Archive of Our Own

Clarke only thinks of Bellamy Blake about a dozen times a day. Indeed some days she manages to go two waking hours at a stretch without thinking his name or seeing his hair in the fluffy curls of a cloud.

Hmm. Yes. Well, it’s a rather unfortunate obsession - all the more unfortunate since she hasn’t actually seen the man in six years. And since she’s a single woman with a five-year-old daughter, too, and a less-than-respectable job as a physician’s assistant.

She is, to be clear, in a distressing situation.

But that’s not new. She’s been in a distressing situation since she was eighteen years old, since her marriage to Mr Collins unravelled and it turned out he was already legally married to another woman, since he left her alone and disgraced and expecting a child. And from then on, really, she’s grown accustomed to accumulating trouble.

That’s the way she thinks of it. An accumulation. Never one big disaster, but death by a thousand cuts. Little fragments, piling up thick and fast as her life unravels.

That’s how it was with Mr Collins. She didn’t find out about his true wife all at once. She spotted it slowly, little hints and inconsistencies, growing more and more anxious about her situation until the truth came out. And the news that she was with child was much the same, too - a sort of slow gnawing suspicion building day by day until she started to show and realised she could pretend no longer.

So here she finds herself. She’s four and twenty. Her daughter, Madi, is the light of her life and yet also the reason she can never be accepted in polite society again. She works for a pittance as a physician’s assistant, receives letters from her mother only at Christmas and Easter, and lives in a small suite of rooms in a dirty part of Town.

And yet still, despite it all, she thinks of Bellamy Blake.

She ought to have forgotten all about him by now. He was her neighbour and friend when she was a girl, in as much as young ladies and young gentlemen can ever be friends. People used to speculate that they might suit and might get married one day, back before she married Mr Collins - or thought she was married to Mr Collins. But then they went their separate ways, her to Town to marry and be disgraced and stay to make a living, while Bellamy stayed in Arkadia.

He married Miss Echo North - a stern young woman from a couple of towns over. Clarke was surprised, honestly. Even Bellamy’s sister Octavia was surprised - she knows that, because she and Clarke were still in the habit of corresponding sometimes, in the early days. And then he set about staying home and running an estate and having babies, living the perfect life of a young country gentleman.

Meanwhile Clarke has fretted in town, and tried to learn not to miss him.

It’s fine. She’s being silly. It’s a silliness which has stuck with her for years, when she likes to think she’s otherwise a very rational woman. But it’s downright foolish to still be obsessed with a man she considered her friend as a child, a fellow she hasn’t even seen in years, who’s now happily married to someone else.

It’s not as if he was ever hers to lose. It’s not as if they were ever in love, ever discussed marriage, ever planned for a future together.

So there you have it. Clarke is miserable, and poor, and alone but for her illegitimate daughter. She’s staring out of the grimy windows at the city street below, trying not to feel wistful for the countryside of her youth.

She’s watching a young lad on horseback draw up outside her home.

She looks down at him, frowning. He seems to be some sort of messenger holding a letter. Must be for Dr Chirurgeon in the rooms below, she presumes. No one sends her letters. She’s almost estranged from her mother, hasn’t heard from anyone else in Arkadia for years, and receives all work-related correspondence at the hospital.

And yet he’s asking for her. Dr Chirurgeon has opened the door, yet the boy is asking for her. She can hear it loud and clear through the thin windows, even over the noise of the street. He’s definitely looking for a Miss Griffin.

She gathers her skirts and runs down the stairs. A letter for her. She takes it with eager hands, offers to pay the boy for his trouble.

There’s no need, he tells her. He was paid back in Arkadia to ride here with all speed.

Arkadia?

Before she can ask more about that, he’s gone.

She rushes up the stairs to read her letter in private. This might be some news about her mother, she supposes - perhaps a sudden illness or even the news that she’s dead. But would anyone really bother sending that to her with all this haste? Would anyone back home care enough to bother informing her?

Oh. Well. It’s not news about her mother at all.

It’s a letter from Octavia Woods, nee Blake. And it’s quite the most unexpected letter Clarke has ever received.

Dear Clarke

I hope I have your direction correct. I will give the bearer instructions not to rest until this is in your hands, so I hope you will receive it before long!

Please forgive me for writing out of the blue like this, and forgive me for my long silence, too. I can only plead that I knew not what to say when life took us on such different paths. But I feel compelled to write to you now because of a most distressing turn of events, and because of a situation I think you would wish to know about.

Mrs Echo Blake died not two months ago. I don’t know whether you are aware of that. I hope for your sake that your mother has told you as much, and I have not caught you completely unawares. She was taken from us by a sudden fever. It was all most unexpected.

She leaves behind her a daughter of four years and a baby boy of just six months. She leaves, too, my distraught brother who is not coping at all well with her loss. I will not dissemble; it is for this reason that I am writing to you. I remember your old friendship with my brother, and I believe he could use the comfort of a true friend at this time. More than anything I write on account of the children. They have neither mother nor governess, and only a nursemaid struggling to raise them as best she can. My brother is scarcely able to help her with the task at this time.

This is where you come in. Let me be plain - I understand that what I am about to suggest is most irregular. But please, bear with me and give the idea your most serious consideration. Would you consider returning to Arkadia as a sort of companion and governess to my brother and his children? I understand that your daughter is close in age to my niece. I have spent some hours mulling over this idea, and I believe both you and my brother are more likely to accept the suggestion that you should work for him as a governess than visit as our guest - but please, if you would be comfortable as our guest, know that the door is open to you. I am at my wit’s end to find a way to help my brother, and it occurred to me that perhaps I could write to you and offer stable employment to an old friend who is down on her luck.

I enclose a small sum of money. If you wish to take up my suggestion, please use it to travel to Arkadia with your daughter. If you choose not to do so, please consider it a gift.

Regards

Octavia Woods

Clarke reads the letter through once at speed, then a second time with painstaking care. Then a third and fourth time, briskly but not carelessly, to check she has understood it right.

Then she nods once, firm, and folds it neatly into quarters.

It appears she should start packing her bags. Evidently she has a journey to make.

…….

Over the next couple of days it never even occurs to Clarke that she could have chosen differently, that there were other options, that she could have stayed in Town and continued living her imperfect, salvaged life.

Of course it doesn’t. Bellamy Blake needs her. There’s nothing here to compete with that - nothing which even comes close to the tug which pulls her back to Arkadia.

She’s making a very sensible decision, she maintains. She earns little here, and she’d much rather Madi spent some time in the healthy fresh air of Arkadia. Becoming a governess or paid companion, or some mix of the two, is a good respectable path through life - she could find other employment of the same kind when Bellamy remarries or feels more able to manage his children and his situation. This is her route into a more stable and functional future.

There’s that, and there’s also the fact she misses him so much it hurts.

She has no delusions about what awaits her in Arkadia. She knows she isn’t going to walk straight into a romantic fairytale. He’s grieving his wife, and she’s disgraced, and her own mother barely acknowledges her existence. All she’s hoping for is stable, rewarding work and perhaps the chance to reclaim some sort of respect and warmth with an old friend.

So she packs her bags. She hands in her notice. She makes over Madi’s dress anew with a clean piece of wide ribbon, because it’s looking a little short for her around the legs. It’s still a rather threadbare dress, to be sure, and she’s certain that Bellamy’s daughter is far better dressed, but it’s a start.

It’s a good start, in fact, for the beginning of their new life back home.

…….

She arrives at The Arbours, Bellamy’s home, and it turns out that no one is expecting her. On the contrary - when a footman opens the door to find her and Madi there, dressed in worn clothing and grubby from travel, he starts speaking of having her driven off the estate.

Yes. Well. That’s hardly surprising - the two of them must look a sorry state. She should have thought this through and gone to Octavia’s home first, perhaps, but she’s not at all sure where that is and she can’t go wandering around Arkadia with her last few coins asking after the manor house where Mr and Mrs Woods live.

So it is that she swallows her pride, grasps her daughter’s hand a little tighter, and sets about begging as if her life depends upon it.

If she gets this wrong, perhaps it very well might.

“I’m here to see your master. To see Mr Blake - please.”

“As I’ve told you, madam, he’s indisposed and we are not expecting visitors.” The footman says primly.

“Please. Please will you take him a message from me before you cast us out? Will you tell him that Miss Clarke Griffin is here to be his governess? His sister arranged it all with me - Clarke Griffin, who used to live at Griffin Manor?” She tries desperately.

There is, perhaps, a spark of recognition in the footman’s eyes. He knows that a Mrs Griffin still lives at Griffin Manor, presumably. He’s decided that Clarke’s story is plausible, if not necessarily true.

He gives one curt nod.

“I’ll take that message to the master. We’ll let him be the judge of this - that’s as it should be. You’ll stand outside and wait, mind you.” He says sternly.

Clarke agrees to that easily enough. She knows when she’s not welcome - it’s a feeling she’s become all too familiar with in recent years. She’s hardly going to try to dash into the house this very second.

The door closes in her face. She stands there, still clutching her daughter’s hand, trying not to shiver in the lengthening evening.

She speaks a little with Madi while they wait. The kind of careful, upbeat conversation an anxious mother might have with her child. She tries to distract them both, in fact, by pointing out passing clouds in the twilight, and following the trail of a blackbird with her finger.

She doesn’t know what she’ll do if Bellamy refuses to let them inside. It’s really rather closer to night than to afternoon, now, and she can’t fly like that blackbird.

At last - after what seems like an age, but can really only be a few minutes - the door opens.

No. It’s more than that. The door is flung open, in fact, with quite some force. And then all at once there’s Bellamy, unkempt and unshaven, and looking absolutely shocked.

“Mr Blake.” Clarke says carefully, bobbing a curtsey.

There’s a beat of silence. The most awful silence of her life, she decides, and that’s saying something. This is worse even than the silence she used to get by way of reply when she wrote overly enthusiastic letters to her mother, in the early days.

And then -

“Clarke? Clarke Griffin? It’s really you?” He asks, too quickly, flapping his hands in midair as if not sure where to place them. “It is you. I can see it’s you. You’re still - you’re you. Only - what are you doing here? Why are you on my doorstep?”

She swallows hard. She’s not at all sure what to make of this. He didn’t used to talk like that, all frantic and shaky. Is that the force of his grief for the wife he must have loved - the wife he married instead of her? Has age changed him? Has he become an entirely different person during the years which lie wasted between them?

She clears her throat, tries to brush aside those melancholy thoughts and find an answer which might not have him tempted to throw her and Madi out into the hedgerows.

“It’s as I told your footman - I’m here to work as your governess. I’m so sorry to have taken you by surprise. Octavia wrote to offer me the position - I rather presumed she had arranged it with you. She thought you might find it helpful to have me here as a sort of governess or companion to help with the children and the household arrangements during this - this period of mourning.” She forces the words out.

