The early morning sun cast a pale autumn glow across the frost-touched grounds of Vexwood Hall as Sebastian mounted his favourite bay gelding, Tempest. The horse pranced beneath him, eager for exercise after several days confined to the stable during his master’s absence. The feeling was mutual—Sebastian found his thoughts clearer when astride, away from the suffocating weight of ledgers and social obligations that seemed to multiply like autumn leaves upon his desk.

The measured gait of the horse and the quiet creak of the saddle brought a rare moment of repose—one Sebastian had not known since his return to Vexwood Hall. Here, at least, he was not the Duke of Vexwood with all its attendant responsibilities, but simply a man who understood horses and open spaces and the satisfaction of work well done.

“Henderson,” he called to his estate manager, who was mounted on a sturdy chestnut mare whose placid temperament matched her rider’s methodical nature. “We shall begin with the Hartwell cottage, then proceed to inspect the north pastures Margaret mentioned. I should like to see the drainage concerns firsthand before deciding what repairs the spring thaw may require.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” William Henderson, a man of middle years whose weathered face spoke of decades spent managing the Vexwood lands through feast and famine, guided his horse alongside Sebastian’s. The estate manager’s competence had been one of the few blessings Sebastian had inherited upon assuming the title—Henderson understood both the land and the people who worked it with an intimacy that could not be purchased or commanded.

“I should mention,” Henderson continued, his tone carefully neutral, “that young Hartwell’s circumstances have grown rather dire since his injury. The family has been… proud in their refusal of assistance.”

Sebastian’s jaw tightened as he absorbed the information. Pride was a luxury his tenants could ill afford—yet he understood the sentiment all too well. The Vexley family possessed its own form of pride: a quiet, unyielding expectation that burdens be borne without complaint, that any admission of weakness constituted a betrayal of centuries of noble heritage. Perhaps his tenants had merely learned their stubborn dignity by example.

“What manner of assistance has been offered?” Sebastian inquired, guiding Tempest around a particularly treacherous patch of ice that had formed where the drive curved past the ornamental lake.

“The usual provisions—reduced rent until Hartwell regains his strength, additional coal and provisions for the winter months.” Henderson’s tone suggested his frustration with the family’s stubbornness, though Sebastian detected an underlying sympathy that spoke well of the man’s character. “Hartwell insists he will recover his full strength soon enough to return to the mill. His wife supports his position, though I suspect it costs her dearly to maintain such optimism.”

“And will he recover sufficiently to resume his former employment?”

Henderson’s pause was telling, filled with the weight of unpleasant truths that compassion made difficult to voice. “The physician was… less than optimistic, Your Grace. Dr Whitmore believes the injury to Hartwell’s back may prevent him from performing the heavy labour required at the mill. The man can walk, and his mind remains sharp, but lifting and carrying the great sacks of grain…” Henderson shook his head. “I fear his working days in that capacity may be at an end.”

Sebastian absorbed the news with the quiet resignation that accompanied so many aspects of estate management. The mill provided employment for nearly a dozen village men, and losing even one worker created ripples that affected multiple families. Yet what alternative was there? He could not, in good conscience, encourage a man to work beyond his strength—risking an injury that might leave him wholly incapacitated.

As they rode toward the village, Sebastian found himself contemplating the delicate balance between assistance and dignity that governed relations between landlord and tenant. His father had been generous with his tenants but imperious in his charity, offering help in ways that emphasised the recipients’ dependence and his own magnanimity. The approach had bred resentment alongside gratitude, creating a brittle foundation for the social order that Sebastian had inherited.

Sebastian had attempted a different approach—one that acknowledged his tenants’ fundamental humanity while maintaining the necessary social boundaries. It was a philosophy that Margaret found dangerously progressive and that his father would have deemed weak, but Sebastian had observed that contented tenants were more productive than resentful ones, and prosperity benefited all levels of society.

The village of Merriton appeared tranquil in the morning light, smoke curling from cottage chimneys as families began their daily routines. Children’s voices rang out across the lanes as they went about their morning chores, while the steady hammering from the blacksmith’s forge offered a rhythmic counterpoint to the clip of hooves upon cobblestones. There was something deeply satisfying in the sight—evidence of lives unfolding, of his stewardship providing the foundation for countless private stories of love and loss, hope and disillusionment: the eternal human comedy played out in miniature.

