Oh, my!

This is most unexpected.

Theodore has convinced his brother to become the legal guardian of the triplets?

My trepidation fades as I wrap my understanding around this new development.

I am not well acquainted with the elder Hawthorne son, but, Theodore is not wrong, I suppose. Lord Hawthorne's reputation is, indeed, spotless, sterling, and not in any way scandalous. All of London recognizes him as such a character. As do I.

Moments ago, Theodore criticized his brother for being "ridiculously boring," but I rather commend him for it. A boring character often suggests good character, and good character is attractive to me. I would wager, Lord Hawthorne simply prefers to be more of a social recluse than a social butterfly like Theodore. As far as I know, on the rare occasions that Lord Maxwell Hawthorne graces society with his presence, he has always been well received and well respected by our peers.

If a spotless, sterling, scandal-free man like him is to become my employer, then, perhaps, there is no need to harbor such a strong objection?

At this moment, I find myself warming up to the idea of becoming a governess. I am, after all, a two-time widow of twenty-and-six. My age is far from decrepit, but I am not getting any younger. My prospects grow slimmer by the day. A small voice inside begins to argue in favor of Theodore's ludicrous proposal: This will be good, honest work, the pay will keep food on the table, and opportunities such as this one are not easy to chance upon for a woman who bears my sullied reputation.

I find myself taking this offer into serious consideration.

Yet, I do not wish to be rash with my decision.

Amidst this age-old maze of tall boxwood hedges where my girlhood dreams were once shattered, I study Theodore with the wariness of an older, wiser, and more cynical woman. I intend to learn more about the responsibilities and parameters attached to this position before I make a commitment.

Quietly, I murmur, "Very well, Mr. Hawthorne, I am willing to reconsider your request—if you are willing to clarify a few points in regards to this employment opportunity."

He bows his head graciously. "But of course, Emily."

My expression darkens at his use of my Christian name. Again. Earlier, I had let it slide. I will not overlook it this time.

I insist, "Going forward, I would prefer to be addressed as 'Mrs. Peak' and not 'Emily.'"

Instead of respecting my wishes like a gentleman, however, the scoundrel chooses to flirt with me, "You will always be 'Emily' to me."

His cloying, saccharine tone makes my skin crawl.

Irritably, I snap, "If memory serves me correctly, Mr. Hawthorne, you never married me. Both of my husbands are dead. Therefore, at present, I am no one's 'Emily' but my own."

Smirking, Theodore challenges, "Perhaps, you would prefer it if I called you 'Miss Blythe,' then?"

My breath catches.

Not in a pleasing manner, though.

'Blythe' is my maiden name.

Hearing it pulls me back in time. Theodore used to call me 'Miss Blythe,' affectionately, lovingly, in the early days when he first started courting me. Back then, I was more than willing to eat up all of his lies and promises.

At present, hearing 'Miss Blythe' roll off his tongue only shames me.

My bosom churns with unrest and discomfort.

The scoundrel does not notice my distress. He has the gall to continue, "Mr. Winslow and Mr. Peak may be resting in peace, my dear, but you and I are very much alive and... unattached. Perhaps, we could revisit the past and rekindle our—"

Rekindle our... what?

My gaze sharpens.

The nerve of this man never ceases to astound me!

I do not hesitate to nip his suggestion in the bud, "Rest assured, there is nothing to rekindle between us. I will never be 'Miss Blythe' again. I choose to keep my late husband's surname to honor his memory. So, please, be a gentleman for once and honor my wishes—I am 'Mrs. Peak' to you. Have I made myself clear?"

Theodore recoils as though I slapped him. He cringes and mutters, "Like crystal... Mrs. Peak."

"Good," I press on, "now, let us discuss matters of actual substance."

He grunts in sulky tones, "Oh, very well..."

"Tell me, what of your mistress, the mother of your triplets? Does she plan to stay in the triplets' lives even after your brother adopts them?"

The subtext of my inquiry reads: I want to know if I will be answering to the mother or his brother—or a conflicting mix of two different supervisors—for the duration of my employment.

