Chapter 11

T he morning mists still clung to the rolling hills of the countryside as Joy's carriage rolled to a stop before the stately manor house near Sheffield, a full four days past when she'd been scheduled to arrive. The grandeur of her new place of employment loomed above her, its windows reflecting the winter sunlight across the meticulously groomed gardens. A gentle wind picked up strands of Joy's hair that framed her face beneath her bonnet as she stepped down from the carriage.

"Mrs. Sinclair?" a young voice called, and Joy turned to see two young girls, Susan and Anna, charging towards her through the large door with all the unbridled enthusiasm of youth. Their cheeks were flushed with the chill of the morning, and their bright eyes sparkled with curiosity. At their heels, a frisky spaniel, ears flopping, made a beeline for Joy, his tail wagging a welcome.

"Good morning." She opened her arms just in time to catch the girls as they threw themselves into her embrace. The spaniel, not to be left out, scurried around them, barking joyously.

"Welcome to our home," exclaimed Susan, her words tumbling over one another in her eagerness. She was the older sister, six years according to Lady Peasemore's letter, with blonde ringlets falling past her shoulders.

"Mother says you're very clever," Anna added, peering up at Joy with a wide-eyed seriousness that belied her four years. Her hair was straight, pulled into a ribbon at the base of her neck.

"Your mother is very kind," Joy replied. "And I am very much looking forward to being your governess."

As the spaniel nudged at Joy's hand with his wet nose, she couldn't help but chuckle. She knelt down briefly to pet the enthusiastic creature, its joyful disposition a mirror to the children's own.

"Are you ready to show me inside?" Joy asked as she stood, brushing her hands on her skirts. Her intelligent gaze took in the eager nods of her charges. She smiled warmly, prepared to follow them into the house that hummed with life and the promise of a new beginning.

"Absolutely. This way, Mrs. Sinclair," the girls chorused, each grabbing one of her hands and pulling her forward with surprising strength.

"Very well, lead the way, my dears." Joy allowed herself to be ushered forward by her young guides, the spaniel bounding ahead as if to clear the path for their new adventure together.

The butler, who introduced himself as Mr. Carruthers, intervened as he hurried through the open door. "Children, you must allow Mrs. Sinclair to get settled. She'll find you later in the nursery. Nurse should be tending you better. On your way."

The girls laughed and hurried inside.

Mr. Carruthers led her through the house to the servants' stairs, and on to the housekeeper's office, where he handed her off to Mrs. Kilmer, a round, older woman with a mound of silver curls piled on her head. That woman showed Joy the room where she would live, gave her the rules of the household, and left her with instructions on where to find the nursery after she unpacked. Lady Peasemore would find her there later, she was informed.

After the woman left, Joy unpacked her bag and picked up her notebook in which she planned to log her daily schedules for the girls' studies. Then, she neatened her hair, gathered her wits, and went in search of the nursery.

There she found her charges sitting on a rug surrounded by a few toys. Joy lowered herself gracefully to the level of the two beaming children, her skirts billowing softly around her. "My, what a lovely room you have here."

"Mrs. Sinclair, do you like games?" Susan asked, clasping her hands together as if holding a secret too delightful to keep.

"Games?" Joy responded, feigning contemplation. "Why, I do believe games are one of life's most charming pursuits." The spaniel, sensing the excitement, circled them with an exuberance that matched the children's own.

"Then you must play hide and seek with us." Anna's plea rang out, clear and hopeful.

"Perhaps a little later, my dear," Joy suggested. "But first, might you show me some of your treasures?"

"Treasures!" Now it was Anna who echoed Joy's playful tone, grinning as she took hold of her hand once more. Together, they rose, the spaniel dancing at their feet, and the girls led Joy to a corner of the nursery where sunlight pooled onto the floor, illuminating the scattered spoils of childhood.

"Look at this." Susan presented a porcelain doll with golden curls and azure eyes, her pride evident as she cradled it carefully. "Papa brought her from London."

"Exquisite," Joy said, her fingers tracing the delicate lace of the doll's gown.

"And these are our books," Anna chimed in, gesturing towards a shelf brimming with leather-bound volumes and colorfully illustrated tales. "Susan can read some of them, but I can't."

"Is that so?" Joy's eyebrow arched in appreciation of their precociousness. "I am looking forward to exploring these stories with you."

Their laughter, unrestrained and infectious, filled the air as they beckoned her to sit amongst them on the lush carpet. With a book propped open on her lap, Joy began to read aloud, weaving magic through the room as the girls listened, enraptured. The spaniel, now content, settled by her side, its warm presence a silent promise of the loyal companionship to come.

In that moment, amidst the joyous clamor of toys and tales, Joy found herself remembering how happy she'd been when she'd gotten the news she was hired. It wouldn't take long to feel that way again.

"Mrs. Sinclair, what's this illustration?" Anna questioned, pointing to an elaborate drawing in their books.

