed in concentration, and his expression shifted subtly from calm to something more concerned.
Hyacinth, ever keen to pick up on changes in the atmosphere, stopped playing altogether and exchanged a look with Charity, who had raised her head from her book, her sharp eyes now focused on her brother. The two of them were silent for a moment, then Hyacinth spoke, her voice light but with a hint of curiosity. “What news from Viola?”
Christopher folded the letter carefully, his tone guarded. “Viola writes that Arthur will be coming to stay with us for a while.”
At the mention of their nephew, Charity’s eyes immediately softened. “Arthur? Is something amiss?”
He sighed, the weight of the letter still on his mind. “It seems that both Viola and Ewan have fallen ill, and they do not want Arthur exposed to whatever fever has taken hold of them. So he’ll be staying here for at least a few weeks.”
Hyacinth blinked in surprise, her lips parting as she exchanged a look with Charity. “Poor Viola,” she murmured. “But I suppose it is best for Arthur to be safe.”
Charity nodded thoughtfully, her brow furrowing. “Yes, but it sounds as though things are not well in their household. Does Viola mention how serious it is?”
Christopher’s gaze grew distant. “Not much, but it seems troubling. I will write a letter to her later today and ask for more details. When I know more, I shall let you both know.”
He slipped the letter into his coat pocket and, after a brief pause, gave his sisters a small nod. “For now, I must prepare for the boy’s arrival.”
With that, he turned to leave, his mind still preoccupied with the situation. Hyacinth offered him a sympathetic smile, though her eyes remained watchful. “Take care of yourself, Christopher,” she said gently.
Chapter Two
Gracie sat stiffly in the corner of the carriage; her eyes half-closed against the sway of the vehicle as it moved steadily through the streets of London. Her fingers fidgeted with the folds of her dress, a nervous habit she had developed long ago but could never quite seem to break. The noise of the city surrounded her—hooves clattering, wheels grinding against the cobblestones, the shouts of vendors, and the distant clamour of a thousand voices—but she was far from comforted by it.
Her thoughts were consumed by the past few days, by the terror that had taken hold of her when she first heard of the Duke of Thawswood’s illness. Typhus. Even the word made her shudder. It had come on suddenly, and he had not been able to leave his bed in days, and though she had not been in close contact with him, the fear of contagion had clung to her like a shadow. Her Grace had fallen ill shortly after, making the household tense with dread.
In the midst of it all, Gracie had been given the charge of protecting little Arthur, taking over as his surrogate mother when the Duchess took ill.
Arthur. Her gaze flicked briefly to the small boy seated beside her. He was asleep, his small chest rising and falling steadily beneath his warm cloak, his head resting on her arm. Gracie’s heart softened at the sight of him, but her brow furrowed with worry all the same. She had done her best, she always did, but doubt gnawed at her. Her experience had been as a lady’s maid to Lady Isabel—Arthur’s aunt. The skills required of her in her current role as nurse to Arthur felt far beyond her limited training, and though she had grown fond of the boy, she questioned her abilities with him every day.
Would she ever truly feel competent? She was no stranger to hard work, but childrearing was different, more delicate. Every decision seemed fraught with potential mistakes, and she could not escape the feeling that she might fail him. Arthur deserved the very best care, and Gracie feared she was not enough.
At the same time, as the carriage carried her further from Thawswood and the shadow of illness that had fallen over the estate, she could not deny a sense of relief. It was selfish, she knew—shamefully so—but she was glad to be away from the sickness, away from the constant anxiety that each day might bring another member of the household falling ill. If nothing else, her departure meant she had kept Arthur safe, and that, at least, was a small victory.
Still, the thought of arriving at Berrington House, a home filled with strangers, sent a fresh wave of unease through her. She knew of the Berringtons, of course, but knowing of someone and actually living with them were entirely different matters. How would they receive her? Would they look down on her, a servant with no proper training in her new role?
The carriage slowed as it turned down a quieter street, and Gracie swallowed nervously. She was about to find out.
As the carriage finally drew to a halt, Gracie peered out the window, her eyes widening slightly at the sight before her. Berrington House stood tall and elegant, the brickwork gleaming in the dull winter light. It was a grand townhouse, well-proportioned and impeccably maintained, its windows framed by white shutters, its door painted a deep, glossy black. The house exuded an air of wealth and refinement, yet not without a certain warmth. It was a place of beauty, no doubt, and Gracie could not help but admire it even despite her nerves.
