Author's note: Just for fun: there is a literary Easter egg hidden in this chapter, from a book that takes place in Derbyshire. Anyone recognize it?

Meanwhile, I'm working on the promised timeline!

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Miss Kenway… Yes…

He peeked at her from the corner of his eye.

The age was about right, she was definitely not married, and undoubtedly a gentlewoman by birth and upbringing. He did not recall the details his father had sent him at the time, but it was likely to be the usual situation with governesses: the family had fallen on hard times, forcing their daughters to find a position in order to support themselves as well as possible parents and younger siblings. It happened every day: a few bad harvests could kill a small estate, no matter how diligent its master.

He grinned to himself. That went easier than expected: he already had one suitable candidate!

Now let's see: were there any more at Matlock?

To stay in the children's department, there were the two nurses. But no, they would never do. Yes, they were both tradesman's daughters from the local area, but Miss Johnson was definitely too young, and Mrs Davies… for crying out loud, she had been his own nurse forty years ago. That would never do.

Alright. Any other ladies in his household who did not really classify as servants?

There was Mrs Keith of course, the housekeeper. But she was married. And try as he might, every other lady he could think of in his household was truly a servant. Clearly, he had to look elsewhere.

He turned his mind to the other gentle families in the area. There were not all that many, considering that Matlock and Pemberley together owned most of Derbyshire. But there were the Birtwistles of Bramble Hall, the Livingstons of Oakwood Park, the Streatfeilds of Grantley House, the Babingtons of Thackers Manor… Oh, and Sir Reginald of course. Did any of them have any spinster or widowed daughters?

The Birtwistles probably not: James Birtwistle was about his age. But maybe his sisters would qualify? He did have a few sisters, did he not?

As for the others, he truly had no idea. He had not exactly kept track of the deaths and marriages in the area, as long as they did not affect a change in landownership. He did recall some daughters, yes; he had probably been introduced to all of them at one time or another. But whether those ladies by now were married or widowed?

The truth was, that he had become a bit of a social recluse since… well, ever since Ginny was born and Agnes left. He went into the neighbouring towns and villages for practical matters, so it was not as if he was a stranger there. But social engagements he had avoided as the plague; partly to steer clear from the talk about him and Agnes (of which no doubt the neighbourhood had been rife), and partly because he did not want to leave the children any more than strictly necessary (which in practice equated to 'never for purely social reasons'). So he habitually declined invitations for dinners and parties and of course dances, and without a hostess, he could not really entertain at Matlock either even if he had had the inclination. After a full twelve years, his neighbours had long gotten the hint and rarely invited him to anything anymore.

Except for Sir Reginald of course.

He chuckled softly. Yes. Sir Reginald. The man was as stubborn as a mule, and every month, regular as clockwork, he received an invitation to the old knight's soiree. Maybe that could be his ticket to re-enter the social life in the area. With the others, he probably needed to mend some fences first.

By the time they reached Matlock, they were all cold through and through. As they were welcomed with steaming mugs of tea and warmed blankets, Hartwell had a sympathetic thought for the Gardiners, who had so much further to go.

After a good hot luncheon of beef stew, he left the children in the care of their nurses (insisting that Miss Kenway take the rest of the day off), and buried himself in his study with his steward. Two weeks was a long time to be away from his estate. Maybe not for others, but it was for him. And although nothing dire had happened during his absence, there were enough matters demanding his attention that he would be up to his ears in work for at least a week.

But it had been worth it, he figured.

It was not until after tea time that he had a chance to look through the pile of mail on his desk, including the standard invitation from Sir Reginald.

He smiled slightly; the poor man would probably suffer a near-apoplexy when he learned that Lord Hartwell would finally be happy to attend his little soiree this month.

Which reminded him: he wanted to look up his father's letter recommending Miss Kenway.

It was easily found:

Miss Kenway was born and raised at Hendon Hall, a small estate in Dorset, as the eldest daughter of its last master, the late Robert Kenway. The estate had been in the family for over 200 years, until a few years ago, when it was declared bankrupt following a few badly failed harvests.

The family removed to London to stay with relatives, where Kenway died soon afterwards under somewhat suspicious circumstances, leaving a widow and three children in their teens. They all found a position – Miss Kenway in the bookstore of Eades in Mason Street – and were doing well enough until the younger sister recently ruined herself.

It was her mother who saw to Miss Kenway's schooling, and the young lady comes across as intelligent, well-read and well-educated. Her accomplishments include music (most notably the pianoforte), sewing, needlepoint, dancing and drawing (both watercolours and ink), and she has mastered both French and Italian.

Her character references show her to be patient, honest, caring and hard-working. She has no previous experience as a governess, but she is used to handling her young nieces and nephews with whom she has been living these past years.

