"Good. Then tomorrow we make foam," Josephine said.
Harriet gasped, temporarily forgetting the toad. "Exploding foam?"
"Only if you follow instructions perfectly," Josephine promised smoothly.
Richard felt a strange, tight sensation in his chest. It was the sight of Abigail leaning forward, genuinely interested, the defensive wall around her dropping for a fraction of a second. It was Harriet kicking her legs under the table in excitement. It was the absolute, grounded competence radiating from the woman at the end of the table.
He took a sip of his wine, hiding a small, unfamiliar smile behind the crystal rim. "I expect a full report on this foam, then. Try not to singe the drapery."
The next afternoon, the smell of sulfur and vinegar drifted down the main staircase, permeating the usually sterile air of the manor. Richard was in his study, trying to draft a letter to his land steward, but the faint sounds of muffled cheering from the second floor made concentration impossible.
He abandoned the letter. He walked up the grand staircase, drawn toward the noise like a moth to a very dangerous, unstable flame.
The door to the schoolroom was wide open. Inside, chaos reigned. The heavy oak desk had been pushed to the center of the room, covered in thick canvas. Beakers, copper tubing, and glass vials were scattered across the surface. Abigail stood at the center, wearing a pair of thick leather gloves and a canvas apron over her dress. She was carefully pouring a white powder into a large glass flask filled with a murky liquid. Clara was hastily scribbling notes on a chalkboard, while Harriet bounced on her toes, safely sequestered behind a high-backed armchair.
Josephine stood right beside Abigail. She wasn't interfering; she was simply watching closely, her own hands resting lightly on the edge of the desk.
"Slowly, Abigail," Josephine cautioned, her voice steady. "The reaction is exothermic. It will generate heat."
Richard stepped into the room. No one noticed him. He watched his eldest daughter, the girl who usually stared at him with cold resentment, completely absorbed in the task.
Abigail tipped the last of the powder into the flask. For a second, nothing happened. Then the liquid violently bubbled. A massive, thick column of yellowish foam erupted from the narrow neck of the flask, shooting straight up into the air and splattering against the high ceiling.
Harriet shrieked with absolute delight. Clara dropped her chalk. Abigail stared at the expanding mountain of foam with wide, triumphant eyes.
"Excellent volume," Josephine noted, brushing a fleck of yellow foam off her sleeve. "Your proportions were perfect."
"It hit the ceiling!" Abigail breathed, a massive grin breaking across her face.
It was the first time Richard had seen her smile in 2 years. It transformed her entirely, stripping away the bitter young woman and revealing the brilliant child underneath.
"It certainly did," Richard said, stepping out of the shadows.
The girls froze. The grin vanished from Abigail's face, instantly replaced by a mask of wary dread. Harriet ducked lower behind the chair. They expected a lecture. They expected him to shut it down, to yell, to retreat into his grief.
Richard walked slowly towards the desk. He looked at the bubbling mess, then up at the yellow stain on his pristine plaster ceiling. He reached out with a bare finger, scooping a tiny bit of the foam from the edge of the desk. He rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger.
"Vinegar, baking soda, and a heavy soap base?" Richard asked, looking at Josephine.
Josephine's eyes widened slightly, caught off guard. "Yes, Your Grace. Plus a touch of yeast for rapid expansion."
Richard turned his gaze to Abigail. He didn't scowl. He didn't sigh. "Next time, Lady Abigail, if you add a dash of potassium iodide to hydrogen peroxide instead, you won't just get foam. You'll get a thermal reaction that burns hot enough to scorch the desk. I suggest we move the operation to the stone terrace before we attempt it."
Abigail blinked, her mouth falling open slightly. "You know chemistry?"
"I was an artillery officer, Abigail," Richard said softly. "I know how things explode."
He didn't leave. He stayed in the schoolroom for another hour, helping them clean the mess, arguing gently with Clara about the combustion rate of different materials. And every time he looked up, he found Josephine watching him. The fierce, challenging glare she usually aimed at him was gone, replaced by something much softer—and infinitely more dangerous.
Gravel crunched sharply beneath the iron-rimmed wheels of an overly ornate carriage. It was a sound that usually sent Richard retreating into the deepest, darkest corner of his library, locking the door and instructing Bates to lie about his whereabouts. Today, however, retreat was impossible: he was currently standing waist-deep in a trench on the south lawn, covered in mud.
It had been a week since the chemistry incident. The rigid, suffocating structure of Ashborne Manor had slowly cracked open, giving way to a structured, educational sort of madness. Josephine's irrigation project had grown from a simple ditch into a complex network of drainage canals designed to reroute rainwater away from the foundation of the west wing.
Richard had initially come outside merely to inspect the work. 10 minutes later, frustrated by a stubborn slab of limestone the gardener couldn't move, he had stripped off his tailored coat, rolled up his sleeves, and climbed down into the mud. He drove a heavy iron pickaxe into the earth, feeling the satisfying burn in his shoulders.
Above him, on the grass, Josephine was unrolling a large parchment map of the estate, using rocks to hold down the corners. Clara and Abigail were arguing loudly about the water pressure required to move silt, while Harriet was busy building a dam out of twigs and mud.
"Your Grace!"