"That, my dear, is a phoenix rising from its ashes," Joy replied. "It symbolizes rebirth and the eternal cycle of life—a new beginning from the remnants of the past."

That could also describe her life at the moment, she realized. She was the phoenix, filled with the promise of good things to come.

"Look, it's snowing," Susan cried, rushing to the window.

Anna followed her, then turned back to Joy. "May we make a snowman? May we, please?"

Looking out the window where snowflakes danced like delicate lace against the glass, Joy decided some active play might help settle her charges some. "I suppose we may. Go with your nurse and put on your coats and mittens, then wait for me and we'll go out together."

The air was crisp, and the wind was still, and the falling snow had begun to fill in the footprints of her arrival. Joy led Susan and Anna by their mitten-clad hands into the wintry landscape that sprawled like a blank canvas before them. The girls' cheeks were rosy with excitement, and their breaths came out in tiny puffs of frosty clouds as they chattered about whose snowman would wear the grandest hat.

"Look at Bartholomew," Susan squealed, pointing at their eager spaniel who had taken it upon himself to dash through the snowdrifts, his tail a wagging pennant of joy. At the mention of his name, the dog glanced back, eyes sparkling with mischief, before resuming his barking at the falling flakes.

Joy couldn't help but laugh. She bent beside the children, guiding their small hands as they rolled and patted the snow into shape. "A good snowman must have a sturdy base, just as a house requires a solid foundation."

"Like this, Mrs. Sinclair?" Anna asked. The base and a round belly stood testament to their combined efforts.

"Exactly like that," Joy affirmed. At that moment, their snowman, though lopsided and peculiar, seemed to her the most splendid figure that ever graced the earth.

As the spaniel barked, chasing another self-made quarry, Joy's gaze lingered on the frolicsome scene. For a fleeting moment, the specter of Moses—tall, dark, and enigmatic—faded from the forefront of her thoughts. There was no room for brooding on rugged artists with piercing eyes when laughter and life unfolded so vibrantly before her.

"Mrs. Sinclair, you've gone all dreamy," Anna observed, her young eyes curious beneath knit brows.

"Have I now?" Joy replied, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards. "Perhaps I was simply admiring our fine gentleman here. He needs a name, don't you think?"

"Let's name him Mr. Frost," Susan proposed with glee, clapping her hands together, her mittens making a dull thud.

"Mr. Frost it is," Joy agreed. She straightened to brush the snow from her gown, before recognizing the hopelessness of the task. She adjusted her cloak around her shoulders and held gloved fingers to her nose to warm it.

"Come now, let's find something for Mr. Frost's face," she suggested, leading them on a hunt for twigs. The snow was too thick to hope to find stones, so she'd have to snap twigs into little pieces for the eyes.

At the end of the day, with the girls tucked into their beds and a story read, Joy retreated to the modest sanctuary of her room. She closed the door behind her with a gentle click, leaning back against the solid wood as the solitude wrapped around her like a shawl.

The room was kissed by moonlight, which slithered through break in the curtains. She moved to sit at the small desk nestled by the window, where a single candle stood. She lit it, and it cast a warm glow that fought valiantly against the creeping chill of the night. Joy's gaze lingered on the flame, the dance of light and shadow reflecting the turmoil that threatened to awaken in her thoughts.

Moses.

His image rose unbidden in her mind—the rough texture of his short beard, the sinew of his muscular build barely contained by the fabric of his shirt. He was a man who spoke in terse sentences yet somehow filled the silence with an intensity that made her pulse quicken.

But here in this quiet room, surrounded by elements of her new life, Joy knew she must push such forbidden thoughts away. Her fingers traced the edge of the paper before her, the texture grounding her wandering thoughts. She reminded herself that she had responsibilities now—two young souls, Susan and Anna, who looked to her for guidance and love. It was in their smiles, their innocent eagerness to learn, that Joy found a balm for her restless spirit.

Teaching was not merely imparting knowledge, but nurturing hearts, she felt. By focusing on the children's education, she could shape their lives, offering them a world of possibilities beyond the walls of their Sheffield home. In their bright eyes, she saw reflections of the future, a future she would help mold with every song sung, every story told.

A tender smile graced her lips as she recalled the snowman they had built together in the wintry garden, the spaniel's jubilant barks mingling with the children's laughter. There was purity in these moments, a simplicity that dulled the sharp edges of her longing. For now, she must find solace in the love she could give and receive within this role—a role that demanded her full attention and heart.

She allowed herself the luxury of imagining his strong hands, smudged with color, moving with purpose and passion across a canvas. How different they were from the hands that now guided young Susan and Anna through their letters and sums, her hands. Yet, in both worlds, there was a teaching of sorts, an exchange of knowledge—though the lessons Moses had offered were of a far more thrilling nature.

Tomorrow would bring more lessons, more games in the snow with the spaniel nipping at their heels, more moments of innocent delight that filled the void left by her late husband. But it would also bring another day without Moses' gravelly voice and reticent smile.