I really have a good feeling about her, Son. I think you will like her. I have promised her a two month trial period, after which you can make your own decision.

Please give my regards to the children.

Yours etc,

Your Father

Slowly, he lowered the letter. That was pretty much as expected: the financial troubles, the father dead… Only the sister's scandal gave him pause. That the family was rather poor was one thing, but could he justify connecting the Matlock name with a disgraced family?

But immediately, he scoffed in self-deprecation. "Oh, for crying out loud, Steve, don't be such a hypocrite," he rebuked himself. "You yourself were stupid enough to marry the disgrace of all disgraces. What right do you have – of all people! – to hold against Miss Kenway what her sister did some ten years ago?"

He put down the old letter and wearily rubbed his face. He would keep the matter in mind, but he refused to strike Miss Kenway off his list for something her sister once did. And more so because that would leave his list empty again.

No. He would find out what the local competition was, and then take it from there. Either way, Miss Kenway had one advantage over the local gentleman's daughters already: he actually knew her. And he liked her.

He chuckled to himself. Make that two advantages.

Right. Where was that invitation from Sir Reginald?

But before he had a chance to mend his fences with the local gentry, the children demanded his attention.

It was another cold evening, and they had retired to the music room after dinner, where a good blaze was burning in the fireplace. He was quietly nursing a drink after a busy day, and absent-mindedly listened to Ginny's playing.

The boys were occupied at the table with some card game. Which was probably for the best, for Ginny was attempting some Haydn piece that she loved, but had not quite mastered yet. The result was rather halting, but he admired her courage in performing it for them already. Especially with someone like Philip in the room. He saw the boy grimace occasionally whenever her mistakes got a little too glaring, but that was to be expected. As long as he kept his tongue in check…

Unfortunately, he did not.

For all of a sudden, after a particularly discordant note, an angry Philip jumped up and stalked toward the pianoforte. "Really, Ginny, you're making such a mess of it! Here, let me."

He pushed her aside and started playing the passage for her, but Ginny's angry scream and two hands slamming down on the keys immediately cut him off.

"Papa, he's doing it again!"

But Hartwell was already on his feet. "That's it, Philip!" he exploded, and took his son by the arm to lead him away.

"But I was just…!"

"You were 'just' criticizing Ginny's playing again. Yes. I heard you."

Philip's eyes widened in realization. "But I didn't mean to! I just…"

"No buts. You have had more than enough warnings about this, but clearly words don't help. So let's see if a week without the pianoforte will teach you."

"What?! No!" Philip burst out in tears. "I didn't mean to – honest! I'm sorry, Papa! I'll never, ever do it again!"

"So you say every time, but you keep doing it nonetheless! I have had enough of this, Philip!" He began to lead his son out of the room and down the hall to the nursery.

Philip just cried harder as he struggled to keep up with his father's long angry strides. "Not the pianoforte, Papa! Please! I said I'm sorry, didn't I?"

"Sorry doesn't mean much if you keep doing it over and over again," his father snapped. "I will not have you discouraging your sister like that. And since words obviously don't help, I have to resort to harsher measures."

"But I'm sorry, Papa, I really am! Please, Papa, don't stop me from playing? Please?"

But his father was inexorable. "I warned you last time what would happen if you did it again. Clearly, that did not help. You only have yourself to blame."

"Nooo…!" Philip wailed. "I have to play! I have to!"

Down the hall, a worried Miss Kenway and Mrs Davies appeared to see what all the commotion was about.

"What happened?" Miss Kenway inquired, her eyebrows raised.

Hartwell sighed; he was beginning to come down from his anger already. "He was criticizing Ginny's playing again, so it is no pianoforte for him for a week. Nor any other instrument." He handed the bawling Philip over to Mrs Davies, and the boy immediately buried his face in the elderly lady's ample bosom.

"I didn't mean to!" he howled. "I was just trying to help!"

His father was unable to hold back a scoff. "Really? By telling her that she was making a mess of it?!"

"Oh, Philip…" Mrs Davies chided. "That is not a very nice thing to say to your sister. I am sure Ginny does the best she can."

"But I'm sorry!" Philip bawled.

She made some shushing noises, and rubbed his back to try and calm him down.

"So what do we do?" Miss Kenway asked. "Shall we put him to bed for now? It is nearly his bedtime anyway."

"Yes, that is probably best." Suddenly tired, Hartwell raked his fingers through his hair. "But I must insist on him not touching the pianoforte for a week. It is past time for him to learn that such behaviour is not acceptable."

"But Papa…!" Philip howled in despair.

But Miss Kenway nodded. "We will see to it, sir."

"Thank you." He watched as Mrs Davies began to lead the inconsolably crying boy into the nursery. "I will come and check on him later," he promised, already feeling bad for driving his son to such depths of despair.