“Miss Brook?” the footman’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she realized the carriage door had been opened. She hesitated for only a moment before gathering Arthur into her arms and stepping down onto the pavement.
As she stood before Berrington House, the cold London air nipping at her cheeks, Gracie felt a curious mixture of emotions—fear, excitement, apprehension, and, perhaps most unexpectedly, hope. This was to be her new life for the next few weeks, and though she did not know what lay ahead, she could only pray that she would be able to navigate it with some measure of grace.
Arthur stirred slightly in her arms, his small face nuzzling against her shoulder, and Gracie tightened her hold on him protectively. Whatever her fears, whatever her doubts, she was determined to do her best for him. It was all she could do.
She followed the man inside the house. The entry hall was large, with high ceilings and walls lined with fine paintings, their colours subdued and warm so that they almost seemed to glow in the soft light filtering through the windows. The floor beneath her feet gleamed, and the air smelled faintly of polished wood and fresh flowers, an atmosphere far removed from the modest home she had grown up in.
Before she could gather her thoughts, the sound of approaching footsteps made her turn. A tall figure appeared from the far end of the hall, moving toward her with a purposeful stride. The son of Lord Berrington. Gracie’s heart gave an unsteady flutter. He was handsome—there was no mistaking that—but it seemed only right that someone in his position should be. She had known little but simplicity in her life, and to her eyes, the handsome men of the world were a rare and distant breed, and one not without their dangers.
He was tall, lean, and dressed with understated elegance, his dark waistcoat tailored to fit his frame with a quiet sophistication. His angular features—high cheekbones, a strong jaw—gave him an air of seriousness, yet his boyish smile softened them, making him seem approachable, almost easy to talk to. There was something disarming about him, a natural charm uncommon to men of the upper class.
With practiced ease she noted his undeniable beauty, then refused to think of it anymore.
“Miss Brook, I presume?” he asked, his voice deep but warm, with just the faintest hint of an accent that marked him as one of the local gentry.
Gracie, startled by the sound of her name, nodded and dropped a small curtsy. “Yes, my Lord. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
His smile grew just a touch wider as he bowed his head politely. “The pleasure is mine,” he replied. His gaze briefly flicked down to Arthur, still in her arms, and his expression softened. “And here is the man of the hour. The house has been abuzz with excitement, despite the unhappy circumstances, with the prospect of having the little master in the house. I trust he’s not too much trouble for you?” His gaze as he looked on his sleeping nephew was markedly tender.
Gracie felt the tension in her shoulders ease at his easy manner, though she still couldn’t entirely shake the nervousness stirring within her. “He’s been very good, thank you. Quite a brave little fellow,” she added with a soft smile, more for Arthur’s sake than her own.
Christopher gave a light chuckle. “Ah, yes, I have no doubt. He’s certainly the most well-behaved child I know. I’m sure he’ll settle in quickly.”
He turned then, and glanced over his shoulder back at her. “If you would do me the honour of accompanying me, my sisters are most eager to see the young gentleman.”
Gracie followed him into the sitting room, where two young women were seated near the fire, chatting animatedly. They were both dressed in the latest fashion, their gowns flattering but respectably subdued. Gracie had to admit that they, too, were very pretty—radiant, even, with faces full of youth and good humour. But as they saw Christopher approaching, their attention immediately shifted, not to Gracie, thank God, but to Arthur, who was still nestled in her arms.
“Oh, look at him!” one of the sisters exclaimed, rising to her feet. Gracie noticed that she was the younger of the two, her smile wide and sincere as she rushed over. “He’s even more darling than I remember!” She moved toward them eagerly, and before Gracie could even protest, the young lady had taken Arthur from her arms, lifting him with ease and affection.
The other sister, a bit older, stood as well, her face lighting up as she joined her sibling. “Oh, don’t wake him, Hyacinth, can’t you see he’s sleeping?”
But it was too late, Arthur awoke, his wide eyes darting open in surprise.
“Hello Arthur!” Lady Hyacinth said brightly, pinching his cheeks and making him laugh.