The Hartwell cottage stood at the village’s edge, positioned to catch the morning sun yet sheltered from the worst of the winter winds. Its thatched roof appeared sound—Sebastian made a mental note to commend Henderson for upholding the estate’s standards—but the narrow windows betrayed the cramped conditions within. A dwelling that might once have comfortably housed a family of four now sheltered six souls, including twin infants whose needs would strain even the most orderly of households.

As Sebastian and Henderson approached, the sound of children’s laughter rose from the small garden behind the cottage, bright and musical in the crisp air. It was a sound that spoke of joy persisting despite hardship—a quiet defiance of circumstance that caught Sebastian off guard.

“That would be the governess Lady Eliza mentioned,” Henderson said quietly, dismounting to secure his horse to the cottage’s gate post. “Miss Talbot has been tending to the Hartwell boy during his illness. From what I understand, she’s proven quite devoted to the welfare of all the village children.”

Sebastian dismounted as well, his curiosity stirred by Henderson’s evident approval. The estate manager was not prone to warm endorsements—particularly not of newcomers to the community. Sebastian recalled hearing mention of a new governess but had paid little heed to village appointments, trusting Margaret’s judgment in such matters. Now, however, something in the sound of genuine laughter—so unexpected from children with scant reason for joy—captured his interest and held it.

Rounding the cottage’s corner, Sebastian stopped short at the scene before him, struck by an image that seemed to embody everything he had been contemplating about dignity in the face of adversity. A young woman in practical brown wool knelt in the frost-brittle grass, her dark hair escaping its pins as she demonstrated some lesson to three small children. Her cloak was spread beneath them like a makeshift blanket, and her animated gestures suggested she was deep in storytelling, utterly absorbed in her task.

There was something in her bearing that immediately marked her as genteel despite her modest attire. Even kneeling on the frozen earth, her posture held an unconscious elegance that spoke of careful education. Yet she seemed entirely unaware of any impropriety in conducting lessons out of doors, wholly absorbed in the eager faces gathered before her.

“Now then,” her voice carried clearly in the crisp air, melodious and cultured, tinged with the faintest hint of Yorkshire that suggested her origins lay north of their present location. “Can you tell me what Sir Gareth learned from helping the village baker?”

“That kindness don’t cost nothing!” piped up the smallest child—a boy Sebastian recognised as one of the Hartwell children, his thin face bright with the enthusiasm that only children could maintain in the face of genuine hardship.

“That kindness costs nothing,” the governess corrected gently, her smile robbing the remark of any sting. Sebastian noted the way she upheld standards without discouraging the boy’s participation—a balance that spoke of both skill and a sincere affection for her pupils. 

“And what else did our brave knight discover?”

“That helping people makes you feel good inside,” offered a gap-toothed girl Sebastian didn’t immediately recognise—though the resemblance to the boy, along with her patched dress and earnest expression, made him suspect she was the other Hartwell child.

“Precisely, Mary. And that is why—” The governess looked up mid-sentence, her words dying as she caught sight of Sebastian. Her cheeks coloured as she scrambled to her feet with more haste than grace, hastily brushing dirt from her skirts while maintaining a composure that impressed him despite her obvious discomfiture.

Well, Sebastian thought, studying the young woman before him with growing interest. She does not possess the kind of beauty celebrated in drawing rooms, yet there is something about her…

“Your Grace,” she said, executing a curtsy that managed to be both respectful and dignified despite her dishevelled appearance. Her voice held a slight tremor that might have been nervousness, though her gaze met his directly with a calm intelligence that suggested she was not easily intimidated. “I—that is, we were just—”

“Teaching,” Sebastian finished, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice—and by the quickening of his pulse beneath her direct gaze. The governess was not at all what he had expected when Henderson had first mentioned her. She appeared to be perhaps five-and-twenty—neither especially young nor old—though her composure suggested a depth of experience beyond her years. Her features were delicately drawn, not ostentatiously beautiful, but made memorable by clear hazel eyes and an expression of composed assurance. She carried herself with the ease of a woman accustomed to managing difficult situations with quiet determination.

