A Governess for the Brooding Duke(68)

“You sang that beautifully,” Georgette said, realizing that her eyes had filled with tears.



“Thank you, Miss Darrington,” Eleri said, her chubby cheeks pink with pride.



Seeing a movement out of the corner of her eye, Georgette turned to look towards the schoolroom door. After all, Eleri had been singing in Welsh, and she would not like to have looked up and seen Mrs Wells standing there, bearing witness to it all.



However, Georgette almost gasped when she saw the Duke himself, the door pushed just slightly open, standing and staring in. Her eyes fixed upon his immediately, and she thought she would never be able to look away. Expecting to see anger in his countenance, Georgette could find nothing there but sadness. And his eyes, just as hers had done, seemed to shine with tears.



Georgette expected anger to take over at any minute, and yet it did not. Instead, without a word, the Duke turned to leave, closing the door behind him.



For a few moments, Georgette was simply frozen to the spot, almost as if she was stuck to her seat. She knew she must do something, but she did not quite know what. The girls seemed not to have noticed their uncle hovering in the doorway and were happily wandering about the room, removing their bonnets and shawls and making themselves ready for whatever lesson they had next.



“Now, I have to speak to your uncle for a little while,” Georgette said in a bright and cheery voice, hoping that Ffion would not become afraid. “What I would really like you to do is to draw a lovely picture for me.”



“What picture should we draw, Miss?” Eleri said, already rising to lay paper out for herself and her sister in readiness.



“I would like you to draw a picture of the three of us just now when we were outside on our nature walk.”



“Yes, alright Miss Darrington,” Ffion said and began almost immediately.



“I shouldn’t be too long, but if I am gone for a good few minutes, you mustn’t worry. Just carry on with your drawing, and I will be back as soon as I can.”



“Yes, Miss,” they chorused, already entirely absorbed in their undertaking.



When she left the schoolroom, Georgette did not entirely close the door, rather she left it ajar. She walked slowly down the corridor towards the Duke’s study, her mouth dry and her heart pounding. She knew she could not leave it, and yet she did not know what she would say when she got there.



With a shaking hand, she knocked lightly on the door. The Duke did not shout for her to enter as normal, rather the door opened, and he stood back to let her in without a word.



“Your Grace, I am sorry. I do not know what to say,” Georgette said and meant it.



“I know you are sorry, Miss Darrington,” he said, and she could not gauge his mood from his tone.



“Your Grace, Eleri was humming a beautiful tune, and I asked her what it was. I had not realized that it was the tune of a Welsh song, although I probably should have. And I asked her to sing it, so I would beg that you do not blame the child for it, for she was only doing as I asked.”



“I do not intend to blame the child for it,” he said, his tone still flat and unreadable.



“It is my fault,” Georgette said after a great silence had opened up between them.



“Miss Darrington, I am not in the mood to argue or blame. I am not in the mood to have you tell me how wrong I am in my insistence that the children speak English as seems to be your way.”



“No, Your Grace,” Georgette said, her palms feeling clammy as she wondered what would be coming next.



“I know you think me harsh in my reasoning, but you cannot know what it does to me to hear that song. You might think it nothing more than a matter of snobbery on my part, but it is not,” he began. “To hear those voices, to hear that language is a constant reminder to me of everything that I have lost. And that song ….” he said, and Georgette heard the emotion in his voice. It had been so strong that it had forced him to stop speaking and, without looking at her, he sat down in the nearest chair.



It was not the chair he ordinarily sat in; not the one behind his desk. Rather it was the chair that Georgette sat in to deliver her progress reports on the children’s education. It was a dreadful, hard chair and, almost inappropriately, she wished he would not sit in it. She wished he would rise and go around his desk and sit on the chair he ordinarily sat in. For him to sit in the nearest chair spoke too much of his own pain, and she could not help feeling that she had caused it.



“When my sister first met Carwyn Thomas, she used to sing that song constantly.”



“Yes, Your Grace,” Georgette said quietly.