He nods distractedly. “Yes. The children. Certainly - the children.”

She doesn’t know where to look. He’s obviously not at all well. It’s as Octavia said - he’s clearly not coping with the loss of his wife. That hurts Clarke’s heart in so many ways she can scarcely count them. She’s hurting for his sake, yes, but also at this fresh evidence that he really did love the late Mrs Blake.

Hmm. She thought her heart was past being hurt, by now. She thought she’d grown inured to pain, since she’s experienced so much of it in recent years.

“So - would you like me to help you care for the children?” She reiterates the key question carefully. “I understand if you don’t want a fallen woman with a bastard daughter living in your home, but -”

“No, not at all. Quite alright. You and the girl are always welcome - you’re Madi, aren’t you?” He asks, crouching down just a little. As if he wants to get down and look the girl in the eyes and greet her properly, but can’t quite remember how to do that.

“I’m Madi. And you’re Mr Bake. Mr Bellamy.” Madi supplies brightly.

“Mr Blake, sweetie.” Clarke corrects her, trying not to laugh. She thinks that laughing is probably not the correct response in such a delicate situation.

Bellamy doesn’t seem to agree, though. He lets out just one sudden chuckle - a short, sharp bark of laughter. It sounds rather hysterical, Clarke thinks, but perhaps it’s better than nothing.

She hopes it’s better than nothing.

“The children.” Bellamy repeats now, frowning. “I do worry about the children. Quite right - a governess would be just the thing. Very thoughtful of Octavia to send for you. Come in, come in. It’s quite late in the day to be travelling. Where should a governess and her daughter sleep, do you think?”

Clarke tries not to gape at him. The Bellamy she grew up with was a decisive, confident, charismatic fellow. He wouldn’t ask someone else’s advice for a thing as trifling as this. But evidently he’s paralysed by indecision tonight, or grief, or some toxic cocktail of the two.

“We’ll gladly take whichever accommodation you think suitable.” She says, genuinely grateful. He seems to be set on welcoming them both inside with the minimum of fuss, and she can already feel the relief seeping into her weary bones.

“I don’t know the proper formula. We’ve never had a governess before. We have a nurse, and we always meant to employ a governess when Julia was old enough.” Bellamy says, in a wistful sort of tone. “But in the early years, Echo was determined to be rather an involved sort of mother.”

Oh God. Oh dear Lord on high in heaven above. Clarke is not prepared for this. She is woefully unprepared to stand here and listen to Bellamy speak of his late wife’s maternal qualities. And she wants to handle it smoothly - wants to support him as a friend - but in this moment she’s simply not equal to the task.

“We’ll sleep wherever you send us.” She says lightly, and curses herself for a coward. That’s hardly a good response to a mourning friend, is it?

“Ah - yes - bedrooms. Will you want to share with Madi? I’m not at all sure how this works. Should she join my two in the nursery? And - and you in the family wing? Or is that overfamiliar? Is it the wrong thing to do?”

“Why don’t we share a room in the servants’ quarters? I’m here as an employee, after all.” Clarke points out, rather desperate to get him to stop fretting, in all honesty. There’s something deeply uncomfortable about watching an old friend lose his mind.

“Right. Very good. A room in the attic for you both. I’ll see to it.”

He walks off without another word.

Clarke stands in the vaulted entryway, stares up at the high ceiling, and wonders why her old friend’s home suddenly feels so deeply unfamiliar.

…….

Mother and daughter spend a very short time settling into their attic room. Madi is an excitable sort of child, in as much as her early life has ever allowed for much excitement, so she wants to look into every corner, open and close the single window half a dozen times, and pepper her mother with questions about her old friendship with kind Mr Bellamy.

Clarke was never the sort to allow herself to get overexcited, and recent years have only hardened her resolve to be pragmatic and sensible at every turn. So it is that she watches her daughter carefully, ensures the window is not injured by her enthusiasm, and reflects on the situation her old friend Bellamy finds himself in.

She must be better prepared for him to be a mess the next time she sees him. That’s the thought which is foremost in her mind, after that awkward reintroduction on the doorstep. Despite Octavia’s warning, she was truly taken aback at the depth of his grief - or rather, at the abrupt impact his grief seems to have on his behaviour.

Maybe she ought to think of some careful phrases to help them both along next time they get stuck in an awkward mire of stuttering sadness. That might help her feel prepared, and she always does like a good plan.

My condolences for your grief.

No. Too stiff, too impersonal. And a trite condolence isn’t going to help anyone decide on a bedroom, is it? That is what is really needed, here - a pragmatic governess to keep the household moving around him while he reels and steadies himself once more.

Don’t worry. I can take care of that while you take a moment with your thoughts.

Hmm. Better. Reassuring, at least - and she senses he’s very much in need of reassurance just now. But it’s quite wordy, perhaps a little complicated for a dazed, grief-stricken man, and anyway she gets the distinct impression that he doesn’t much like spending time alone with his thoughts, these days. That he’s still in the denial stage of his grief, perhaps, and wishing his life would just go back to normal.

How to tell him that life will never go back to normal, but that it’s going to be fine in the end? That even after a thousand cuts healing can happen, and life can grow around the scars? That she’s here for him while he learns a new way of fathering his children, a new way of running his estate, a new way of functioning without a wife by his side?

You’ve got me for that.

Yes. That’s it. It’s perfect. Short and sweet, gentle but to the point. Children need feeding and dressing? You’ve got me for that. Menu needs choosing? You’ve got me for that.

Heart needs holding, and protecting, and wrapping up safe and warm?

You’ve got me for that.

No. Not that last one. Silly of her to still be thinking of Bellamy like that, so many years later, and when he’s in such a terrible time, too. Heavens, he’s scarcely even the same man.

But he is. That’s the frightening truth that her heart insists on whispering to her. Even at his most distracted, his most upset, he’s still the kind and good-humoured man she knew in her youth. He’s still the same Bellamy who would take in an old friend and her child when they appeared on his doorstep, no matter the years and scandals that lay between them.

He’s still the same Bellamy who would laugh at a child’s silly humour, even. She remembers fondly when he used to laugh with Octavia like that.

Perhaps, if she’s a very good governess, he might remember how to laugh with his children more often, too.

…….

Clarke starts work that evening. She thinks it’s best that way, reckons she had better start earning her keep as soon as possible. She doesn’t want Bellamy to start reconsidering his decision to take a fallen long-lost friend into his home.

Sorry - Mr Blake. She doesn’t want Mr Blake to reconsider his decision to employ her. That’s what this is, and she would do well to remember it.

She begins with the children’s bedtime on that first night. That seems like an obvious place to start, since helping to care for them is supposed to be part of her ill-defined role. 

Bedtime for the baby - for Gus, a tiny spitting image of Bellamy - is the easy part. He’s perhaps even too young to realise his mother is dead, Clarke thinks - or at least that he doesn’t truly understand it, that he only knows it as a strange sense of confusion and something missing. So he goes down quietly enough with the nurse, Maya, deftly setting him in his cradle, and Clarke asking her a few quiet questions about the usual bedtime routine and singing a lullaby softly to him.

Then comes the bigger challenge. Then comes Julia, all of four years old and full of attitude.

“No. No, it’s not my bedtime.” The child insists. “I don’t go to bed with Gus. I’m a big girl now. I’m allowed to stay up until Papa puts me to bed.”

Clarke frowns. She throws a look at Maya. She’s only known the nurse for less than a quarter-hour, but already she’s convinced that the woman is capable of being rather helpful in a situation like this. She’s hoping that’s the truth, because Clarke herself has nothing, here. She doesn’t think anything is less likely than than Bellamy will manage to come and put his daughter to bed, not after the way he was behaving this afternoon. And anyway, most landed gentlemen don’t put their children to bed. It’s simply not the done thing.

But she doesn’t want to start a blazing row with a four-year-old on her first evening in the job, so she’s rather at a loss.

Thankfully, Maya is more than up to the challenge.

“I know your father likes to come and say goodnight.” Maya says, warm and soothing. “But you can’t presume he will, dearie. You can’t expect it, not every night, and not now you’re a big girl. Your father’s a very busy man.”

Busy. Hmm. Is that what they’re calling it? Clarke wonders how helpful that is. It’s not normal to talk about grief with young children, of course, but she rather thinks they’re all doing Julia a disservice by pretending her father’s heart - and perhaps also his head - have not been irrevocably broken.

Julia pouts. She pouts, and she frowns, and she clasps her little hand into a miniature fist of anger. It helps Clarke to see more of Bellamy in her, actually. He was always a rather transparently emotional young man, prone to getting a bit angry or worked up. Evidently his daughter takes after him.

Maybe she can work with that. Not the anger part, perhaps, but that same essence.

“You’re so like your father.” Clarke says, warm and easy. “So very similar - no wonder he loves you so very much. When I first arrived this afternoon you and your brother were all he could talk about.”

That’s stretching the truth, perhaps. He could barely talk about anything. But when he did speak, the children were mentioned. It’s not quite a lie - and it’s evidently what Julia needs to hear tonight. She’s softened a little, now, and is nodding thoughtfully.

“He likes to say goodnight and tell me a story.” Julia insists, still frowning, but less fiercely. “He used to tell me stories all the time when I was a baby. Or - I think he did. Maybe I’m not remembering it right.” She says, wistfully, evidently wondering why there are fewer bedtime stories of late than in her hazy memories of being an extremely young child.

“I’m sure he does like to tell you bedtime stories.” Clarke agrees, still as soothing as she can manage. “But as he’s not here just now, could I tell you one instead? Could I do that for you?”

Julia’s still frowning. She’s considering that offer, chewing it over slowly.

“I know a good story about a princess.” Clarke offers, desperate, not quite sure it’s the truth. “She -”

“Did someone say story?”

Clarke sighs in relief at that interruption. That’s Bellamy himself, striding through the nursery door, evidently doing his best impression of a loving father without a care in the world.

It’s not a very convincing impression, Clarke cannot help but notice. Yes, to be sure, he clearly loves his children. He’s reaching out to hug his daughter, casting a careful look at the baby’s cradle. But there’s a vacant expression in his eyes, a sort of haunted heaviness around his mouth and jaw - as if he’s not stretched his face into a smile in quite some time.

Julia doesn’t seem to notice that, though. With all the innocence of a young child she’s hugging him back, evidently delighted to see the father she idolises. She’s pulling at his unkempt hair, begging him loudly for that bedtime story.

“Yes. A story. Quite right - a story.” Bellamy agrees.

And then he simply… stops. There’s just empty silence where his words should be, where the promised tale should unfold. He’s staring, lips fixed in a firm line, eyes sad as he gazes at the opposite wall.

