Page 13 of Charming the Headmistress (Spinsters and their Suitors #3)

CHAPTER TEN

T he echo of Lord Camden’s departure had faded, yet Eleanor remained at her desk, unmoving.

Her pen hovered uselessly above the ledger, forgotten amidst the lingering pressure in the room—the remnants of a conversation still tightening her chest. Her shoulders, always squared with purpose, now sloped beneath the invisible weight of too many thoughts.

He had come unexpectedly, with the full force of his title and temper, but also with something she hadn’t anticipated: sincerity.

His presence, though frustrating, had not been hollow.

For all his questions and overreaching suggestions, she had not sensed arrogance.

Not truly. Instead, he’d seemed lost. Protective.

Compelled to act, even if he wasn’t sure how.

She exhaled slowly and straightened the ledger on her desk, then the stack of correspondence beside it, then the inkwell. The movement brought no comfort, but she welcomed the illusion of control.

A knock interrupted her fidgeting. Mrs. Carter entered with her usual efficient stride, a small bundle of folded papers in one hand.

“Miss Langford,” she said, setting the papers down. “These are the revised numbers for the quarterly report. And—” she paused, just slightly, “—a note came from Viscount Linton. He’ll be arriving to tour the school next Tuesday. He’s considering Greenbrook for his daughter.”

Eleanor’s brow furrowed. “Linton? I thought he had arrangements in place with Hawthorne Hall.”

“So did I,” Mrs. Carter replied. “But apparently, a mutual acquaintance has spoken highly of our ways at Greenbrook. He’s intrigued.”

Eleanor gave a tight nod. “Then we must ensure everything is spotless by then. I’ll meet with Miss Denby and the kitchen staff tomorrow.”

Mrs. Carter tilted her head slightly. “Will this take precedence over the fundraising letter to the patron committee?”

A soft sigh escaped Eleanor. There was always more to do. Always another task, another inspection, another balance to strike.

“No,” she said. “We'll press on with both. We cannot afford to lose momentum—not now.”

Mrs. Carter lingered. “And what of Lord Camden?”

Eleanor lifted an eyebrow. “What of him?”

“He seemed rather affected,” Mrs. Carter replied carefully. “And if I may say so, so did you.”

Eleanor offered a sharp look of warning, but her voice remained composed. “He was concerned. Understandably so. Miss Moreland is his niece, and he clearly feels responsible.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Carter said, her tone neutral. “And yet, he allowed her to come here in the first place. That speaks to a certain level of trust.”

Eleanor looked down at her hands. She wasn’t used to men questioning her methods—not like this.

Not with such emotional insistence. He had been brash, yes, but beneath it there had been something else.

Something restrained, as though he was used to holding the world at arm’s length and was no longer certain how to let anyone in.

“He’s not the first guardian to resist our approach,” she said, more to herself than to Mrs. Carter. “But few return within days of enrollment demanding personal reassurances.”

Mrs. Carter gave a dry smile. “I daresay he wasn’t merely seeking reassurances about his niece.”

Eleanor ignored the remark. “It doesn’t matter. The rules will remain in place. He may visit—but only here, in my office. No wandering the halls. No lingering after lessons. We must maintain structure.”

Mrs. Carter nodded and gathered the remainder of her paperwork. As she left, Eleanor turned again to the window and her own thoughts.

Later that evening, as the last of the girls retired to their dormitories, Eleanor stood at the window of her office, watching the fading light of the sun as it dipped below the horizon. The academy grounds were quiet now, the usual bustle of the day replaced by a peaceful stillness.

But Eleanor felt anything but still.

Her thoughts drifted once more to Miss Moreland.

The girl had shown signs of progress—small but significant.

She had spoken calmly, even politely, during Lord Camden's visit.

That alone was a testament to the careful structure Greenbrook provided, though Eleanor knew there was still much work to be done.

Something still wiggled its way into her consciousness.

She shook her head and tried to clear her mind.

She needed to work on recording the necessary expenses for the week.

She returned to her desk and sat down in her chair, trying to remember exactly what she had been working on.

She looked down at her progress. Her ledger lay open before her, the column of figures undisturbed for the last quarter hour.

Her pen hovered uselessly above the page.

Miss Moreland.

The name alone was enough to make Eleanor set down the pen with a sigh. The girl was an enigma—and a daily reminder that even years of experience and well-honed instincts could occasionally be brought to heel by one pale, silent child with haunted eyes.

