THE FOREST LORD By Susan Krinard

London would never know such a man.

“I am not the woman I was in London,” she said quietly. “I cannot enjoy myself while those around me suffer.”

Claudia shot from her chair with uncharacteristic violence and strode to the double doors. She placed one elegant hand flat against a glass pane. Slowly her fingers curled into a fist.

“I hate this place,” she said. “God, how I hate it.”

The baldness of the statement shocked Eden far more than its sentiment. Claudia spoke from the heart, laying it bare, and Eden caught a glimpse of a woman she didn’t recognize: an aging woman with her own measure of regret and bitterness, hiding her fears and secrets from the world. A woman who needed Eden more than the reverse. She hurried to Claudia’s side but stopped, afraid to touch this brittle stranger.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I have been thinking only of myself.” She rested her forehead on Claudia’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should return to London. You still have your own jointure. You would be happier there.”

“And leave you here alone?” Claudia felt for her hand. “No. You need me, Eden, even when you do not realize it.” She turned a haunted gaze on Eden. “I must protect you, as your father did not.” Her eyes glazed. “Protect you.”

Shaken, Eden squeezed her hand. “Come sit down, Aunt, and I will bring you a nice dish of tea.”

She made Claudia comfortable and sent Armstrong for refreshments. Half afraid to leave her aunt in such a state, she settled to wait out the afternoon with a bit of needlework.

She was in the midst of completing a very tedious section of fine stitching on a handkerchief when the footman announced one Miss Waterson, just arrived from London.

Eden set down her work and glanced at Claudia. Her aunt seemed perfectly restored; if anything, it was as if she had never had the lapse at all.

In a moment Miss Waterson, dressed in a severe gown of tobacco brown stuff, entered the drawing room. She gazed about with a completely expressionless face and curtsied to her employers.

“Ah, Miss Waterson,” Claudia said with gracious condescension. “I am so pleased that you could come in such good time.” She glanced at Eden. “Lady Eden, may I introduce Miss Amelia Waterson.”

Miss Waterson curtsied again, with a precision that suggested she recognized and accepted the degree of separation between a governess and an earl’s daughter. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

Her voice was cultured but without music of any kind, and her mouth, Eden thought, belonged to a person disappointed in life. Considering how often governesses were impoverished gentlewomen, Eden could hardly blame her. She ought to pity the woman.

“I trust your journey was satisfactory?” Claudia asked, gesturing to a chair.

“Indeed, my lady.” Miss Waterson took her seat, more erect in posture than the chair back itself. “You were most generous.”

“You must be fatigued. Your quarters are near the nursery. As you see, we are still making improvements, but I believe you will find your room acceptable.”

“Thank you, Lady Claudia,” she said with a humble nod. “May I see the boy?”

Eden flinched. So soon? Was this colorless woman to take charge of her son’s life, just like that?

“If you wish,” Claudia said. “I had thought, after such a long journey—but I understand and applaud your diligence.” She signaled to Armstrong, who lingered just outside the doorway. “Bring Donal to us at once. You may find him at the stables.”

“He spends a great deal of time with horses, my lady?” Miss Waterson asked. “I do not ride.”

“It is not expected. My nephew has far better things to do with his time than tarry in the stables. As I informed you in my letter, his upbringing to this point was most unconventional, through no fault of Lady Eden, whose uncle in Ireland had the raising of him. He will need a firm hand and a strict schedule.”

“I can assure you that he will have both.”

Eden sighed, and Claudia cast her a warning glance. In truth, Eden could not object to any specific thing about the governess. As a rule, English governesses were often tyrants and as much hated as loved by their charges—or so she had heard from friends and relatives.

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