At last he seems to collect himself. He takes a loud breath, fixes a smile which is obviously false onto his face.

“You know - I think we should let Clarke tell the story tonight. That’s right and fitting, don’t you think, Julia? Did Clarke introduce herself? Miss Griffin? She’s to be your governess for a while.”

“We’ve been getting to know each other this evening, haven’t we?” Clarke jumps in to help him out as best she can.

Julia nods. She doesn’t look happy, as such - evidently she really did want a bedtime story from her father. But she doesn’t seem unhappy either, and at this stage, Clarke thinks that counts as victory. Not unhappy is good going for a child who lost her mother a few short months ago.

So it is that Clarke does her best. That’s what will define this new role, she supposes. Thrown into the deep end, into a job with no description, she will do her best to care for these children and their father and this whole entire household.

It’s a fair bedtime story. It’s about a princess, and a knight, and a long-drawn-out romance. If any of her small audience notices any resemblance to real living persons, they are too polite to mention it. And Julia seems more or less content - evidently it’s this kind of mythical adventure which she expects from a bedtime story.

It’s so moderately successful, in fact, that Clarke even dares to take one brave step when Julia is safely asleep. She even dares to turn to Bellamy, and ask one cautious question about what on earth her life here might look like.

“What happens now?” She asks, soft, careful to make the question as unthreatening as possible. “I’m not familiar with the routine in this household. I should put Madi down for the evening, but I wonder - that is to say - would you expect a governess to eat in the servants’ hall, or will this be one of those households where the governess joins the family at table?”

He gives her a slow, considering look. Evidently he’s coping better with this than with her sudden appearance on his doorstep this afternoon.

“I’ve been taking a tray in my study since - since it happened.” He manages. “It seems silly to open up the dining room for one person. But I would want to be a household where the governess is welcome at the family table. I’ll use the dining room tomorrow now that you are here.” He concludes, with just a glimmer of that old decisiveness she remembers so well.

Very good. So he’s still capable of the same sort of attitude, especially when she frames her questions as carefully and supportively as possible.

“Thank you. That’s very kind. I appreciate the warm welcome.” She says, simple and affirming as she can.

The ghost of a grin. “I appreciate the surprise appearance and the generous help with the children. Come on - let’s eat together tonight all the same. We can each take a tray in my study. Put Madi to bed and then join me.”

Six years ago, she thinks, she’d have teased him for that. She’d have reminded him that she doesn’t take orders from him, that he has no place bossing her around like that.

But it’s different now. It’s different because he is now her employer, yes. But more than anything it’s different because she’s relieved to hear him speaking with a bit of conviction, acting with a bit of confidence. Because, honestly, that confidence seems so fragile she’s worried she might shatter it with an ill-placed word.

So it is that she nods, and thanks him again, and goes to see to her daughter.

…..

The conversation they share over their supper trays is not a long one. Or rather, it doesn’t consist of many lines. It does last several minutes, to be sure, but they’re minutes which are characterised by long, heavy silences interspersed with a few isolated words.

That’s fine. Clarke isn’t here to laugh and tease and even flirt as she used to when they were both rather younger and more cheerful. She’s here to care for two motherless children and one wifeless man. It would be selfish to think of her own amusement amongst all this grief.

There is one moment, though, which is rather lighter. As Bellamy pokes listlessly at a hunk of bread on his tray, he asks a fascinating question.

“Hold on - a moment - something has just now occurred to me. How much am I paying you?” He asks.

Clarke laughs so hard and loud and sudden it makes her ribs hurt. It’s the first time she’s laughed like that in years, she thinks. And Bellamy joins in too - quieter, perhaps more unsure, but laughter nonetheless.

“I think my wages are probably the least of both our worries, under the circumstances.” She says when she can speak coherently again. “What do you pay the nurse or the housekeeper? I’m sure that will suit. I’m only grateful there’s a roof over our heads.” She says, because it’s the honest truth. Being warm and well-fed in Bellamy’s service has to be a better life than clinging to the edges of society in that less-than-respectable situation in Town.

“I think, in fact, this is not really a laughing matter, although I do understand why you said what you did.” Bellamy argues, sobering up. “I don’t want to take advantage of your situation. I take the matter of your wages very seriously and want to pay you as befits the role. I’ll send to a governess agency in Town and ask what the going rate is.”

She grins at him, just a little. Just in as much as she thinks a grin might be acceptable, on the first night of the rest of her life. She really recognises her Bellamy, in this moment - or rather, the much younger Bellamy who was never hers to lose. He’s so warmhearted, but also more coherent, more up for getting stuck into an argument with her. They did used to bicker.

She remembers that. She remembers it, and it hurts.

“Thank you.” She tells him, firm and unusually earnest for such commonplace words. “Really - I mean it. Thank you for making us feel so welcome. I am determined to take good care of you and the children.”

“Of course you are.” He says, as if that’s obvious. “That’s what you do - you resolve to take care of people. You set about mothering them whether they think they need it or not. You’ve always been like that.” A loud swallow. “It’s good to have you back. I only wish it were under happier circumstances. I - ah - I’m not the best host, at present.”

You are.

The words are right there on the tip of her tongue. An instinctive denial of his doubts, an impulsive reassurance that he’s still the best man she’s ever known, the best host she can imagine.

But she doesn’t say it, of course. She’s never been an impulsive woman. Rather she folds her hands neatly in her lap, eyes fixed on her supper tray.

“I quite understand your situation and you have been a very warm host considering the circumstances.” She says carefully.

He seems quite pleased with that - or at least, pleased in as much as a bereft widower can be pleased about anything.

…….

Clarke does her best to make herself useful the following morning. She looks in on the children, finds Maya already dressing the baby and insisting that everything is under control. So then she goes in search of the housekeeper to check whether there’s anything that the lady of the house ought to do, and which will need dealing with now that The Arbours is without a mistress. Clarke doesn’t intend to impose herself as some kind of replacement for Mrs Blake, of course. Naturally she doesn’t. But she thinks it’s important that she knows what needs doing, so that she can either quietly and subtly take care of some tasks, or else pass others onto Octavia instead, perhaps.

There are a number of things Mrs Blake used to take care of, it turns out. Of course there are. Clarke really ought to stop being surprised or even strangely hurt to see her influence at every turn. So it is that she takes deep breaths and makes a careful list of all the tasks the housekeeper suggests.

Then she’s on the move again, onto her next duty. Then she’s dandling baby Gus on her knee, trying to settle him down for a nap. She still hasn’t seen Bellamy all morning, as a point of interest, but she doesn’t ask after him. It’s none of her business.

Or at least - she’s still trying to learn what, exactly, her business might be.

No. This is fine. She’s doing the right thing. She’s dandling his baby by the former Echo North on her knee and trying not to dream of what might have been. And that’s fine. She can do that, if it’s what she must do. If it’s the price she must pay for an error of judgement when she was seventeen years old - or rather, for one cad’s duplicitousness. It feels unfair that she must be the one to pay that price, to be sure, but evidently that is the way of the world.

Once Gus is resting, she bustles outside for a walk with Madi and Julia. Bellamy’s daughter will benefit from some fresh air to ease her grief, she hopes, and Clarke is positive that the country air will be very beneficial for Madi after a childhood spent in cramped accommodations in Town. So it is that the three of them explore the gardens near the house together, with Julia eagerly pointing out her favourite sights and shrubs as young children are wont to do.

Clarke is utterly absorbed in approving of Julia’s favourite Hydrangea, of all things, when she hears a familiar voice.

“Clarke? That is you. I heard that you had arrived.”

She jumps at once, tears her attention away from the Hydrangea, turns on her heel to find Octavia standing behind her.

“Octavia! That is - I suppose - should I call you Mrs Woods?”

Octavia laughs. It’s a slightly stiff laugh, perhaps, but a laugh nonetheless. “I hardly think that will be necessary. I know we are not such close friends as we used to be, but -”

“I should say we are still very close friends indeed.” Clarke argues, sensing that some reassurance is required here. “You reached out to me after many years and have given my daughter and me the chance of a better life here. That’s friendship by my definition of the word.”

“Hmm. Or perhaps I am taking advantage of your bad situation to solve my family’s troubles.” Octavia says darkly. “But all the same, it is good to see you. Is this your little girl?”

“Not so little as she used to be.” Clarke answers easily, nudging Madi forward. “Madi - this is Octavia, Julia’s aunt and Mr Blake’s sister.”

“Mr Bellamy’s sister.” Madi echoes, and Clarke wonders whether that is her five-year-old trying to correct her stiff attempt at formality, or whether it’s just an honest mistake.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Madi.” Octavia says with what looks for all the world like a genuine smile. Evidently she’s feeling more relaxed, now that the air is a little clearer and a simple introduction to a child is the task at hand. “How are you liking your new home?”

“I like the garden.” Madi offers, bright and innocent.

They can all agree on that. For a couple of minutes, indeed, they do little else. They stand there, and the adults carry on a conversation about the gardens, and the children chime in with occasional enthusiastic contributions.

But at last Octavia reveals her true purpose.

“I was hoping to speak with you, Clarke, and with my brother all together. You must have realised by now that - ah - I did not exactly warn him you were coming. I was determined to give him no opportunity to weasel out of an arrangement which was so obviously in everyone’s interests, and that of the children most of all - and of course, I wasn’t sure you would come. So - perhaps now it is done, and you are staying, we might sit down and discuss how this will work?”

Clarke casts a doubtful look at her two young charges. “I would be delighted to speak with you both, but I don’t see how I can do that in the middle of the morning without being neglectful of my duties. We are only outside while the baby is napping, and then I must -”

“You must come and take tea with my brother and me, and share some friendly discussion of your role here.” Octavia says firmly. “Maya will quite happily watch all three of the children for a while. She has proven herself an invaluable help in recent months.”

Clarke frowns. She’s not at all sure how to handle this. That was a direct instruction from Octavia, more or less, and Clarke must bear in mind that she’s now employed by the lady’s brother - this is not just the uncomplicated friendship they shared when they were younger. But she’s loath to neglect her duties so early on in her time in post.

More than that, though, she feels rather morally conflicted. She wants to take tea with Bellamy and Octavia. She’s not only considering the idea because Octavia instructed her to do so - rather, it’s something which sounds fun. She selfishly craves their company. And doesn’t that make her the worst kind of person? She’s here to work, not to make other servants care for her daughter while she selfishly plays at pretending she’s still a fine gentlewoman and enjoys the master’s company a little too much.

This kind of flimsiness, this bowing to temptation, is what led her to accept Mr Collins - and since that fell apart, she has naturally been determined to avoid all silliness of that kind and replace it only with cold, careful pragmatism.

Very well. She will accept Octavia’s request pragmatically. She will take tea with them both because that’s the sensible thing to do, not just because she wants to. Clarifying her role and duties is an important part of being a good employee.