She had said all the right things to Lord Camden.

She had stood behind her desk with impeccable posture and even tone, assuring him that Helena’s progress would be monitored, that she was adapting in her own way, and that the routine of Greenbrook would do its quiet work in time.

But the truth?

The truth was that Eleanor was at a loss.

Oh, she’d seen her fair share of difficult cases. Girls sent to Greenbrook in the wake of scandal or sorrow, girls hardened by neglect or spoiled by indulgence. And always, eventually, there had been a point of entry. A flicker of trust. A moment to build upon.

But Miss Moreland had not flickered.

She simply endured.

Eleanor rubbed at her temple. A few things had made the slightest impression: sketching beside her in the office had earned a handful of words.

A solitary walk through the hedge maze had softened her posture.

Assigning her to help in the conservatory had, at the very least, not been met with outright refusal.

And once, very quietly, Miss Moreland had plucked a dried bloom from a rosemary plant and tucked it into her sketchbook.

It was something. But not enough.

In her more objective moments, Eleanor reminded herself that progress was rarely linear. But lately, she wasn’t feeling particularly objective.

She rose and crossed to the shelf by the window, adjusting a stack of books that didn’t need adjusting. Then she moved to the table where a vase of fading roses stood, placed there by a thoughtful student earlier in the week. She picked one up, its petals beginning to curl at the edges.

“Do you simply need time?” she murmured aloud, studying the bloom. “Or am I watering something already too far gone?”

The absurdity of talking to a flower made her huff a quiet laugh. And yet the question lingered.

What do I do?

The usual methods—routine, order, gentle expectation—had yielded almost nothing. Miss Moreland resisted without defying. She complied without engaging. She followed rules but not rhythms.

Some days Eleanor thought she knew how to handle this type of young woman. Withdrawn. Intelligent. Needs time.

Other days, she felt the weight of not knowing at all.

She straightened, spine stiffening with resolve. She could not afford to falter. Not in front of her staff. Not in front of the other students. And certainly not in front of Lord Camden.

She would keep trying.

She would experiment, gently and quietly, until something reached the girl beneath her guarded exterior.

Because Eleanor did not give up. And if she had to dig up every root in the conservatory to find the one thing that would bloom in Helena Moreland, then so be it.

She returned to her desk, pen in hand, and this time when she set it to the page, it moved with steady purpose.

Tomorrow, she would try something new.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

One way or another, she would find her way in.

And then there was Lord Camden himself.

Eleanor shook her head, pushing the thought aside. She couldn’t allow herself to become distracted by him or by the unusual nature of their interactions. Her focus needed to remain on the school, on the girls, on the tasks that lay ahead.

Yet deep down, she knew that the Marquess’s presence—his persistence, his intensity—had unsettled her more than she cared to admit.

Perhaps, in time, things would smooth out. Perhaps Helena would continue to settle, and Lord Camden's visits would become less frequent, more routine.

Eleanor crossed to her cabinet, pulling out a small leather-bound book—the one she used for private thoughts and occasional letters never meant to be sent. She opened to a blank page and dipped her quill into the ink.

There are men who wear their power like armor, and those who carry it like weight. Lord Camden does neither.

He stood here today, bristling with questions. But beneath the frustration … something quieter. A man who does not yet know how to ask for help.

Miss Moreland is doing well. That should have eased his fears. But I think he carries more than one burden—and perhaps not all of them are about her.

She paused, quill still hovering. Then, without signing, she closed the book and returned it to its drawer.

A knock came again—this one soft, hesitant. Eleanor opened the door to find Clara Allen, one of their more observant students, holding a stack of books nearly too tall for her arms.

“Miss Langford,” Clara said with a curtsy. “Miss Denby said I might deliver these for you.”

“Thank you, Clara,” Eleanor replied, taking the books and resting them carefully on her desk. “How was your history lesson today?”

Clara scrunched her nose. “Miss Trent made us recite dates again. But I remembered all of mine this time.”

“Well done,” Eleanor said warmly. “You’ll be a scholar yet.”

Clara beamed and hurried off down the corridor.

Alone once more, Eleanor placed the last book atop the pile and adjusted it, then adjusted it again. Her gaze drifted across the room—landing not on the window or the lamp but on the spot where Lord Camden had stood only hours ago. Proud. Unyielding. But not untouched.

She reminded herself again that her work was here. Her duty was to the girls and to the academy—not to distracted thoughts or inconvenient men with marquessates and haunted eyes.