There was something in her bearing that intrigued him—a quality he could not immediately name, but which set her apart from the deferential timidity he had come to expect from those reliant on his family’s goodwill. She appeared neither overawed by his presence nor indifferent to his rank, but rather prepared to meet him as circumstances required, all while maintaining an unshakable sense of her own dignity.

“Miss Talbot,” Henderson interjected, clearly hoping to smooth over any potential awkwardness in the unusual introduction. 

“May I present His Grace, the Duke of Vexwood. Your Grace, Miss Clara Talbot, who has been instructing the village children and has proven invaluable to several families during recent difficulties.”

“Miss Talbot.” Sebastian inclined his head politely, noting how the children had instinctively moved closer to their governess, as if seeking her protection. The gesture spoke volumes about the relationship she had established with her pupils—one based on trust and affection rather than mere authority. “I understand you have been most helpful to the Hartwell family during recent difficulties.”

“Any decent person would do the same, Your Grace,” Clara replied, her voice carrying that slight tremor again, though whether from nervousness or something else entirely Sebastian could not determine. “The children are a delight to teach, and their welfare must always remain the foremost consideration in any educational endeavour.”

Sebastian glanced at the makeshift outdoor classroom, noting with interest the clever arrangements that hinted at both creativity and practicality. Stones had been carefully arranged to demonstrate mathematical concepts, their patterns suggesting lessons in both arithmetic and geometry. A neat pile of autumn leaves hinted at instruction in natural philosophy, while the faint remnants of a sand drawing pointed to geography taught with whatever materials lay close to hand.

“You conduct lessons in the garden?” he asked, genuine curiosity colouring his tone. 

His own education had been conducted in stuffy rooms under the stern supervision of tutors who believed that discomfort enhanced concentration and that learning was most effective when divorced from anything resembling pleasure or comfort.

Clara’s chin lifted slightly—a gesture Sebastian found oddly appealing, suggesting a spirit that would not be easily cowed despite her dependent position. 

“The cottage is rather small for multiple pupils, and the fresh air benefits the children’s health considerably. Moreover, I have found that learning becomes far more engaging when it incorporates the natural world and allows children to engage their whole bodies in the educational process.”

“Indeed?” Sebastian was intrigued despite himself, recognising in her words an educational philosophy that challenged many of his own assumptions about proper instruction. “And what particular advantages have you observed from this… unconventional method?”

“Children who may struggle to remain still during traditional recitation often thrive when permitted to move about freely,” Clara explained, her initial nervousness giving way to the obvious enthusiasm of someone deeply invested in her work. “Mathematical concepts become clearer when illustrated with objects they can manipulate, and natural history holds far more meaning when witnessed firsthand rather than merely recited from a book.”

Sebastian found himself genuinely interested in her theories, though he suspected his father would have been appalled by such progressive notions about education. “And discipline? Surely, maintaining proper order becomes more challenging when lessons are conducted in so informal a manner?”

“On the contrary, Your Grace,” Clara replied with quiet assurance. “I find that children who are truly engaged in learning require far less external discipline. When their natural curiosity is nurtured rather than suppressed, they develop an internal sense of purpose—one that proves far more enduring than obedience to authority.”

The philosophy she outlined was radical in its implications, suggesting that motivation ought to arise from within rather than be imposed from without. Sebastian recognised the potentially subversive nature of such thinking, were it to be extended beyond the schoolroom. And yet, he could not refute the evidence before him: the children were clearly devoted to their governess, participating eagerly in lessons held under conditions his own tutors would have deemed wholly unacceptable.

“And what were you teaching about Sir Gareth?” he asked, noting how the children remained clustered about her, despite the presence of strangers.

“The importance of service without expectation of reward,” Clara answered promptly—then hesitated, seeming to realise the possible implications of her words. A flush rose in her cheeks, colouring her expression with a warmth that did not escape Sebastian’s notice.

“That is—I was illustrating that true nobility lies in one’s conduct rather than one’s birth, and that the greatest honour is found in using whatever advantages one possesses in the service of those less fortunate.”