The little boy wriggled out of his aunt’s arms to play and explore the room, toddling about happily and commanding the attention of all for several minutes until Lord Christopher turned to her again, his lips curling slightly at one corner.
“If you will come with me, Miss Brook, I shall show you to your rooms. My sisters will see to Arthur, and I trust he will be in good hands with them for the time being.”
Gracie gave a small nod, feeling a slight flutter of nerves at the thought of being left alone in a house she had yet to truly comprehend. Nevertheless, she followed him through the hall, her steps quick and light, though her thoughts swirled.
“Here we are, Miss Brook,” he said, coming to a stop before a door on the left. He opened it with a light touch and motioned for her to enter.
The room before her was small, though not cramped, and sparsely furnished. The walls were painted a soft cream, the window overlooking a small, tidy courtyard that let in the natural light, making the space bright and airy. The bed, though not large, was covered in a modest yet tidy coverlet, and a comfortable chair sat beside the hearth, now cold, waiting for the fire to be lit later in the day.
“These will be your quarters, Miss Brook,” Christopher said, his voice warm but without the pretension Gracie had expected from someone of his station. “Your things will be brought in shortly. For now, please make yourself comfortable.”
He turned slightly, indicating the adjoining room. “The room connects to the nursery. It has been quite some time since there was a baby in the house, so if you find that you need anything for the nursery, please feel free to let us know. Whatever you need shall be provided.”
Gracie offered a small smile, feeling unexpectedly reassured. The room was modest, yet it felt like a sanctuary. In contrast to the imposing grandeur of the house itself, these two rooms seemed to offer her a personal retreat, quiet and still, away from the bustle of the family and the uncertainties that plagued her thoughts.
“Thank you, my Lord,” she said softly, still adjusting to the unfamiliar setting as she looked in at the spacious nursery next door. “I’m sure everything is in order.”
Christopher inclined his head. “We are glad to have you here. I shall leave you to settle in. As I said, your belongings will be brought in shortly, and should you need anything, you have only to ask.”
He gave her another small, friendly smile, and with that, he was gone, the door closing softly behind him.
Gracie stood in the middle of the room for a moment, taking in her surroundings. She moved toward the window, pulling back the light curtain just enough to peer into the courtyard beyond. There was a small garden visible, neatly kept, though not grand.
Turning back into the room, she wandered over to the dresser and ran her fingers lightly across its polished surface. She would have been glad of a few quiet moments to collect her thoughts, but shortly after the footman arrived with a stable boy, laden with the trunks of Arthur’s belongings and Gracie’s own few possessions, and she threw herself into the soothing mental and physical work of unpacking and organizing the nursery.
Chapter Three
The nursery at Berrington House was a charming, sunlit space, made especially cheerful by the tall windows that lined its walls. Sunlight streamed in, warming the buttery yellow wallpaper and casting playful shadows on the fluttering white curtains. Though the room had clearly seen better days, with its worn furniture and scuffed wooden floors, there was a comforting sense of history about it. Every mark and scratch was a testament to the boisterous childhoods of five Berrington children, each having passed through its walls over the years, their presence leaving its indelible trace in the well-loved nursery.
Gracie, however, had little opportunity to make proper use of the nursery’s comforts during her first days at Berrington House. Little Arthur, the newest occupant of the house, spent most of his time in the company of his doting aunts, being whisked from room to room, or even outdoors, by Lady Charity and Lady Hyacinth. The two sisters were nothing if not exuberant in their attentions to their young nephew, each vying for his affection and finding endless amusement in his every movement or sound. Gracie, on the other hand, found herself trailing after the lively group, hands folded neatly before her, feeling out of place and unsure of her role in the house.
She had hoped, upon arriving at Berrington House, to immerse herself in the care of the child, drawing comfort from the routine and purpose that such a task provided. But instead, she found her duties largely taken over by the young Berrington sisters, who, with the unrestrained enthusiasm of girls still on the cusp of adulthood, treated their nephew’s care as more of a delightful diversion than a responsibility. Gracie found herself, more often than not, merely observing from a distance, while Charity and Hyacinth took charge of all the tasks that might otherwise have fallen to her.
