Page 14 of Charming the Headmistress (Spinsters and their Suitors #3)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A soft mist hung in the air as the girls of Greenbrook stepped outside for their nature walk, skirts brushing damp stone and fallen leaves.

With navy-blue walking capes fastened at their shoulders and bonnets tied securely, the girls of Greenbrook walked in small, companionable groups, their soft chatter carrying lightly on the air.

But instead of taking the usual path around the garden wall, Miss Langford led them toward the hedge maze at the eastern edge of the property—a place that was beginning to be a favorite among the girls, especially as the weather was turning warmer.

She longed for the warmer days of summer so they could have scavenger hunts and recitations.

The maze was peaceful. Removed. Intimate.

Miss Moreland followed, lagging at the rear as always, her boots careful on the moss-slick stone.

She said nothing, eyes downcast. But Eleanor had noticed something—how the girl traced the brick patterns with her fingertips on the terrace wall, how she paused longer than most at the etched ivy on the sundial.

She was observing, even if she refused to speak.

Eleanor made a quiet decision.

“Girls,” she said, raising her voice just enough to be heard above the shuffle of boots and chatter, “I would like you to spend this time collecting images for your nature journals. Sketches, notes, leaves—whatever strikes your fancy.”

There were nods, and a few smiles. The girls dispersed in pairs, baskets swinging from their arms. But Miss Moreland stood still.

Eleanor approached slowly. “You’re welcome to explore more the maze, if you wish. There is almost always something new to discover.”

Miss Moreland didn’t look up.

“I know it’s not what you’re used to,” Eleanor added gently, “but the silence of it can be rather comforting.”

After a pause, the girl turned and began walking toward the narrow entry of the maze. Not a word spoken. But she went.

Eleanor stayed where she was, resisting the urge to follow. Instead, she circled to the far edge of the garden, giving the girl her space but keeping a quiet watch.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

Eventually, Eleanor saw the dark blue flash of Miss Moreland’s cloak reappear between the hedges. She was alone, her arms no longer crossed but holding a small leaf—delicate and crimson-veined—like a treasure. She did not notice Eleanor watching.

But when their eyes met moments later across the damp lawn, Miss Moreland did not look away. She merely gave a small nod—barely there, but intentional.

Eleanor returned it, warm and wordless.

Sometimes, it was not the conversation that mattered. Sometimes, it was enough to be seen.

The village hummed with its usual late-afternoon bustle.

Merchants called out their wares—early spring greens, pots of clotted cream, and bolts of muslin—while the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer rang from the forge.

A group of schoolchildren erupted from the bakery, laughing, their mouths sticky with jam, and a cart piled with sacks of flour rumbled past, the driver exchanging pleasantries with the apothecary’s apprentice.

It was, in its way, the heartbeat of the surrounding countryside.

Eleanor made her way through it all with the air of someone long accustomed to being noticed without needing to be known.

Her basket was light but practical—headache powders from the apothecary, a packet of dried lavender for the linen cupboards, a tin of shoe polish, and a square of muslin for an upcoming mending lesson.

A sachet of dried mint leaves tucked beside a new bar of carbolic soap lent a fresh scent to the air as she walked.

She’d also left instructions with the printer about hymnals for chapel and placed a careful order for beeswax tapers with the candlemaker.

Her steps slowed as she crested the rise beyond the village, where the country lane narrowed and the hedgerows grew thick with early green. The school lay ahead, just out of sight around the bend, when the rhythmic beat of hooves broke through the quiet.

A rider came into view—tall in the saddle, with windblown dark hair and the easy command of someone used to horses and the open road. As soon as he recognized her, Lord Camden slowed, dismounted, and approached with a warm, curious look.

“Miss Langford?”

Eleanor inclined her head. “Lord Camden.”

“I had some business in town,” he said, brushing dust from his sleeve. “And thought I’d clear my head with a ride. May I ask what brings you into the village?”

“I walk there at least once a week,” she replied. “Most of our needs are delivered, but certain things are best handled in person. The apothecary remembers us better with a polite reminder, and the printer prefers exact specifications.”