The silence that followed was profound, charged with an unspoken significance.

 Henderson shifted uncomfortably, clearly anticipating his master’s displeasure at such democratic sentiments. The children watched with wide eyes, sensing tension they could not name but instinctively understanding that their beloved teacher might be in some form of trouble.

Sebastian regarded the governess with measured attention, impressed—despite himself—by her quiet resolve. A great many in her position might have faltered, apologised, or sought refuge in flattery and evasion. Miss Talbot did neither. She met his gaze with composed dignity: not defiant, not submissive, but prepared to stand by her convictions, come what may.

There was something unexpectedly bracing in her candour. When, he wondered, had anyone last challenged his assumptions so directly while observing every rule of decorum? His siblings disagreed with the intimacy of family; his peers in London cloaked their views in diplomacy so delicate it often obscured as much as it revealed. Yet this woman—this governess—spoke of class, character, and duty not as matters of mere academic exercise, but of genuine moral consequence.

“An interesting philosophy,” he said finally, his tone carefully neutral. “I trust you also teach the children about the natural order of society and the obligations that bind us all to our proper stations? Surely proper education must include instruction in the duties as well as the privileges of one’s position in life.”

“I teach them that every person has value, Your Grace, regardless of their circumstances,” Clara replied steadily, though Sebastian detected a slight emphasis on the word ‘person’ that suggested volumes about her character and convictions. “I believe that understanding one’s worth as a human being is the foundation of both contentment and proper conduct, whether one is born to a cottage or a castle.”

How remarkable, Sebastian thought with growing fascination. She challenges me without appearing to do so, and instructs me while seeming merely to answer my question. I wonder if she realises the full audacity of what she’s suggesting.

Aloud, he said, “A noble sentiment, Miss Talbot. I hope you also emphasise the importance of gratitude for the protections and opportunities provided by those in positions of responsibility? Surely the recognition of mutual obligation is essential to social harmony.”

Clara’s eyes flashed—so briefly Sebastian might have imagined it, but the spark of intelligent rebellion was unmistakable. “Indeed, Your Grace. I find that children who understand their own worth are naturally more appreciative of kindness shown to them. They recognise generosity as a gift rather than an entitlement, and they are more inclined to extend similar consideration to others when the opportunity arises.”

The subtle rebuke was masterfully delivered—cloaked in language that appeared to support his own view, yet carefully suggested that true gratitude could only exist between equals: individuals who chose to serve one another, rather than a superior dispensing favours to those bound by immutable social order. Sebastian fought the urge to smile at her deftness, even as he acknowledged the unsettling implications of her philosophy.

“Miss Talbot,” Henderson interjected, clearly hoping to redirect the conversation toward safer ground before his master’s patience was exhausted by such unprecedented challenges to established authority. “His Grace has come to inquire about the Hartwell family’s circumstances. Perhaps you might provide some insight into their present difficulties?”

Clara’s attention immediately shifted to practical matters, her previous constraint replaced by obvious concern that transformed her face and reminded Sebastian that whatever her philosophical inclinations, her primary motivation was a sincere and unwavering care for those entrusted to her.

“Mrs Hartwell is a woman of remarkable strength and character, but she is overwhelmed by circumstances that would test anyone,” Clara said, her professional composure returning as she addressed matters within her realm of knowledge. “Four children under seven years, including twins who are barely past infancy, and a husband whose injury prevents him from providing for his family in the manner he believes his duty demands.”

She paused, seeming to weigh her words carefully before continuing. “They are proud people, Your Grace, and at present, I believe their pride is their heaviest burden. It hinders them from accepting the help they so clearly require, and in doing so, creates needless suffering—for themselves and for their children.”

“In what way?” Sebastian asked, genuinely interested in her assessment. After such a long time of evasive language from advisors and petitioners, her clarity was unexpectedly refreshing.

“They refuse assistance they desperately need because they fear being seen as objects of charity rather than individuals facing temporary adversity through no fault of their own,” Clara explained, glancing toward the cottage where a curtain twitched at one of the small windows—evidence that their conversation was being observed with considerable interest. “Mr Hartwell speaks constantly of returning to work, though anyone can see he remains in considerable pain and his physical limitations are unlikely to improve significantly. Mrs Hartwell exhausts herself attempting to care for everyone while maintaining the appearance that all is well—when it is plain the family needs assistance their pride will not allow them to seek, let alone accept.”