It was strange, she reflected, how the work of tending to an infant—feeding, cleaning, tidying, entertaining—could be both supremely demanding and, when shared among many hands, appear so light. Watching the Berrington sisters bustle about, fussing over Arthur with such affection, left Gracie feeling more like an outsider than she had anticipated. She did her best to hide her awkwardness, maintaining a facade of calm professionalism, though inwardly she felt lost in the grand, unfamiliar surroundings.
The evening, like the others since her arrival, found Arthur in the nursery, being changed into his nightclothes by his eager aunts. It was late, and Gracie expected that, as usual, the boy would be tucked into bed soon. But tonight, Lady Hyacinth had different plans.
“Christopher has been working so hard lately,” Hyacinth said, lifting the freshly dressed Arthur back into her arms. “He’s been in such a dreary mood. Let’s take Arthur down to the drawing room—he’s sure to cheer him up.”
Charity hesitated, giving Arthur a thoughtful glance. “But don’t you think he’s getting sleepy?” She cast a quick, uncertain look at Gracie, as if seeking her support in the matter.
Gracie, feeling the weight of the decision pressing on her, hesitated. She was, after all, merely the boy’s nursemaid, and though she was tasked with his care, she hardly felt she had the authority to counter the young ladies of the house. Still, she knew it was well past the boy’s usual bedtime.
“He does usually go to bed around this hour,” she offered softly, hoping to gently steer the conversation toward reason without overstepping her bounds.
Hyacinth, however, was not to be swayed. She cradled Arthur closer, smiling at him as if his approval was all that mattered. “Oh, he’ll be fine! We won’t stay up too late, will we, darling?” she said, scrunching her nose in a playful gesture that made Arthur giggle with delight.
The boy, sensing the excitement of the moment, babbled in response, his cherubic face lighting up at the prospect of further entertainment. That settled it—no further objections were raised, and with a quick glance between Charity and Gracie, the decision was made. Arthur would accompany them downstairs.
As they made their way into the grand drawing room, Gracie followed quietly, her hands clasped in front of her once more. The sound of cheerful voices filled the room as the ladies of the house entered, explaining the presence of the infant with lighthearted tones and laughter. Christopher, seated by the fire, looked up from his papers, a look of confusion and surprise on his face.
Gracie slipped unobtrusively to the side of the room, as was her custom. She positioned herself near the door, watchful and ready to intervene should Arthur become tired or disruptive, though she doubted the ladies of the house would allow such a thing to spoil the moment. She had perfected the art of remaining unnoticed in rooms such as these, her expression a mask of serene disinterest, though her mind was ever alert to the needs of her young charge.
Lord Christopher had been reading a letter by the fire when they entered, and for a brief moment, his expression suggested he was more vexed than pleased by the sudden intrusion. The warmth of the firelight danced across his dark, angular features, highlighting the slight frown that lingered at the corners of his mouth. His sisters, however, either did not notice or were too absorbed in their own amusement to care that their brother might have preferred solitude that evening.
“Look, Christopher,” Hyacinth sang out, her voice as bright as the flames behind him. “We’ve brought little Arthur to uplift your spirits.”
Christopher raised his head, his brow lifting slightly as he folded the letter in his hands. “Uplift my spirits?” he repeated, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “What makes you think I am in need of cheering?”
Charity, ever the more astute of the sisters, arched a brow at him with the knowing look of someone long acquainted with his moods. “You’ve been a terror for days, Christopher. Everyone can see that something is amiss. We are all merely waiting for you to tell us what it is.”
Gracie, standing a few paces behind, did her best to keep her eyes lowered, focusing on Arthur. Her presence here was, she reminded herself, merely functional. Yet despite her efforts to remain invisible, she found herself drawn into the scene, and when she glanced up, her breath caught. Lord Christopher was looking at her.
She wasn’t sure if he was truly looking at her or merely staring through her, lost in thought. His gaze was steady, but there was something contemplative in his expression, something that made her uncomfortable. Then, just as quickly as she had caught it, his expression softened into what she thought was a smile. It was so subtle, in fact, that Gracie couldn’t be certain if it had happened at all, but his eyes—there was a certain warmth there, a glimmer of amusement or acknowledgment.
She quickly averted her gaze, her cheeks warming under his scrutiny, and she felt a peculiar relief when he finally turned away, his attention shifting back to his sisters.