She nods, murmurs her agreement, and starts shepherding the girls back towards the house.

…….

Tea is… interesting.

The tea itself is wonderfully boring, to be sure. The actual refreshments all taste exactly the same as Clarke remembers from visiting with Octavia in her youth - or rather, coming to visit Octavia for the sake of propriety, but really spending most of her time chatting with Bellamy.

She likes the familiarity, even though the tea is actually quite weak, the petits fours a little bland, the shortbread barely on the right side of soggy. It’s reassuring to know that, however much all their lives have changed in the last six years, the same down-to-earth cook is still employed at The Arbours, and she hasn’t got any better at pretentious little snacks.

Clarke hopes she hasn’t got any worse at game pie. The game pie used to be the highlight, she recalls. That was the kind of good honest food you came to dine at The Arbours for.

She nibbles on one of those scarcely-crisp biscuits and allows herself to relax, just a little. She presumes that this conversation will start off quite comfortably, with some discussion of how the children are this morning, or perhaps a question about how prepared she feels for the role of governess.

She presumes wrong, because Octavia Woods is a rather direct sort of woman. Funny how you forget a thing like that in six years apart - or rather, Clarke remembered with her head that Octavia is never subtle, but her heart still stutters in surprise when Octavia dives straight in with a difficult question.

“I wanted us all three to speak together to determine whether there’s anything which Clarke should do which the mistress of the estate would usually do.” She explains without preamble. “I’ve taken baskets to the tenants on occasion, but little more than that. I can’t keep up with being the mistress of two estates at once, especially not when we are quite a carriage ride beyond the village.”

She’s met with silence. Clarke thinks it’s an awkward silence, but it might just be a mournful one. She’s not very fluent at reading the difference, yet, in this awkward, mournful house.

She had better say something. She had better break up the quietness and clarify her position.

“I’m not trying to replace Mrs Blake.” She says, and cringes. That’s a sentence which sounds even worse when she says it out loud, it turns out.

She tries again. “I appreciate that there are some things it would simply be inappropriate for me to do. Although I was born gentry and did tasks like that on the estate in my youth, we all know I am now a fallen woman. I can’t be seen to usurp…” She trails off. No point repeating that denial and being accused of protesting too much.

Across the room, Bellamy visibly gathers himself. He takes a deep breath, sits a little taller in his chair.

“I will visit the tenants.” He declares. “I’ll go this afternoon. You’re quite right - it’s a duty I have neglected too long. I might as well do it now that the estate has no mistress.”

“Are you sure you’re ready for that?” Octavia asks.

Clarke wants to tell her to save her breath. Of course he’s sure. He’s Bellamy Blake. Even grief-stricken, he’s still a decisive man - most of the time. Or at least, she’s seen evidence that he’s still capable of being so when he’s feeling relatively comfortable. So if he says he can do it, he can do it. He surely doesn’t enjoy being fussed over and patronised like this.

He just wants someone by his side to let him be, but to tell him you’ve got me for that when the occasion demands it. He doesn’t need nursing or mothering.

“Of course I’m sure.” Bellamy says, and Clarke hides a smile. She does still know him well, it seems. “And besides - it’ll do me good to get out of doors.”

“Fresh air is good for the spirits.” Clarke agrees. That’s more supportive than patronising, she hopes.

“Indeed. And besides - it’s high time I got back into being more… active. I only lost my wife. It happens to people all the time.” He swallows loudly. “Three families were bereaved by fever in the village this year alone.”

“That doesn’t make it easy, though.” Clarke points out. She knows dozens of women are deserted and expecting a child every year, too, but that never made her situation any easier.

He nods, flashes her a strained but grateful smile. He’s doing quite well, she thinks. She’s proud of him, in fact - if a lady is allowed to be proud of a gentleman she used to call a friend in years gone by.

“I have a rather important question.” He continues now. “Will you be wanting some time off to visit your mother, Clarke? Have you seen her since you moved back to the area?”

“No, I haven’t. And - ah - no. That won’t be at all necessary.” She swallows stiffly. “We aren’t close any more.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” He says.

That’s it. No curious questions, no pointed stares. He’s just sorry that her family life has fallen apart, just as she is sorry that his has been shattered, too.

He leans forward in his chair to offer her another of those slightly soggy biscuits, and she is only too happy to accept.

…….

Her new life falls into a comfortable pattern quite quickly in the days which follow.

Morning. Wake and dress the children. Lessons, or a walk outside - or why not both? Some time spent with Bellamy, some time apart. Perhaps a visit from Octavia, or some errands to run with the housekeeper. Then bedtime for the children and at last Clarke’s favourite part of the day - supper for the adults.

Or rather, supper for just Bellamy and Clarke. The other household staff eat all together below stairs, presumably. She’s not at all sure how she feels about being singled out as a different class of employee, or about these rigid rules society cleaves to. If there’s one thing her experience as a fallen woman taught her, it’s that placing people on arbitrary rungs of an imaginary ladder is a waste of time.

But because she’s a hypocrite who very much enjoys having Bellamy’s sole company, she doesn’t say a word about it.

The situation is silly. It’s beyond foolish. A whole vast dining room opened for just the two of them, sitting at one end of the table, every evening. And the thing which she finds the most laughable is that, of course, no one ever chaperones them. It strikes her as funny that they are allowed all this time together now, in this chapter of their lives - but she remembers in the whole year she was out before her sham marriage they never managed to have a single private conversation.

Not that they’re managing much conversation now, to be sure. It’s mostly monosyllables. But that’s not unexpected - for some people, that’s how grief works.

She tries not to bother Bellamy by wittering on when he’s in a quiet moment. Every now and then, though, she does allow herself the occasional well-judged snippet of conversation.

“I believe Julia very much enjoyed her riding lesson today. She hasn’t been riding long, I understand?” She asks.

“No, not long. Since just before you came.”

Clarke nods, lets silence sit. The food is good - and so is the company. Even when he’s quieter than he used to be, Bellamy is still her idea of a perfect dinner companion.

“Her mother was a keen rider.” He offers now.

She smiles. “That’s good. That’s lovely - to remember a happy thing about her like that. Does Julia know, do you think?”

“I’m not sure. Would she remember a thing like that? Perhaps I’ll mention it. I’ll come to watch one of her riding lessons and mention it.” He resolves.

“She would love that.” Clarke affirms at once. “Of course, she loves you whether you manage that or not. She’s very fond of her father.” She mock-whispers, in a confidential sort of tone.

Bellamy laughs. That’s a thing he does now, sometimes, without sounding too tense. “She’s too young to understand I’m a hot-headed fool half the time. I’m sure we’ll butt heads often enough when she’s in that awkward age between childhood and adulthood.”

“Perhaps. But isn’t that a normal part of life in every loving family?” She asks it as a question, but she knows her point is made. She wants him to realise above all that this can still be a loving family - that it still is a loving family, even now - despite the loss they have suffered.

He takes her point, throws her a grateful smile. “It’s good that you’re here, Clarke.”

“I couldn’t have said it better myself.” She offers pertly.

He grins. “No, that won’t do. You can’t simply agree with me like that. Are you only being kind to me because I’m grieving? The Clarke I remember growing up with used to argue with me about anything and everything, I recall.”

Her turn to laugh. “That Clarke is gone now. I’ve spent so much time since then fighting against an impossible situation - I’ve learnt not to fight against what is good and true when it’s staring me in the eyes.”

Oh. Well. Evidently that was the wrong thing to say. There’s something different about his face now - half-frowning, perhaps even flushing a little.

She can’t work out what she’s done. She hasn’t a clue what she said to get that strange reaction. But strange silences are quite a common theme in this house, of late, so she simply takes her attention back to her dinner and lets the moment pass.

…….

Clarke has been living at The Arbours three weeks when her mother first comes to visit.

That’s the worst possible timing, Clarke thinks - the worst of every possible option in the world. If Abby had come right away, she would have looked eager and enthusiastic about renewing her acquaintance with her daughter. That might have been a sign that she was only taken aback by Clarke’s circumstances, and sorry for the physical distance between them, and now felt more able to try to rebuild a relationship.

And the other, better option? Abby could never have come at all. She could have simply stayed away, dropped Clarke’s acquaintance entirely, pretended she was the daughter of some other Mrs Griffin. At least that would have been a clean and final end to the long-drawn-out mess of their drifting apart.

But this is worse. It’s simply awful. By showing up three weeks in, Abby is implicitly saying that she supposes she ought to pretend to care about her daughter, but she’s not particularly keen to see her - or at least, that is how Clarke takes it.

More than anything, though, it’s an annoyance. Julia has a riding lesson this morning, and Clarke was supposed to supervise, and she was going to take Madi along to watch. That’s part of her job and duty - a much better use of her time than hovering awkwardly in a drawing room which is not her own and greeting a mother who seems inclined to pretend she’s not her own, either.

So it is that she’s rather short with her mother when she greets her.

“I wasn’t expecting you.” She says simply.

“No. I - I wasn’t expecting to come here.”

Clarke frowns deeper at that. Not only has her mother waited three weeks for this visit, but apparently she’s still not sure she’s done the right thing.

“I’ve tried to set out to see you several times in recent weeks, but I always end up turning around.” Her mother says, eyes fixed carefully on the carpet. “Silly of me. I knew I should just do it . But then again - I’ve never had my daughter’s bravery.”

“That’s a terrible excuse.” Clarke informs her robustly. “No daughter should have to be braver than her mother. I learnt to be brave because you did not stand by me.”

“I know! I know. I - I am sorry, Clarke.”

It’s too little too late. There’s simply no other way of looking at it. Clarke considers herself a reasonably compassionate woman - she was a physician’s assistant, after all - but even she can’t accept such a pathetic, outdated apology.

It’s in this moment, here and now, that she makes a promise to herself. She swears that she will stand by Madi if ever push comes to shove. She will be the brave mother that her mother never was.

She will do better.

“Clarke?”

“I heard you.” She says, admirably calm - or at least, so she thinks. “You have apologised and I… I acknowledge your apology. But I don’t accept it, mother. How could I? How could one apology all these years later make right what you did?”

“It can’t. I know it can’t. I thought that perhaps - if I were to visit sometimes, to show all the local families that I have welcomed you and Madi back to Arkadia, that might -”

“You’ve welcomed us back - but after the Blakes and Mrs Woods made it acceptable to do so. I see.” She bites out, unimpressed.

Bellamy saves her. Of course he does - that’s the kind of man he is. Even though she’s here partly to serve him, partly to take care of him, he’s the one rescuing her in this moment.

He simply strolls into the room, greets her with an easy smile, and starts speaking as if her mother is of no consequence.