Sebastian followed her gaze, noting the cottage’s well-maintained exterior that likely masked considerable struggle within. The Hartwells were clearly doing everything possible to maintain their dignity and independence, but at what cost to their health and happiness?

“What would you suggest?” he asked, the question escaping before he fully realised he intended to seek her advice on estate management.

The question seemed to surprise Clara as much as it did Sebastian himself. She regarded him closely, as though searching his expression for signs of mockery or trap. Finding neither, she seemed nonetheless to struggle with the notion that her opinion might be genuinely solicited by someone of his station.

“Employment that accommodates Mr Hartwell’s limitations while allowing him to feel useful and productive,” she said at last, her tone measured, as if shaping the idea as she spoke. 

“Perhaps record-keeping for the estate, or instruction of the older village boys in basic mathematics and literacy—work that draws upon his intelligence and experience, while acknowledging his present physical limitations, rather than demanding he feign a strength he no longer possesses.”

It was a suggestion both practical and perceptive, revealing a keen understanding of masculine pride that Sebastian would not have expected from someone so young and likely untested in such matters. She had identified the heart of the issue—Hartwell’s need to contribute meaningfully to his household—and proposed a solution that preserved his dignity without denying his reality.

“And Mrs Hartwell?” Sebastian inquired, finding himself genuinely curious about her perspective on the family’s difficulties.

“She would benefit greatly from assistance with the children during the day, but she would never accept such help if it were framed as charity,” Clara said, biting her lower lip in a moment of thought—a gesture that drew Sebastian’s attention, quite inappropriately, to the soft curve of her mouth.

“Perhaps if there were some task she might undertake in exchange—mending for the Hall, or instruction in some domestic art in which she excels? Mrs Hartwell is an accomplished seamstress and possesses considerable skill in household management, which might well prove of use to others.”

“You have given this a great deal of thought,” Sebastian observed, struck by the clarity of her reasoning and the practicality of her proposals.

“I care about my pupils and their families,” Clara replied simply, her voice carrying a quiet conviction that spoke more eloquently of her character than any formal recommendation could have done. “One cannot teach a child effectively without understanding the circumstances that shape their daily lives and influence their capacity to learn.”

Sebastian found himself studying Clara’s face as she spoke, noting the way her eyes brightened when she discussed her work and the unconscious animation that transformed her unremarkable features into something approaching beauty. Here was a woman who had found her calling and pursued it with dedication that commanded respect, regardless of one’s opinion of her methods or philosophy.

A gust of November wind chose that moment to sweep across the garden, sending dead leaves skittering and causing Clara to draw her cloak more tightly around her shoulders. The children instinctively pressed closer to her, seeking warmth and reassurance, and Sebastian noted how naturally they turned to her for protection—as if she were not merely their teacher, but their anchor.

“Perhaps we should continue this discussion indoors,” Sebastian suggested, surprised by his own impulse to ensure the governess’s comfort and reluctant to end their conversation despite its unconventional nature.

“Oh—no, thank you, Your Grace,” Clara replied swiftly, her cheeks colouring once more at the suggestion. “I would not wish to presume—that is, I am certain you have matters of far greater importance, and I should not detain you from your duties a moment longer than necessary.”

There it was again—that careful maintenance of social boundaries that somehow managed to be both deferential and dismissive. She acknowledged his superior position while making it clear that she neither sought his continued attention nor felt honoured by it. Sebastian found himself reluctant to end the conversation, intrigued by this woman who challenged his assumptions while teaching children about nobility of character under the open sky.

The contrast between Miss Clara Talbot and many of the women within his own social circle was striking. Where society often encouraged calculated charm and subtle manoeuvres to secure masculine attention, she seemed almost eager to avoid it. Where polite conversation frequently masked opinion beneath layers of tact, she spoke with refreshing honesty, even at the risk of disapproval. And while others might be preoccupied with social advancement, she appeared to devote herself wholly to the well-being of those in her care, with little thought for personal gain.