“I assure you, Charity, everything is fine,” he said, his voice smooth but slightly strained. “I’m sorry if I’ve been difficult of late. I suppose I’m just a bit on edge with all that’s been happening. I’m worried about Viola and Ewan.”
At the mention of their sister and brother-in-law, Gracie felt a familiar shiver of dread. The spectre of illness had loomed over Thawswood in the days before her departure with Arthur. She recalled the oppressive atmosphere, the gnawing fear of fever, and her own desperate hope that she had taken Arthur away in time. The memory sent a chill through her, and she glanced down at the boy, now sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him, rubbing his eyes in that unmistakable way that signalled exhaustion.
“Arthur looks like he’s about to cry,” Hyacinth observed with a sympathetic pout. She bent down to scoop him up, her hands gentle but eager.
The moment Hyacinth touched him, Arthur’s face crumpled, and he let out a loud wail. His small hands reached out, searching for comfort, as large tears began to stream down his rosy cheeks.
Gracie sprang into action, crossing the room swiftly and gathering the boy into her arms. She held him close, murmuring soothing words as he buried his face in her shoulder, his tiny fingers clutching her sleeve as though it were a lifeline. His sobs slowly subsided, though he continued to hiccup miserably against her.
“He’s just tired,” Gracie explained, her voice trembling slightly as she worried how they might react to the child’s outburst. She had not yet learned the full extent of the Berringtons’ temperament when it came to disruptions, and she felt suddenly exposed under their watchful eyes. “It’s been a difficult transition for him.”
Christopher’s voice was unexpectedly gentle when he spoke. “He misses his mother, no doubt.”
“Yes,” Gracie agreed softly, “he does. But a good night’s sleep will do wonders for him.”
As if on cue, Arthur clung tighter to her, his little hand reaching up to tangle in her hair. Gracie winced as his chubby fingers found the nape of her neck and pulled, though she did her best to maintain a composed expression.
Christopher chuckled, the sound rich and surprisingly boyish, as though the weight of his earlier melancholy had lifted. “You should get him to bed, Miss Gracie,” he said, his eyes twinkling with that same disarming glimmer that had caught her off guard earlier. “Much as we all adore him, it seems you know best when it comes to his moods. I trust your judgment.”
Gracie bowed her head slightly, an odd, fluttering sensation passing through her as he spoke her name. There was something unsettling about the way it sounded in his voice—too familiar, too warm. It made her feel both flustered and irritated, though she couldn’t quite understand why.
“Yes, of course,” she murmured, clutching Arthur a little closer as she turned toward the door.
Though Charity and Hyacinth protested, eager to prolong the evening, Gracie firmly excused herself, grateful for the opportunity to leave. As she hurried into the quiet hallway with Arthur still fussing in her arms, she allowed herself a deep breath, willing her racing heart to slow.
The further she got from the drawing room, the more her thoughts settled, though the lingering impression of Lord Christopher’s gaze stayed with her. She chastised herself silently, reminding herself not to speculate upon anything.
“You’re imagining things,” she muttered under her breath. “Just because he’s handsome, it doesn’t mean his looks carry any special significance.”
Arthur’s head rested heavily against her shoulder as she made her way back to the nursery, his small body warm and trusting in her arms. Gracie sighed, focusing her mind on the comforting routine of caring for the boy. It was far simpler than trying to decipher the curious and unsettling attentions of Christopher Berrington.
As Gracie settled the boy into his bed, her thoughts grew heavier. Despite herself, her mind kept drifting back to Lord Christopher, to the way his gaze had lingered on her, and to the unsettling ripple it had caused within her. She had not asked for his attentions, nor did she want them. Flirtation, especially from a man of his standing, was dangerous ground for someone in her position. She could not afford to be the subject of his idle amusement.
Handsome though he might be, Gracie had no illusions about what it would mean for someone like her—a nursemaid, little more than a servant—to be the object of affection or flirtation from a man like Christopher Berrington. She had seen too many women fall victim to the whims of men in authority, their lives upended by empty promises or, worse, ruined by the consequences of being lured into intimacy without protection or respect.
Gracie’s resolve tightened. She would not allow herself to be flattered by a smile or unnerved by a glance. She was here for one purpose: to care for Arthur and to fulfill her duties with dignity. Anything else, no matter how tempting, was best left ignored.
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