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During her visits over the past week, Abigail had slipped effortlessly into their world, drawing the girls into a game of cat’s cradle in the garden, braiding flowers into their hair, filling the austere halls with laughter.

Heather bounced on her knees as she and Mary Ann retold Abigail’s story. Heather wound up the recitation with, “Miss Abigail said the frog was really a prince, but I think that’s silly. Frogs are better than princes.”

“Princes have better manners,” Mary Ann countered primly.

“Frogs can jump higher.”

“Girls,” Graham interrupted. “Perhaps we can debate the merits of amphibians versus royalty in the morning?”

“Miss Abigail will be back in the morning. She promised to braid my hair,” Mary Ann said.

Graham nodded.

“She’s pretty,” Heather said. “Not like Lady Hawthorne, who looks like a stuffed goose. Miss Abigail is pretty like Mama was.”

He stilled.The comparison, innocent and devastating, hit him hard. He cleared his throat. “Yes. She is.”

The girls had taken to Abigail’s warmth, as all children seemed to. Even he wasn’t immune. And that troubled him more than he cared to admit. Attachments were a luxury he’d long since taught himself to avoid—yet here they were, piling up around him like kindling waiting for a spark.

The door opened again as Ms. Norwood returned with a tray. Three glasses of milk steamed gently in the lamplight.

“One for each of you,” she said, offering the tray first to Graham, then to each of the girls.

“Thank you.” Graham accepted the glass. He thought wistfully of his plan for brandy and medical journals, but warm milk would do. He no longer felt like reading anyway.

“Perhaps we should take these back to our room?” Beatrix suggested.

Mary Ann’s hand shot out to grip Graham’s sleeve. “No! Please, can we stay? Just tonight?”

Heather nodded vigorously. “We’ll be quiet as mice. Promise.”

Graham looked at their upturned faces, then at Beatrix’s questioning gaze. He should send them to bed. Establish proper routines. Maintain boundaries.

But the lines had already been redrawn—by laughter, by flowers, by frogs and fairy-tales.

With the Beacon House children, Abigail had said there were times for rules and times for grace. He wasn’t sure which this was, but he’d rather face cannon fire than disappoint the pleading gazes turned up at him.

“It appears we’ll be bivouacking on the study floor tonight, Ms. Norwood,” he said.

Ms. Norwood gave a nod and moved to draw her chair closer.

“That won’t be necessary,” Graham added. “Go get some rest. One stiff neck in the household tomorrow is sufficient.”

She paused, then gave him a long look—measuring, approving. “Very well. But if they’re swinging from the curtains come morning, you can deal with Mrs. Graves.”

Graham nodded. “Understood.”

“Ladies, finish your milk and go straight to bed. I won’t have you falling asleep in your lessons tomorrow.”

“We will,” the girls chorused as the governess swept from the room, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

Graham settled back against the wall beside the desk. The girls watched him over the rims of their cups.

“What’s bi-voo-ving?” Heather asked.

“Bivouacking,” Graham corrected. “It’s what soldiers call it when they camp outdoors instead of in proper barracks.”

“Did you have a tent?” Mary Ann asked.