He grimaces. "Do not worry about the likes of her. She is out of the picture. Forever."

Forever?

I blanch. "What does that mean?"

"It means," Theodore sighs, "she intends to marry another gentleman who wants nothing to do with our spawn."

My brow furrows critically.

Spawn?

What a heartless way to refer to one's own flesh and blood!

Silently, I cannot help but judge him. It appears, Theodore remains as selfish and thoughtless as the day he left me to marry Mr. Winslow as a helpless young girl. I used to find his cheek and impertinence to be endearing. Even charming.

Now, I know better.

Now, I know little has changed with him through the years.

He whines like a spoilt child, "I am most unhappy with her! Penelope put me in a truly distressing position."

Ah, her name is... Penelope?

I file away this little tidbit for future reference.

I dare to ask, "What do you mean?"

Theodore growls, "The woman threatened to send the triplets to an orphanage if I did not intervene! She is utterly shameless!"

My gray eyes grow wide with dismay.

I do not know how Theodore managed to paint himself as the victim in this horrid scenario, but he has done it, somehow.

Already, I pity these children for having such a thick-headed, spineless oaf for a father.

I try not to judge their mother since I do not know this 'Penelope' woman or her circumstances at all, at least, not in the capacity that I know Theodore, but, so far, she does not seem to be much of a prize, either.

These poor triplets clearly need a real adult to look after them, both of their parents do not seem to be up to task, and my heart is drawn to their unhappy fate as though a silent, invisible thread binds us. Their story is familiar to me. I know what it feels like to be unwanted and raised by people who do not truly care for your well-being. I would not wish such a sad life on anyone. Not even Lady Wortham. That old bat.

With softening resolve, I proceed to inquire after the salary, the living conditions, and the daily expectations regarding my duties as a governess. Months ago, I conducted some research when I was contemplating employment, so I am somewhat educated on what the fair market standards ought to be.

Theodore's answers are satisfactory to me, outlining in plain, straightforward terms—

I shall be paid a reasonable wage of thirty pounds a year.

I shall move to Lord Hawthorne's country house, Rosewood Hall, in Buckinghamshire and reside on the estate with the triplets, Violet, Vivian, and Reginald.

I shall be expected to tutor Violet, Vivian, and Reginald in painting, piano, reading, writing, arithmetic, and a bit of French on a daily basis.

In comparison to some of the other advertisements I have come across in the newspaper for governesses, I know this is a very decent offer. Even if I try to seek employment elsewhere, I doubt I will find anything better than what Theodore has proposed to me.

"Well," he prompts, "what do you say, Mrs. Peak? Are these terms agreeable to you?"

My eyelids flutter rapidly. My heart flutters, too.

To my surprise, I do find these terms to be agreeable. Little by little, reservations crumble away. My mind creeps towards a decision. Something deep, dark, and unsettling unhinges inside me.

An epiphany strikes—

The fate of my sex is often defined by moments.

The moment Daughter becomes Wife.

The moment Wife becomes Mother.

Every female is raised with the intention of finding a husband, so that she may, one day, fulfill her purpose as Wife and Mother.

Our womanly existence seems to revolve around serving, pleasing, and answering to the fathers and husbands in our lives.

Yet, fate is a wayward creature. It is suddenly clear to me that these moments, that this fate has never been written in my stars. I obeyed the men in my life for years on end. I ended up with nothing.

I am no one's Daughter.

I am no one's Wife.

I am no one's Mother.

I am simply Emily.

As this realization settles into my bones, a clear choice emerges before me.

Men have dictated my every move since Theodore left me to the wolves. I became Wife. Twice. I failed to become Mother. I no longer wish for my fate to be ruled by men. I no longer wish to be judged by other women. I want some semblance of influence over my own life, even if I must work for it, even if I must struggle along the edges of poverty as a governess.

I want to take control of my fate.

Thus, in a soft, steely voice, I reply, "Yes, Mr. Hawthorne, these terms are more than agreeable to me. I accept your offer. Please send the paperwork my way at your earliest convenience."