“Clarke! There you are. I wondered - shall I join you and the girls for Julia’s riding lesson today? And really, it’s past time we got Madi riding too. It’s not fair to single out only Julia when there are two young ladies living under this roof.”

“I say it’s exceptionally fair, considering Julia is yours and Madi is the child of your governess.” Clarke says mildly, grinning at him all the while.

“Don’t be absurd. Madi lives here as Julia’s playmate and companion. We really must abandon all this nonsense about who gets riding lessons, and who gets new shoes, and who sleeps in the nursery, and so on.”

“You’ll be regretting that when you’ve seen how fast Madi’s feet grow.” Clarke says, because that seems safer than asking the difficult question, here. Is Bellamy really suggesting he will not just pay Madi’s keep, but even raise her as a young gentlewoman?

“No. My mind is made up. I’ve been thinking on this for some days, and my decision is made. Madi is another child of this household, and that’s an end to it. I’ll not hear another word of protest.”

She smiles at him. She just stands there and smiles, her anger towards her mother quite eclipsed by the scale of her affection for this remarkable man. There he goes again, she muses - getting all decisive, insisting on throwing his warm and generous heart at the world. That’s the Bellamy she’s always known and loved.

“You are far too generous, but I am grateful for it.” She says, in the end, as graceful as she can manage. “And at risk of being impertinent to my employer - may I say it’s good to see you acting the big brother to all the world again?”

He laughs a loud laugh, shakes his head, actually reaches out to pat playfully at her shoulder.

That’s quite an overfamiliar move, she thinks. But she doesn’t step away, because frankly the warmth of his hand is very welcome.

Then, and only then, he turns to her mother.

“Mrs Griffin. So good of you to call. Did you call on Clarke last week while I was out, perhaps? No? I see. Well - I daresay you’re welcome as long as Clarke wishes to see you.” He says, so firm it almost comes out as a threat. A pointed reminder that Clarke doesn’t particularly wish to see her, as far as he can tell, presumably.

Clarke ought to keep silent, perhaps. She’s got a riding lesson to watch. And Bellamy has just soundly put her mother in her place, so really, there is no need for more words on her part.

But suddenly, she finds that she can’t do it. She can’t walk away, can’t leave the conversation here, can’t get on with her morning quite yet.

“I - ah - I understand your apology did not meet the reception you were hoping for.” She begins haltingly. “But if you truly do wish to welcome me back to Arkadia - if you really would like to persevere with repairing our relationship - then - that is…”

She trails off. She stumbles to a stop, peeps a brief glance at Bellamy for courage. He’s looking straight at her, steady and sure, with just a hint of a smile in his eyes.

She gathers herself and tries one more time to finish that idea.

“If you want to see me sometimes, that would be fine. I believe conversation must be a necessary part of righting past wrongs.” She manages.

She nods. Her mother nods. Bellamy doesn’t nod - his eyes are darting between the two of them, Clarke notes, as if he’s watching protectively over this entire situation.

He’s a silly man, she thinks fondly. So dedicated to the defence of the people he cares about. Big brother to all the world indeed - or perhaps something else entirely.

Without further ado, she leads the way from the room.

…….

They discuss it further that evening. As the two of them sit all alone and unchaperoned in the dining room, a rather useful and honest conversation unfolds.

“Would you like to tell me more about your mother?” He simply asks, as he bites down on a piece of parsnip. “The answer is allowed to be no.”

She throws him another grateful smile - perhaps the fourth of the day by now, she thinks. She does find herself feeling grateful towards him quite often, and not just for the roof over her head. She’s grateful not just for what he does but who he is, for the gift of having someone so supportive in her life - and yet, someone who is easy-going about being supportive.

So it is that she gathers her courage and tells him something she’s never shared with another soul.

“Death by a thousand cuts. That’s - that’s what it felt like. My situation growing worse by slow degrees. My mother pulling away from me, one missing letter at a time. My pockets growing emptier, my head growing fuller - all little by little, a breath at a time, until you’re up to your neck in the mire but you couldn’t say how or when you got there. I always wished it had been cleaner. I would have found it so much easier to have just one sudden crisis to deal with. To wake up one morning and know that my life had abruptly changed and I was… outcast. It’s just cruel to have that happen one cut at a time.”

For a moment, silence sits. She’s not surprised. That was a long flurry of words, some of them rather heavy. She imagines it might well take a beat or two for Bellamy to weigh them up and decide how to respond.

When he does, it’s not what she was expecting.

“A person always wants what they can’t have.” He murmurs, slow and thoughtful. “You would rather your changed circumstances came about more sharply and cleanly. But I - I would have given anything to have long enough to say goodbye. Echo’s sickness was so sudden - and the delirium - she didn’t really know herself. And the doctors didn’t want me to go in because of the contagion…” He sighs. “So I had a sudden loss, and wish with all my heart it could have been different. That it could have been gradual and I could have said a proper goodbye. But you wish you had known for certain that your former life was over, rather than those slow degrees of separation from your family and friends?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

He nods. “I wish for something else, too. I wish I hadn’t dropped your acquaintance, back when your life changed. I wish - I wish -”

There’s a pause. A long, loaded pause, in which Clarke can see his throat bobbing. Whatever is coming next, he’s evidently finding it difficult to say.

“I wish I’d done things differently.” He concludes hoarsely.

Hmm. Yes. Somehow, she doesn’t think that’s what he was aiming for. She laughs a hollow laugh, shakes her head at him. “There’s not much you could have done differently. You’re a gentleman and I’m a disgraced woman.”

He doesn’t agree with her. In fact, she thinks he’s making a point of not agreeing with her.

So it is that she moves the conversation back to more useful ground. “I am sorry that your loss was so sudden, then, if you wish it hadn’t been like that. I am sorry that it happened at all, of course - but I am especially sorry that you lost her in a way that you found difficult.”

“I’m just sorry.” He tells her, hands spread wide. “I’m sorry you live in a world where one man’s immorality ruined your life. I am sorry for my part in it too. I’m sorry.”

His part in it was hardly worth mentioning, she thinks. He dropped her acquaintance, yes - but as she’d moved to Town and he was an unattached gentleman at the time, it’s not as if he could really have continued their friendship. Perhaps he simply feels guilty because he wishes he’d defended her reputation more robustly to those left behind in Arkadia. Yes - that does seem like something Bellamy might expect of himself.

Or perhaps it’s something else entirely. There’s a wistful little voice whispering in her heart, humming in her ears, suggesting that perhaps, just possibly, he might be making reference to those old rumours that he might have been interested in marrying her, once upon a time.

No. She’s being foolish. Optimism doesn’t suit her - not after a life of disappointment.

“I am pleased to have you back in my life again.” He says suddenly, quiet yet firm. “I know I often tell you I’m glad you’re here - but I’m not only talking about your considerable skill as a governess, Clarke. It is good to have your friendship once again. It might not have been what I imagined back when I was two and twenty but - yes - your friendship. There’s one good thing to come of this whole sorry mess.”

“You, too.” She says simply. Two little words, filled with conviction.

Because even bittersweet dinners with a rather sadder Bellamy are better than having no Bellamy in her life at all.

…….

She takes Madi and Julia for a walk the next day. She likes to spend some time out of doors meandering across the grounds with them, making the most of the country air. She thinks that’s an important part of their lessons alongside sitting at their books.

It’s the funniest thing, but as they are getting dressed in their outside clothes to leave, Clarke finds that there is a little-used cloak in Madi’s size hanging in the nursery. It must be one Julia has outgrown, she reasons. Evidently the late Mrs Blake was rather taller than Clarke, since her daughter is taller at a younger age than Madi.

She takes the cloak and fastens it around Madi’s shoulders without stopping to second-guess the action. Madi is happy to have something new to wear, but most of all to have something warm. She’s a sensible, practical child more than a vain one.

Clarke likes to think she inherits that from her mother.

They’ll both have to thank Bellamy later, Clarke decides - but they’ll have to thank him just exactly the right amount. He’ll be embarrassed if they make a fuss about this gift. But she refuses to let his generosity go unmentioned.

When they’re fully wrapped up against the winter day, Clarke shepherds both the girls down towards the front door. Julia’s bootlace comes untied in the hallway, but that’s fine. That’s fixable - more fixable than a dead mother. Clarke stoops to tie it, then they start moving again. But then Madi has dropped a mitten, and -

And Bellamy is striding down the stairs, looking for all the world like a confident man who means business.

“You’re looking well this morning.” Clarke tells him, before she can think better of it.

Never mind. What loss is it to her, if he knows she thinks he looks well? If nothing else, hopefully it will do him some good to hear a kind word or two.

He seems to agree with her on that front. He’s grinning widely, although tiredly, as if he’s quite pleasantly surprised by her little compliment.

“You, too - all three of you young ladies are looking well. But perhaps a little flummoxed too, hmm?” He asks, holding Madi’s missing mitten aloft.

“You found it! Thank you, Mr Bellamy.” Madi cries at once, jumping to take the mitten from his grasp.

“Mr Blake.” Clarke corrects her on instinct.

She is ignored by the whole party. Of course she is.

“Thank you for my cloak, too, Mr Bellamy. It’s lovely and warm.”

“I’m glad to see you getting some use out of it.” Bellamy offers, approaching close enough to hug his daughter and pat Madi on the shoulder, now, too. “Come on, then - where are we going this morning?”

“Are you coming with us, Papa?” Julia asks, audibly excited.

“I thought I might. It’s a fine day to be out of doors with family.” He says - perhaps briskly more than truly eagerly, but it’s progress all the same, Clarke thinks.

He really does look very well this morning.

Mittens now firmly in place, Madi is first through the door. Julia follows close behind, dragging her father by the hand. Clarke brings up the rear, trying not to stare too obviously. What has Bellamy in such relatively good spirits today? Why is he so keen to join them on this walk?

He explains himself without making her wait any longer.

“I must attend to some letters after this, but I’ll see you again this evening.” He tells his daughter, throwing Clarke a look as if to invite her into the conversation too. “I have some bedtime stories ready for you, you see. I thought of some new ones and wrote them down specially so I don’t forget them. I’m afraid my memory is a little worse since - since your mother -”

“Since she died.” Julia completes his sentence, all plain and robust.

Clarke’s heart goes out to her for that. She’s all of four years old and she’s already calling the situation exactly what it is.

“Yes. Indeed. Since she died.” Bellamy manages, almost calm. “So - I have written you a special book of bedtime stories. But I hope you won’t mind if we share them with your new friend Madi.”

Julia doesn’t mind that at all. In fact, she’s already lost interest in a conversation about grief and started chasing Madi down the drive.

…….

Bellamy is as good as his word. He presents himself in the nursery that evening, a notebook clutched in his hands. He’s in time to see Gus before he falls asleep, and then sets about making himself comfortable to read a bedtime story to the two girls.