“Efficient as ever,” he said with a smile. “Would you mind if I walked back with you?”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “It is unnecessary. I know the way.”

He chuckled. “I should hope so. I’d hate to get lost between here and there.”

Though she made no invitation, she didn’t protest either, and he fell into step beside her, his horse following docilely behind.

They walked in companionable silence for a moment before Camden spoke again.

“Miss Langford, I owe you an apology. My earlier behavior—my sudden visit, the questions—I didn’t mean to sound accusatory. This whole guardian thing is … new to me. I’m doing my best, but I know I’ve not handled everything well.”

Eleanor’s eyes stayed fixed on the road ahead. “Apology accepted, Lord Camden.”

“Thank you,” he said. “You have lifted a weight from me.”

She bit back a laugh and looked at him. Surely, he didn’t care what she thought and whether or not she accepted his apology, did he? “I should hope such a thing has not been keeping you up at night.”

He nodded, then glanced down at her basket. “May I carry that for you?”

She blinked. When was the last time someone had offered to carry something for her? “You don’t have to. It’s not heavy.”

He held out his hand. “I’m trying to be polite and chivalrous. You wouldn’t deny me the privilege, would you?”

She hesitated. “It really isn’t heavy.”

“Good,” he said cheerfully, taking it from her hands. “Because my chivalry is entirely dependent on the weight of the basket. I wouldn’t have offered if it looked too heavy to carry.”

She held in her laugh at the absurdity of this conversation. She wouldn’t let him see that she found his comments amusing in the least.

After another pause in their conversation, Lord Camden broke the silence between them again. “Miss Langford, may we start over? As friends, perhaps?”

“I don’t keep friendships with the families of my students,” she replied, though her voice had softened.

“Surely anyone can be friends,” he said, his tone teasing but not insincere. “That can’t be against school policy.”

“We shall see.”

They walked past a break in the hedgerow, the stone gateposts of the school just beginning to rise in the distance.

“I thought I might stop by the sweet shop next time I’m in the village,” he said lightly. “Miss Moreland used to adore cherry tarts when she was little. I thought she might enjoy them during our tea.”

“That would be considerate. She’s shown little interest in anything since her arrival.”

He hesitated, then added, “I thought perhaps I might bring one for you as well.”

She blinked. “That isn’t necessary.”

“Perhaps not. But what would you choose, if you could?”

Eleanor wasn’t sure what to say. She didn’t like how the question unsettled her. Not because it was improper—but because it was kind. Too kind. Such a gesture felt too personal. Finally, she settled on an answer. “I don’t have a favorite.”

“I cannot believe that.” His brows lifted. “Everyone has a favorite.”

She kept her eyes focused on the road, though she could feel his gaze from the corner of her eye. Her cheeks burned. “The school can’t afford such indulgences,” she murmured. “And I won’t enjoy things the girls cannot.”

“You mean you choose not to.”

She made a small, noncommittal gesture. “We make do.”

He studied her. “I shall endeavor to figure out the information one way or another.”

She laughed, she couldn’t help it. “I daresay, I will enjoy watching you try and fail at such a request.”

“Fair enough.”

They passed through the school’s front gate.

She held out her hand to take the basket back from him.

Instead of returning the basket to her outstretched hand, he merely took her hand and held it gently—warm, solid, respectful.

But he did not kiss it. Then he bowed over it with the air of one who had been in court often.

With a small squeeze to her fingertips, he let go of her hand, and held out the basket to her.

“Until next time, Miss Langford.”

Her mouth felt dry at the moment. What had just happened? She curtsied, chin high. “Lord Camden.”

He smiled at her in a way that made her believe he had been a charmer during many of the London Seasons that he’d attended. But he would not charm her. They were from two different worlds—and they were living in two different worlds.

He mounted his horse with ease and gracefully headed down the lane they’d come.

When he reached the edge of the school property, he turned back toward her and raised a hand.

He kept his hand in the air until she returned the gesture.

Even from this distance she could see the handsome smile on his lips growing larger.