When the heavy oak doors of the foyer opened, a chaotic procession entered. Harriet was first, triumphantly holding a small glass jar filled with soil and a massive earthworm. Clara followed, holding a clipboard covered in muddy calculations. Abigail brought up the rear. Her dress was ruined, a deep brown stain covering the hem, but her chin was high.
Josephine walked behind them, her satchel slung over one shoulder. She looked exhausted. A streak of dirt marked her left cheekbone.
"Straight to the washroom," Josephine ordered, clapping her hands once. Her voice echoed in the cavernous, marble-floored hall. "Boots off at the stairs. If I find a single clump of mud on this carpet, you will all be scrubbing it with toothbrushes before supper."
The girls didn't argue. They practically scrambled out of their boots, lining them up neatly against the wainscoting before bolting up the grand staircase.
Richard stepped out from the shadows of the corridor. Josephine paused, rubbing the back of her neck. She noticed him, but her expression didn't change. She didn't offer a curtsy, simply a weary nod.
"They ruined three silk day dresses today," Richard stated, crossing his arms. He kept his voice neutral, testing her.
"They learned the Pythagorean theorem, the basics of soil composition, and the value of manual labor," Josephine countered without missing a beat. She bent down to unlace her own boots. "Silk washes, Your Grace. Brains, unfortunately, rot if left to sit in stuffy rooms memorizing French poetry they don't care about."
"Aristocratic women do not dig ditches, Miss Miller."
"Aristocratic women die of boredom and bad marriages," she replied flatly, kicking off her left boot. "I'm teaching them how to survive when the world doesn't hand them everything on a silver platter. Or do you prefer them breaking china?"
Richard stepped closer. The scent of rain, turned earth, and sharp, clean soap clung to her. "I prefer them to remember their station."
Josephine straightened up. She met his gaze directly, her gray eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce heat. "Their station hasn't brought them a single ounce of comfort since their mother died, sir. I read the house logs. Since your wife passed, you've spent roughly 4 hours a week in their company. They don't need a reminder of their station. They need something real to hold on to."
The words hit him like a physical blow. The absolute audacity of it. No one spoke to him like this. His peers offered empty platitudes; his servants offered silent deference.
Richard's jaw tightened. "You overstep, Miss Miller."
"Probably," she agreed, picking up her muddy boots. "But you hired me to manage the unmanageable. If you want a quiet, polite house, fire me. Pay me my week's wages, and I'll walk back to the station. But if you want your daughters to actually live again, let me do my job."
She didn't wait for his dismissal. She turned and walked in her stocking feet toward the servant stairs, leaving Richard standing alone in the grand, echoing foyer. He felt a sudden, fierce urge to throw his brandy glass at the wall—not out of anger at her, but out of the sickening realization that she was entirely, ruthlessly right.
Firelight caught the crystal rim of Richard's glass, casting amber shadows across the open ledger on his desk. He wasn't reading the numbers. He was staring blindly at a column of grain exports, his mind relentlessly replaying the argument in the foyer: You've spent roughly 4 hours a week in their company.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed nine times. The house was quiet. It was a different kind of quiet tonight: not the tense, breathless silence of a brewing storm, but the heavy, settled quiet of physical exhaustion. The girls had eaten two helpings of roast mutton and collapsed into bed without a single complaint.
A soft knock interrupted his dark spiral.
"Enter!" Richard called out, his voice rougher than he intended.
The door opened, and Josephine stepped in. She had changed out of the muddy pelisse and was now wearing a simple dark green wool gown. Her hair was pulled back tightly, though a few damp strands escaped at the nape of her neck. She carried a stack of small, leather-bound books.
"Bates mentioned you review the household accounts on Thursday evenings," Josephine said, stepping up to the desk. She placed the books down with a soft thud. "These are the schoolroom ledgers. I require authorization for new supplies."
Richard eyed the stack. "What happened to the supplies purchased last month?"
"They were inadequate." She stood with her hands clasped in front of her. "I threw away the instructional primers on proper posture and etiquette. We need a globe, a chemistry set, three pairs of sturdy leather work gloves, and a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft."
Richard let out a harsh, abrupt laugh. He sat back in his chair, swirling his brandy. "Wollstonecraft? I hired you to keep them from burning the house down, Miss Miller, not to turn them into political radicals."
"An idle mind finds destructive outlets," Josephine replied, unbothered by his mockery. "Abigail has a mind like a steel trap. If she doesn't have complex problems to dismantle, she dismantles the household staff. Give her radical philosophy and chemistry, and she will leave your footmen alone."
Richard studied her. The firelight softened the sharp angles of her jaw, but the fierce intelligence in her eyes remained unyielding. She didn't fidget; she didn't seek his approval. She simply demanded what she needed to execute her strategy.
"Sit down, Miss Miller," Richard commanded softly.
For a second, she looked as though she might refuse. Then, with a slight rustle of heavy wool, she took the leather chair opposite his desk. She kept her spine perfectly straight.
"You judge me," Richard said, the words slipping out before he could stop them. The brandy was loosening his tongue, pulling down the rigid walls he had maintained for 2 years. "You look at me and you see a negligent, aristocratic father who hides in his library."
Josephine met his gaze. She didn't flinch. "I see a man drowning, Your Grace. And I see a man who is letting his children drown with him because it's easier than trying to swim."
Silence stretched tight across the room, humming with sudden electric tension. Richard gripped his glass so hard his knuckles turned white.