Madi sleeps in the nursery now, of course. That’s become so normal in recent days that Clarke can scarcely even remember a time when Madi wasn’t welcomed into the world with open arms and considered a child suitable for a gentleman’s nursery. Funny, how quickly a situation can change like that. It’s somehow the opposite of the way her life changed for the worse so slowly, so gradually, to see her daughter raised to a respectable situation so swiftly.

The story Bellamy reads out is quite long. There are several densely handwritten pages of it, and half a dozen more stories besides to save for another day. Madi is asleep long before the princess and the knight actually manage to run away together, and Julia is clearly clinging onto the ending only out of the deepest love for her father.

Clarke wonders when he had time to write down all these stories. There must be hours of work in this little notebook.

There’s an obvious conclusion to that, isn’t there? To the question of where a grief-stricken man might find endless hours of free time?

He’s not sleeping well. He might be a little brighter than he was, more able to spend time with his children and perform his duties.

But he still hasn’t found peace.

…….

She tests that theory the very next day. At supper she takes her usual seat at the too-vast table, then slips a little lavender sachet across to his place. She used to be a physician’s assistant, after all, so she knows what she is about.

“I recommend this, placed under the pillow, for restful sleep. The doctor I worked with used to give such things to patients to help them find peace all the time. If, hypothetically, I had a friend who wasn’t sleeping well, I might also suggest a warm bath, or a gentle walk, or perhaps some quiet time in prayer.” She says, tone carefully level, eyes fixed on her dinner plate.

“I’ve tried those things.” He says, in a weary sort of tone. “My prayers turn angry. I’m too accustomed to walking with her, or to having her wander into the dressing room while I’m bathing. It’s funny - we were only married a little over five years. But that’s long enough to grow accustomed to her being everywhere.”

She gulps. It’s the first time she’s ever really heard him talk about her, or at least about what their marriage used to be like. Those little snapshots of walking, of bathing, of sharing personal space. It makes her sick to her stomach - both out of sorrow for his grief, to be sure, but also a selfish sort of jealous revulsion that he used to share such intimate time at home with a woman who wasn’t her.

But she’d better focus on the more useful part, for now. She’d better focus on being a good friend and helping him bear his grief.

She’s not at all sure how to do that.

She used to be a physician’s assistant. She’s seen grief plenty of times. Most often, she’s seen people weeping and wailing about how much they loved whoever it is who has passed away.

But Bellamy’s not like that. He’s not demonstrative about his late wife, or about the affection they must have shared. He just looks lost without her, like he can’t quite function now that his normal life has been thrown off-kilter.

Not for the first time, she wonders quite what their marriage was like. She recalls that everyone was surprised by it.  Perhaps it was in fact a marriage of logistics and sharing a home more than one of personal affection - perhaps that’s why he’s acting this way.

Cautiously, she presses for answers.

“You two were evidently very happy together.” She tries.

He gives a hollow laugh. “Yes. I know it was an unexpected match to many, but we were a good fit. We made a happy home together and had two fine children.”

Again, she notes, he has said nothing about love.

…….

Her little lavender sachet cannot work miracles right away, of course. She would hardly expect it to, just as she doesn’t expect to single-handedly fix Bellamy Blake’s emotional state. Grief isn’t something that can just be fixed, she’s certain of it. She can only offer kindness and lavender sachets and hope to help him find some improvement in his condition.

He is, perhaps, a very little bit brighter in the mornings as the week wears on. She sees him at breakfast once, then twice. He takes a couple more morning walks with her and the girls.

And then, some ten days after that conversation at the supper table, he actually appears at the nursery very first thing in the morning.

“The children are still asleep.” She murmurs, apologetic, rather wondering what on earth he’s doing here at such an hour. She’s really just here to check that they are still resting peacefully before she sets about readying herself for the day.

“Yes. I thought they would be. But - I am up early and feeling quite rested, so I thought I would make the most of it.”

“You are? That’s wonderful news.” She tells him with unfeigned joy.

“Well - comparatively rested. More rested than I have felt in several months. These past few days I have adopted a rigorous schedule of bathing, and prayer, and asked the servants to wash my nightshirts with lavender. And then I found the most fantastically dull book about agricultural technology, and since then, I have actually managed to find sleep quite comfortably.”

She’s not sure whether to laugh or to hug him, honestly. He’s setting out his story as if it is some great comic anecdote, as if he’s asked his valet to keep him on a regimented timetable of praying and inhaling his lavender. But she thinks all this forced levity on his part is really an attempt to distract from the serious issue at play.

Hmm. That’s a thing he used to do when they were younger, she remembers. He used to joke about the serious things, about life and death and marriage.

She can’t imagine him ever joking about death or marriage ever again.

“I’m pleased for you.” She says carefully. “Sleep is a large part of healing, I believe. But I’m sure there’s no need to treat bedtime as a list of chores.”

“No - I suppose I am funning you a little. Although the agriculture book is real. It’s dry as Cook’s sponge cake, but it is good to get back into the habit of reading about farming. I used to like learning more about how to farm the estate effectively, I seem to remember.”

“You used to like learning about the Romans even more.” She points out lightly.

He laughs. “Perhaps true. But really - the estate is important to me, and it’s good to feel more involved with it again.”

“Yes. I’m sure you must find that fulfilling.” She says, because what else can she say? That his fondness for an assortment of fields can presumably not replace his fondness for his dead wife?

That goes without saying, she rather thinks.

Thankfully, Bellamy is in a talkative mood this morning. He has words enough for both of them. It’s the first time it has been that way since she arrived here, in fact.

“I have been wondering - would you like to come with me to give out the tenant baskets this afternoon?” He asks in a rush. “It’s silly of me to be precious about who does that. Echo wouldn’t care - she was never one to waste emotions on things that don’t matter. As long as the people she felt responsible for are fed, she wouldn’t care who does it.”

“Are you quite certain? I wouldn’t wish to impose.” She says. She must keep saying that - but she must also not protest too much, for fear of making herself and her feelings for this man ridiculous.

“My mind is quite made up. I would appreciate the help and the company. And besides - there may well be some things that the women in these families would feel more comfortable discussing with another woman. They may have needs relating to health and children and so on which they would prefer to ask you to help with. So, really, you’d be doing me a favour.”

She smiles fondly at him. He’s got her there, hasn’t he? She might have felt selfish in accepting his invitation for the sake of time spent in his company. But now he’s making it clear that he’s inviting her to be of genuine use, and to support the tenant families most of all?

Well, then. She supposes she had better agree to the idea.

…….

She’s not surprised that she enjoys the excursion to visit the tenants with Bellamy that afternoon. But she is surprised by quite how much he seems to be enjoying it. He’s bright and cheerful as he drives them around the place in a small cart, his laugh coming easier than she’s heard since she returned. He seems relaxed and comfortable in his conversations with the tenants, too, even slapping one young man on the back as they share a joke together.

The difference in him is so marked, in fact, that she feels bold enough to comment on it.

“Yes. I do feel better out here.” He agrees at once. “I think it’s because I’m outside of the house and all those empty spaces where Echo ought to be. We didn’t do things like this together - she would do her visits, and I would do the repairs separately. So it’s not like being at home, or taking a ride or a walk. It’s not a place where I expect to see her and am always disappointed. I’m not always turning over my shoulder to speak to her and finding her just… not there.”

“It’s good to be able to enjoy some places and activities that are untainted by losing her.” Clarke tries.

“Is it? I’m not sure I can like it so straightforwardly. It feels disrespectful to her to be happy.”

“What was it you said this morning? That she was never one for wasting emotions on things that don’t matter?” She prompts him. “So I can’t imagine she would hold this against you.”

Privately she’s thinking that Mrs Echo Blake never seemed a very emotional woman at all, from what little Clarke knew of her. But presumably Bellamy knew her better than that. Presumably he did know something of her feelings and heart.

He hums thoughtfully, shows her a sort of rueful smile. Then he’s drawing the cart to a halt at the next house, waving boisterously as the children of this household tumble out of the door to greet them.

“Hello! Hello, Peter - it is Peter, isn’t it? My, how you’ve grown. And John, and Charlotte. What a pretty doll!” He exclaims, all enthusiastic warmth, as he hops from his seat and helps Clarke down in turn. “Here - do you remember Miss Griffin, who used to be our neighbour at Griffin Manor? Well, she has come back to be governess to my children now they are without a mother.”

Everyone just accepts that, as if it’s normal. Not just these wide-eyed children or their friendly mother, but every tenant family they meet just nods and smiles at Bellamy’s explanation for Clarke’s presence. As if tenant farmers don’t give a fig for malicious gossip about an unmarried woman and her illegitimate child - as if they’re far more preoccupied with getting food on the table, instead.

It’s the happiest Clarke has been in years. She has a secure home, a real role and place in the world once again. She has a good upbringing for her daughter and the friendship of her favourite person in all the world.

But it feels wrong to take happiness and security by dancing on Echo Blake’s grave.

…….

It’s Madi who first asks her if she’s going to marry Bellamy.

“I heard from Auntie O that you used to be friends, and I’m sleeping in the nursery now like as if Julia was my sister - so I wondered. So I thought I should ask you.” She explains earnestly, here eyes wide as she gazes up at her mother.

Clarke is rather flustered by this line of questioning. She didn’t expect her daughter to be the first to ask awkward questions about her feelings, damn it. She thought that Bellamy might call her out for her obvious affection towards him, or that Octavia might notice the weight of her gaze on her brother. But she didn’t expect a child to be the first to confront her.

Maybe she should have done. Children are less concerned with propriety than with truth, by and large, aren’t they? So perhaps it makes sense that Madi is the first person bold enough to pose the question directly.

“I can’t see how you got the idea of marriage into your head, sweetheart.” She begins - although she fears she can see it, almost. “It’s true that we were once good friends, and now we are good friends again. But that’s all this is - friendship. He is simply including you in the nursery alongside Julia out of generosity.”

Hmm. Right. She had better stop there. She’s in danger of protesting too much.

She maintains, though, that this is simply a friendship. It’s different from the way she and Bellamy used to act together when they were younger. There is none of the too-loud laughter or too-long stares they used to share, back when she first came out, when she wondered, when other people talked.

Perhaps courtship is different between a widower and a fallen woman of four-and-twenty.

No - why give herself such false hope? This is no courtship at all.

…….

Her mother does come back a few times, as if trying to persevere with rebuilding that relationship.

Clarke doesn’t know what to make of it. If the initial deterioration of their relationship was death by a thousand cuts, perhaps this is the exact opposite. The process of regaining family so slowly, a little at a time, that it’s not clear whether she and her mother will ever be on good terms again.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Perhaps she doesn’t need to know what the answer is now, today. Perhaps it’s enough that she’s relatively happy here in her situation in the Blake household, and if her mother wants to persist in visiting, then she’s willing to receive her. She doesn’t need to decide yet whether she will ever entirely forgive her. That is a decision she can make when she has had more time to adjust and consider and reflect on these visits.