“Miss Talbot,” Henderson said suddenly, looking up at the darkening sky with obvious concern, “I believe the weather is turning rather dramatically. Perhaps you should gather the children indoors before the storm arrives in earnest.”

As if summoned by his words, the first fat snowflakes began to fall, drifting down with the slow certainty of a storm that would soon blanket the countryside in white. Clara looked up at the darkening sky, concern flickering across her features—her practical mind already weighing the weather and its implications for her young charges.

“Children, quickly now,” she called, her authority absolute despite her gentle tone, demonstrating the natural command that Sebastian had noted earlier. “Mary, help Thomas gather the stones for our mathematics lesson tomorrow. Jenny, please collect the leaves for our pressing project, but be careful not to damage them.”

Sebastian watched with growing admiration as she orchestrated the swift transition from outdoor classroom to indoor safety, noting how the children responded to her direction without question or complaint. There was something about her natural authority that reminded him of his sister Margaret, though Miss Talbot’s command seemed born of affection and mutual respect rather than dutiful submission to inherited rank.

“Miss Talbot,” he said, the words leaving his mouth almost before he had fully considered them, “I believe Lady Eliza mentioned her intention to speak with you regarding matters of education later this morning—but with the weather turning so swiftly, I take it that plan has been understandably postponed. Perhaps, once the skies are more agreeable, you might find another opportunity to call. I would be most interested to hear more of your approach, especially as it is applied in practice.”

He paused, then added with a reassuring note, “I shall inform my sister myself that you’ve not ventured out today—she’ll quite understand, given the circumstances.”

Clara paused in her gathering of materials, surprise flickering across her features as she looked up. 

“That is most kind, Your Grace, though I would not wish to impose upon your family’s time, nor presume upon Lady Eliza’s generous offer of consultation.”

“It would be no imposition,” Sebastian said firmly, then wondered at his own insistence and the eagerness he heard in his voice. What was it about this governess that had captured his interest so completely? “The Vexley family has always taken an interest in the education of our tenants’ children, and your methods seem to achieve remarkable results.”

“Of course,” Clara murmured, though something in her tone suggested she found his formal justification for continued acquaintance somewhat amusing. “I should be honoured to speak with Lady Eliza, and to learn from her considerable experience in the management of educational programmes.”

The snow was falling more steadily now, thickening with each passing minute. Sebastian realised that he and Henderson would need to make for shelter soon if they hoped to reach the Hall before the storm rendered the roads impassable.

And yet, he hesitated—drawn by something he could not quite name in the governess: an intelligence, certainly, but also a quiet defiance of social convention that intrigued him more than he cared to admit.

“Your Grace,” Henderson said quietly, his tone urgent with concern, “the weather appears to be worsening. We should return to the Hall before the roads become impassable.”

“Indeed.” Sebastian gathered Tempest’s reins, preparing to mount, though his gaze lingered on Clara as she moved with calm efficiency, bundling the children for their walk back to the cottage. “Miss Talbot, I trust you and the children will reach shelter before the storm worsens?”

“Certainly, Your Grace. The cottage is quite near, and Mrs Hartwell will be expecting us shortly.” 

Clara had bundled the children quickly, wrapping them in their thin cloaks, and they now clustered around her like chicks beneath a mother hen’s wing—their trust in her complete, and unexpectedly moving.

As Sebastian swung up into his saddle, he caught Clara’s eye one final time, struck again by the direct intelligence he saw there and the way her presence seemed to command attention despite her modest appearance and dependent position.

“I shall consider your suggestions regarding the Hartwell family’s employment with the seriousness they merit,” he said, his tone formal but sincere. “Your observations have been… illuminating. And I find myself genuinely interested in learning more about your approach to education—and its practical application.”

A flush rose to Clara’s cheeks, lending warmth and colour that softened her features into something that approached true loveliness.

“Thank you, Your Grace. I hope—” she hesitated, then amended with quiet conviction, “I shall hope that any solution serves the family’s true needs, rather than simply addressing the symptoms of their current hardship.”