The best visit is the day when her mother and Octavia call at the same time. It was bound to happen eventually - Octavia visits quite often, and is earnestly trying to rebuild the friendship they shared in their youth.

So it is that Clarke - the governess in this household, technically - finds herself hosting two of the most prominent ladies in local society for tea.

“Shall I ask for more biscuits?” She offers, as Octavia arrives, notices the older lady already sitting down, and takes a seat.

Clarke isn’t actually sure she has the authority to request more biscuits, but she’ll do her best if the situation demands it.

Thankfully, Octavia shakes her head. “No need, thank you. I remember that Cook is not an expert at shortbread. Her game pie, though - I have fond memories of that.”

“Yes, it’s as fine as ever.” Clarke agrees. They had it only last Tuesday.

Even her mother is nodding carefully along. They did used to all eat here quite often, when she was younger.

Perhaps that is why she raises the idea.

“Have you not eaten here since Mrs Blake’s passing, Octavia? I shall have to suggest to your brother that he might like to invite you over. I know that it is not the proper thing for him to entertain without a hostess, but you are family.” She tries.

Octavia nods eagerly. “I’d like that. But I have an even better idea - you and Bellamy must come over for dinner with me and Lincoln soon. I think he would like to try a little social occasion between family, hmm?”

Clarke’s turn to nod. She thinks that’s true. Bellamy loves his sister, and he has been quite earnest about trying to put the pieces of a vaguely normal life back together lately. She almost wishes he would be more patient with himself, actually, and give himself permission to live a life which is still abnormal while he wrestles with his grief.

But all the same, she thinks he would like to try a small dinner party with his sister.

It’s interesting, Clarke notes, to watch the lines between employee and friend and family blurring. Her mother is the only person in this room she is actually related to. But it’s Octavia who has just invited her for an ostensibly family dinner party.

Ah well. She’s not going to complain. And perhaps it will teach her mother a thing or two about family being built on kindness rather than blood.

…….

It’s the morning of the family dinner with the Woods when Clarke finds the sewing box.

Of course it is. Naturally it is. The universe playing a cruel trick, because Bellamy hates to be surprised by emotional impacts without warning. Isn’t that what he told her, about hating the sudden way Echo died?

But there’s nothing to be done for it. She has just this morning found Echo’s sewing box sitting unloved in the corner of the drawing room, and she knows she must bring it to Bellamy’s attention right away. A sewing box is a very personal possession for a good housewife - and if there’s one thing which has been made clear to her, in recent months, it’s that his late wife was indeed an exemplary housewife. So Clarke can’t leave this treasured and personal item to get lost or broken or forgotten.

There’s even a sampler inside embroidered with the name Mrs Echo Blake in perfect lettering. It feels like another tiny disaster in that whole accumulation of disasters, Clarke thinks. Because this, right here, is the perfect reminder that she and the late sainted Mrs Blake inhabit different worlds - she respectable and happily married, Clarke disgraced and reduced to the status of employee.

She can barely even sew, as it happens.

She dreads taking it to Bellamy. It’s probably going to make him cry, and she can’t face that, not when he’s been so much cheerier of late. But she knows that she must, because this might be an important keepsake for him. It’s sensible to take it straight to him.

It’s sensible. And she did vow to herself that she would always be sensible, even when it’s difficult.

She sighs, walks down the hall, knocks at the door of his study.

“Come in.” He calls, prompt as anything. She has no excuse for delaying.

She pushes open the door. “Hello. How is your work this morning?”

“Fine. How is your subterfuge this morning? Not very subtle, I should say.” He teases her. “What did you actually want? Feel free to cut to the chase.”

She laughs, then cuts herself off. This is probably not going to be a laughing matter.

“I - ah - I found some personal effects of Mrs Blake’s in the drawing room cabinet. Or rather - I found this.” She holds the sewing box aloft. “I thought it might be quite precious. There are still some pieces of her work inside. And - well - I know how ladies tend to feel about their sewing boxes.”

“Her work?” He asks, peering at it as if it might take flight.

Clarke nods, silent, sets the thing down on his desk. She opens it up carefully, pulls out that sampler. She’s sort of expecting Bellamy to clutch it, and then burst into tears, or some such distressing scene.

But then he doesn’t.

He does look emotional, to be sure. It’s a more bittersweet kind of emotion, though - sad eyes and a wistful smile, rather than outright tears. Evidently he’s learning to remember his wife with gladness rather than only grief.

She’s so proud of him she thinks she might weep instead.

“Yes - I remember my sister teaching her this stitch.” He says thoughtfully, tracing one pattern with his finger. “They did like to sit and sew together. It’s about the only common ground they ever found, I think.”

“That’s a nice memory. I suppose - that’s why I thought I should bring this straight to you. I expected it might have some sentimental value.” She manages weakly.

He nods. “That’s true. You're right - I think I’ll keep this to hang somewhere in here. But the box and the supplies won’t be much use to her now she’s dead.” He manages.

Clarke blinks at him, taken aback. That’s an unexpectedly calm reflection.

“She wouldn’t want it wasted - would you find it useful?” He asks now.

She panics. It’s a silly business - she’s used to being the calm, level-headed one out of the two of them. It was always that way, even when they were younger. Bellamy was the impulsive, emotional one, and she was the one with some sense.

But now she’s all flustered and confused, and he seems to be steadily coming to terms with the loss of his wife.

She gulps, tries to get in enough air. She can’t imagine anything worse than inheriting the sewing box which used to belong to the deceased wife of the man who, she probably ought to admit to herself, is actually the love of her life.

Huh. There. That’s a little silent confession which has been a long time coming. Who knew a sewing box was all it took?

No. She can’t accept this. She can’t sit in Echo’s chair, holding Echo’s needle, failing to be the late sainted Mrs Echo Blake.

She deflects his offer with a desperate attempt at humour. “I can barely sew - don’t you remember that?”

He laughs a warm laugh. “I do remember that. I suppose I thought you might have improved a little since then. Do physician’s assistants have to stitch people up?”

“That’s more the role of surgeons. And I think it’s a different technique from embroidery - although frankly I understand it so little that I hardly know.”

He’s laughing louder, now, but not unkindly. He’s not ridiculing her for her lack of housewifely skills, she thinks. He’s just being warm and affectionate and teasing as Bellamy Blake is wont to be.

Or at least - as he used to be. As Bellamy Blake was once, many years ago.

“So it’ll be no use to you either, then.” He summarises. “Very well. Let’s have the servants pack it away carefully for Julia to have one day. She’ll want to have some things from her mother. It’s such a hard age to lose her - she’ll remember her a little, and miss her more.”

“Any age is a hard age to love someone you love.” She adds quietly.

There’s a pause. A beat of silence. Bellamy is running his fingertips over that sampler. Clarke is gripping the handle of the sewing box as if her life depends on it.

And then -

“You can say that again.” He says, soft, tired.

“You really loved her.” She says, scarcely more than a whisper. It’s the first time she’s truly realised it, and it hits her hard. Indeed, it hits her all the harder because of that other recent revelation.

This is the love of her life, and he really loved his dead wife.

“Yes. Yes I did.” He takes a loud, ragged breath. “I know it was unexpected to many. I know we were an odd couple, in the eyes of society. But - but I loved her.”

Clarke has no good answer to that. She just stares at him, eyes wide.

He sighs, lifts his gaze from that sampler to look at the sewing box instead. “A box of threads won’t bring her back. Let’s have it put aside safely for Julia. Come - enough of this - do you know what’s on the menu for tomorrow?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “You don’t have to be fine, you know. It is perfectly understandable to take a few moments to - to cope.”

“I know. I have taken those moments, and I’ll treasure this piece of her work. But I have had a lot of no-nonsense women in my life recommend over the years that I try using my head occasionally, and these days I find that I am increasingly inclined to follow their advice. I can mourn my wife and get on with living my life and raising my children, too.”

He’s looking at her funny. Is he looking at her like she is one of those women who has sometimes tried to talk sense into him? She seems to remember she did do that, years ago, before she came to truly appreciate the value of an earnest heart. Or is he looking at her like that because she’s still holding Echo’s things, and because Echo was a mind-over-matter sort of woman too?

Clarke thinks she must have been. That’s the sense she gets from the way people talk about her.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter. Perhaps it’s none of her business. Perhaps she’s just the governess - although she is going to a family dinner tonight.

Perhaps she should leave the master to his work and set about getting this sewing box safely stored.

…….

She might not be truly family, but she enjoys the family dinner enormously.

It’s the most upbeat and carefree she has felt since she was seventeen years old. She feels guilty about that, to be feeling such joy on the back of Bellamy’s sorrow - and leaving her daughter at home for someone else to care for, too.

Huh. Does she think of The Arbours as home, now? Probably that’s not so surprising. It’s not as if she has anywhere else to call home.

The food tonight is good, the company better. Four is a small number for a formal dinner, but it’s still the most boisterous social occasion she’s attended in years.

She says almost as much to Bellamy, whispering beneath her breath as he pours her some more wine.

“This is rather a large party compared with all our dinners at The Arbours.” She offers.

“Indeed. Positively roaring. It reminds me of dancing at a crowded assembly with you when we were youngsters.”

“No it doesn’t.” She teases him cheerfully. “We haven’t danced at all.”

“It does. I maintain that it does.” He argues. “You have something of the same smile, tonight. I haven’t seen you look so bright in years.”

She flushes, suddenly self-conscious. Does he notice her smiles? Does he notice them still, and remember in such detail what they used to look like in years gone by?

This is, indeed, a very pleasant evening to say the least.

…….

Life can get better by slow degrees, too.

That’s what Clarke learns, as she and Madi settle into their new home, as she watches the Blakes settle into life without a wife and mother. That death by a thousand cuts is not the only way, and that not every slow string of changes is a change for the worse . That growth and life and healing can happen little by little, too.

She expresses that opinion to Bellamy over the supper table one night. Funny now the dining room doesn’t seem so large now she’s grown accustomed to it - or now they have joy enough between them to fill some of the space with the sound of laughter.

“I think I agree with you to some extent.” He says, slow and thoughtful, considering her point. “But I think there’s more to it than that. I think it’s too much a simplification, the way you look at it always as saying a change is either sudden or gradual. It can be both.”

“Both? How can it be both?”

“Echo dying was sudden. But the realisation that she had gone and left a gaping hole in our everyday life here was more gradual. Every day I would notice a new thing I hated doing without her, or a challenge with the children which I simply didn’t feel able to face alone. But then the improvement was much the same - sudden when you first appeared at the door, or on the good days with my sister or happy times with the children. But then - yes, every day I have gradually been a little less tired and sad.”