Another subtle correction, Sebastian noted with growing admiration and a fascination that he found increasingly difficult to ignore. Not what he might prefer to do for the family, but what would actually benefit them. This governess saw more clearly than many of his peers who presumed to advise him on estate management, and her perspective challenged assumptions he had never thought to question.

“Good day, Miss Talbot,” he said, touching his hat in salute with a gesture that bordered on gallantry.

“Good day, Your Grace, good day, Mr Henderson.”

As Sebastian and Henderson rode back toward the Hall through the increasing snowfall, Sebastian found his thoughts returning—again and again—to the scene in the garden at the Hartwell cottage. The governess’s combination of propriety and independence, her obvious devotion to her pupils, and her astute understanding of human nature had left him oddly unsettled and eager for further acquaintance despite the obvious impropriety of such interest.

“Unusual woman,” Henderson observed after they had ridden in companionable silence for several minutes, as if reading his master’s thoughts with the intuition born of long association.

“Indeed.” Sebastian urged Tempest to a faster pace as the snow began to sting his face and the wind picked up considerably. “How long has she been in the village?”

“Three months, perhaps four. Came with excellent references from a family in York—the Ashfords, I believe. Lady Eliza speaks very highly of her dedication to the children and her innovative methods of instruction.”

Sebastian found himself wondering what had brought Miss Clara Talbot to their remote village—far removed from the social and cultural advantages a woman of her evident education and intelligence might reasonably pursue. Governesses of her calibre typically sought placements with affluent families in town, where the pay was more generous and the prospects for advancement markedly greater. What circumstance, he mused, had compelled her to accept a post in so secluded a setting, where the compensation was modest and society all but absent?

By the time they reached Vexwood Hall, the snow was falling in earnest, promising to blanket the countryside in white by evening and make travel difficult for several days. Sebastian dismounted in the stable yard, his thoughts still occupied by hazel eyes and gentle challenges to his assumptions about social order and human nature.

“Your Grace?” Henderson’s voice recalled him to the present, and the practical considerations that awaited his attention. “Shall I proceed with arrangements for the Hartwell family, as Miss Talbot suggested?”

Sebastian considered the question with care, aware that his response would reveal more about his state of mind than he quite wished to acknowledge. The governess’s proposals were unquestionably sound—but his readiness to act upon them at once hinted at an influence that went beyond mere professional merit.

“Yes,” he said at last, the decision settling with quiet finality.

“Speak with Hartwell about managing the estate tenants’ records—account books, rental agreements, maintenance schedules. Present it as a post of trust and responsibility, not as accommodation for his injury. A man’s dignity is often of greater consequence than his comfort.”

“Very good, Your Grace. And Mrs Hartwell?”

“Speak with my sister about engaging her services for household mending and perhaps instruction of the younger female servants in domestic arts. Margaret has mentioned the need for better training in needlework and household management.”

Henderson nodded approvingly, clearly pleased by his master’s practical approach to the family’s difficulties. “I shall attend to both matters immediately upon our return.”

As Sebastian walked toward the Hall’s entrance, snowflakes melting on his greatcoat and his mind still occupied by thoughts of the remarkable governess, he found himself looking forward to Lady Eliza’s educational discussion with Miss Talbot with an anticipation that had little to do with academic theory. 

The governess had challenged his thinking in a single conversation, and Sebastian discovered he was increasingly curious to learn what other unconventional ideas might lie concealed beneath her modest exterior.

Behind him, Henderson supervised the horses with a knowing smile, his thoughts lingering on the morning’s unexpected encounter. In thirty years of managing the Vexwood estate, he had never seen His Grace so immediately engaged by anyone beyond his own family. Miss Talbot, it seemed, had achieved what the most eligible ladies of London—despite their beauty, fortune, and polished manners—had failed to do: she had stirred the Duke’s genuine interest, and earned his respect by the simplest means imaginable—by treating him as a person, rather than a title.

The storm gathering above promised to be a heavy one, but Henderson suspected it might strand more than travellers in the lanes of Merriton. Change was coming to Vexwood Hall—carried on the winter wind and embodied in a singular young woman who taught beneath the open sky, addressed dukes with quiet candour, and compelled them to reconsider their assumptions about duty, dignity, and the true nature of service.