“You’re right.” She says at once, because she’s better at arguing with him now than she used to be when she was younger. She understands, these days, that there is a time and a place to agree with him rather than just bickering and teasing and flirting.

He nods, stirs his soup with a frown.

“I think I’ve been looking at it like that because it made my hardship easier to bear in some ways.” She offers thoughtfully. “If I could tell myself that each new problem was only one more grain of sand on the beach, one more straw in the bale, I could convince myself that I wasn’t utterly buried in it. It made it easier to pretend that I never reached breaking point.”

“Did you?” He asks, abandoning his soup to meet her eye. “Did you reach breaking point?”

“I don’t know. There was no… sudden snapping. But - there were some moments when I was not really holding it together.”

He nods. “I broke. Definitely. About two months after she died. One day I couldn't find my good boots, and I knew she would know exactly where they were, and I lost it. Cried for three hours straight. My valet sent for my sister.”

She can imagine that. She can imagine it because he’s always been an emotional sort, but most of all because she recalls what a shocking mess he was in when she first arrived.

Hmm. Two months. The timing lines up with that letter from Octavia, doesn’t it? The letter that brought her here.

“Perhaps that was a good thing, in a strange sort of way.” She offers. “If that made your sister realise how badly you were struggling, that meant she was more able to support you. And I think - that is - I wonder if that day was what prompted her to write to me and suggest I might come to work here.”

“Well in that case, I wish I had broken down over my lost boots sooner.” He says lightly.

He says it lightly, because that’s who Bellamy Blake is, in essentials. A tender heart with a generous layer of teasing humour and gruff masculinity. Honestly, even after all these years - and after weeks of enjoying his sole company at the dinner table - she can’t get enough of his conversation when he’s truly himself like this.

I love you.

Sometimes she wonders about telling him. About just saying it, with no expectation that her feelings would be returned. She just thinks it might be good for him to know he is loved - and frankly, she wants to know what the words taste like said out loud.

But she never will let it slip out over supper like that, will she? That wouldn’t be sensible. Mr Collins was good for very little, but at least she emerged from her ordeal with him a thoroughly sensible woman.

…….

Gus is poorly that winter.

It’s nothing serious at all. It’s just a childish fever, of the kind infants get all the time. He’s fine and is on the mend even by the end of the first day of his illness.

But Bellamy worries. Of course he does. Less than a year since he lost his wife to a fever not unlike this one, he’s obviously in no shape to handle the terror of watching his son feel poorly now.

He only half loses it, though. He doesn’t melt down entirely. During the day he spends a lot of time with Julia, playing energetic games of skittles and walking in the gardens. Clarke can see that he’s trying to keep busy, hoping to distract both of them, and she lets him. She thinks that it’s not the worst way to deal with a little temporary fear.

It’s that evening when she grows more concerned. Gus really is fine. He’s obviously not deeply unwell. But Clarke is just returning from a final check on the nursery before bed when she finds Bellamy pacing the downstairs hall.

“Are you well?” She asks, even though the answer to that question is plainly no.

“I’m trying to take a calming walk but it’s not going to plan.” He tells her with a breathy laugh. “I just - I know -” He swallows loudly. “I can’t lose anyone else.”

“I know. I know that. I know.” She soothes, actually daring to reach for his hand.

He holds on tight, finally stops his useless, frantic movement.

Clarke does it at last. She bites the bullet and asks him outright to tell her about Echo. It’s been a long time coming, and she’s been letting her curiosity fester for months - or even years.

Today, she thinks, is the right day to ask.

“Would you tell me about her? About your wife? I think it might help you, but I’d also genuinely like to hear more about her.” She tells him, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand.

He nods. He squeezes her hand, looks at her with a considering sort of expression.

Then he begins.

“She was brave. Stern, honestly. But she really loved me and the children. She was very competent at running a household. But that’s not why I fell in love with her, is it?” He lets out a stiff, shaky laugh. “That sounds more like a work advertisement than a eulogy.”

He sighs, tugs his hand away from hers and rakes it through his hair. She misses it right away, of course, but she’d be selfish to go greedily seeking for his hand just now.

“Why does anyone fall in love?” He asks, flapping his hands in midair. “She was the right person at the right time. Something in her soul was a perfect fit for something in mine, six years ago when - when I really needed someone. We sometimes laughed together. We talked about hunting - she was a good friend more than anything. And the very opposite of flighty. She wasn’t going anywhere. I needed someone I was certain would stick around.”

Another sigh, louder still. She watches his chest shudder with the force of it.

“She reminded me of you.” He says, and he makes it sound like a guilty confession. “I know that’s the worst reason to fall in love with anyone, but there you have it - or at least that’s part of it. She reminded me of you just the right amount, with her confidence and fierceness, but in other ways she was very different. She was clearly not going to run off to Town and marry Mr Collins.” He sighs again, but softer. “That’s not - I don’t think that’s all there ever was to it. In time I came to realise we truly were a good fit and we had a very happy home. But to begin with, I courted her because she reminded me of the one who got away.”

“That’s - that’s what I was to you? The one who got away?” She dares to ask. “You - ah - wanted someone who reminded you of me?”

“Wanted? Needed? Something like that.” He gives a hollow laugh. “I sanctified you a little when you were gone. Even when I ought to have seen you as some kind of fallen angel. But it meant that you were forever frozen in my mind as a beautiful vivacious young woman - although you hurt by marrying Collins, too. I was furious, but you were destined to be eternally perfect in my eyes, I suppose.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She rushes to assure him. “I was young and had my head turned. I’ve vowed to be more sensible and circumspect ever since.”

She takes a deep breath. She considers her options with as much sense and circumspection as she can muster.

Yes. Indeed. She thinks the path ahead is clear.

She gathers her courage and admits the truth. “That’s how I thought of you, too. The one who got away. Six long years I would look out of the window and try not to miss you.” Another shaky breath. “I failed. I failed several times a day.” She tells him with a rueful laugh.

He doesn’t laugh. He smiles, yes, and there’s perhaps a little light of amusement in his eyes. But he’s somewhere far, far away from her outright laughter as he takes her hands and searches her face.

“Would you wait for me?” He asks her earnestly. “I know I have no right to ask it of you when I didn’t wait for you last time, but would you wait until I’ve mourned my wife? Would you wait for me to - to try again to be that rather happier young man I was six years ago?”

“I’ll wait for you.” She says - the easiest promise she has ever made, she thinks.

She resists the temptation to point out that she hardly has a lot of other options, as a disgraced woman. She thinks there’s something more affirming and useful to say instead. 

“I’ll wait until you’re ready to talk about what lies between us.” She reiterates firmly. She wants him to have faith in her - and she wants them to communicate clearly, this time around. “But don’t feel that we have to wait until you’re happier. That’s not how love works. I love you grieving as I loved you when we used to dance and laugh together. I wish for your sake you weren’t grieving, of course, but I love you all the same.” Hmm. Yes. The words taste just as sweet as she always suspected they would - and all the sweeter for forming part of a larger scale declaration that he's worthy of love no matter what his circumstances, she decides.

“You love me?” He asks, as if he can scarcely believe it might be the truth.

“Yes. I - I hope that’s alright.” She says, suddenly nervous. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful - I know - Echo -”

“Would not want to waste emotion on this.” He concludes smartly. “If she’s out there - if she’s watching over us from the other side - I suspect she’s rather happy with this turn of events. She’d want me to be well. And - she knew.”

He swallows loudly, throws her a careful smile. She can hear tears building in his throat, but she knows he’s not done speaking yet.

“We didn’t talk about it, but she knew.” He tells her, with careful emphasis. “She understood. She accepted it. Our love was solid and good - but she knew I loved you first.”

She nods. For the first time since she walked back into this house, back into the life of this remarkable man and his beautiful children, she wishes she knew the late Mrs Blake better. A stern woman who cared fiercely about her family, who didn’t believe in wasting emotions - and who would want her husband to be happy with another woman now she’s gone?

She sounds like a formidable friend to have, Clarke thinks.

Silence falls. Bellamy is staring at her face, part curiosity, part grief, part sheer joy in his eyes.

She answers his unspoken question. She steps a little closer, brings her arms carefully to an embrace around his waist. They’ve never held one another quite like this before - it’s simply not the done thing for unattached young gentry, is it? But all the same, there’s the familiarity of long friendship, somehow, as she leans into his chest. His arms feel every bit as safe as she knew they would.

He pulls back, just a little. He cups a hand under her chin, tilts her face towards him, reaches in for the lightest of kisses. It’s nothing like the wet, pushy kisses Mr Collins once seduced her with, and she’s grateful for that.

“I love you.” He tells her outright when he pulls away. “I love you, but I think we had best not marry next week.”

“I love you.” She echoes. “And you must be the one to set the pace.”

“I think I want to wait out the year. I wouldn’t want anyone to talk or disrespect her memory - I know she would understand the situation but that doesn’t mean the neighbours will. But then - would you marry me?”

“Are you sure you want that? I’m disgraced.” She reminds him, because she has to be certain. She can’t face another slow drawn-out rejection.

“I think that old scandal will be entirely replaced by people’s mingled sympathy and interest. A widower marrying his governess is always quite the story.” He tells her, brows raised playfully.

She’s so fiercely proud of him, in this moment. His son has a little fever, and yet still he’s ready to tease about love.

…….

Clarke goes to visit Echo’s grave the next morning - not to gloat, and not to say goodbye because frankly she never knew her. Rather, she goes because going feels like the right thing to do.

She takes a bouquet of snapdragons, because can’t think of a better flower for a fierce woman she never knew, but who she knows was determinedly protective of her family.

She wonders if grief is a sort of death by a thousand cuts too. Every day you say goodbye to them a little bit more until you find you’re not saying goodbye so much, so frequently. The turf around Echo’s grave is quite healthy as if folks don’t come here so often, these days. 

She supposes that’s normal. That’s how life and death and mortality work. The same fate waits for each of them in their turn - but in the meantime, life is well worth living.

She kneels down. She wonders what to say. Some trite message about wishing she knew her better? It’s a bit late for wishes like that.

She tells her all about the children instead, about Julia’s adventures with Madi, about Gus smiling and burbling and learning to express himself, cheery and fast recovering from his illness. She doesn’t bother promising to take care of them, because she thinks that’s obviously implicit in her words. She’ll take care of them all.

She has made her peace with the idea that she’s not stepping into Echo’s shoes, not invading her home - just as Echo never replaced her while she was in Town. They have both played their parts in Bellamy’s life, and will both continue to do so. Bellamy will hang that precious sampler in his study, and that’s just as it should be.

Echo never supplanted her, and she’ll never dance on her grave. She is perfectly happy here, laying her flowers on it, then walking home to wake the children.