But when he looked in on his youngest later that evening, he found him fast asleep in his bed, with his bear clutched tightly to his chest. His face looked pale and washed out, still with traces of tears, and his little body jerked occasionally as if he were still crying in his sleep.

His poor little boy…

For long minutes, he just stood there. Watching him. Wavering in his decision.

Until at last Miss Kenway appeared at his side and whispered, "He literally cried himself to sleep."

He nodded, and opened his mouth to ask something.

And closed it again. No, that would be odd.

Or maybe not.

"Am I being too harsh on him?" he ventured quietly, the uncertainty evident in his whole bearing.

But she shook her head. "I don't think so, sir. It is a hard lesson indeed, but he needs to learn that he cannot hurt Ginny like that. And not being allowed to use the pianoforte is probably the most effective punishment you can give him. He will do everything in his power to make sure that won't happen again."

A sigh. "Yes…" He hesitated; then he bent down over his sleeping son and gently kissed him on the temple. "I love you, Philip."

It was as if Philip was in mourning the next day. So pale and quiet as he was, and bursting into tears over every little trifle… He suddenly came across so young, almost as if he had lost a few years – though that might be due to his regressing to his old habit of carrying his bear around with him wherever he went. Miss Kenway had carefully weaned him off that practice when he had started his lessons with her, explaining to him that his bear needed to sleep during the day in order to be able to properly watch over him during the night. But all that had apparently flown right out the window when he was being denied to play the pianoforte.

His lessons that day were likewise a mess, even in a subject like mathematics in which he usually shone. It probably did not help that Ginny was giving him a decidedly cold shoulder, but Hartwell could not bring himself to scold her for that – yet. Philip needed to learn that he hurt her with his derisive remarks.

He decided to spare the boy the torture of spending the evening in the music room though, and led the party to the family parlour instead. Where his youngest huddled in a big wingback chair all night with his bear in his arms, without uttering as much as a peep.

After crying through half the night, the next day turned out even worse. Philip barely even ate, and his big brother calling him a baby for carrying his dear old bear around with him did not exactly improve matters.

And his lessons that morning were a disaster.

He seemed to have totally lost his multiplication tables – normally his pride and glory, for he could rattle them off way faster than his big sister could. The result: tears.

Addition and subtraction with a ten-crossing suddenly proved to be an insurmountable problem. The result: tears.

His reading practice of his usual list of small simple words was a solid nightmare of failed guesses. The result: tears.

And to top it all off, he seemed to have entirely forgotten how to write his own name, causing even more tears to fall.

Miss Kenway watched him with growing concern. She had him alone this afternoon, as Henry was working on a large assignment from his Latin tutor, and Ginny had announced she was going to play with her friend Sally, Mrs Keith's daughter.

And Philip just sat there. Clutching his bear. Staring into nothing.

She tried to engage him with activities he usually enjoyed.

Drawing.

Building blocks.

Chess.

Other board games.

Spillikins.

Memory games.

Cards.

His favourite storybook.

The wooden farm.

Marbles.

A jigsaw puzzle.

Juggling.

His turning top.

His yo-yo.

But he just shook his head, and would not join her, until at last, "Miss Kenway?"

"Yes, Philip?"

A gulp. "Will you play for me? Please?"

She gave him an understanding smile. "Sure. Anything in particular?"

He shook his head. "Anything."

She sat herself at the pianoforte in the corner, and began by improvising a little as she pondered what to play for him.

But she did not get far: suddenly, there was a choking sound and Philip streaked from the room, leaving even his precious bear forgotten on the floor.

His running footsteps echoed down the hall, and she quickly went after him. It was a simple guess where he had gone, and indeed, she found him as a crying bundle of misery hugging the currently locked door of the music room.

"Oh, Philip," she sighed in compassion, before lowering herself next to him on the floor and pulling him onto her lap. He immediately clung to her, burying his face in her neck.

"I have to play," he choked out. "I can't do this; I have to play!"

"Ssh," she soothed him, rubbing his back. "I know it is hard, Philip. But you deserved punishment."

His hands clawed convulsively in her dress. "But I can't do this!" he groaned. "I have to play! I have to!" He burst into tears, and lovingly, Miss Kenway cradled his head against her cheek and kissed his hair.

The poor boy was truly distraught. Yes, he needed to learn a lesson, but were they indeed doing the right thing in submitting him to what seemed to be sheer torture for him?

She needed to discuss this with his father. And the sooner, the better. Yes, they had fully expected Philip to be distressed about being kept away from the pianoforte. But not like this!

At least she had not. Poor Philip seemed to be almost in physical pain. Surely that had not been the intention?! Especially from someone like Lord Hartwell, who but very rarely took to the rod to discipline his children. Something had to be done!

She cuddled the boy on her lap close, murmuring soothing noises – until a maid passed them, looking curiously at the odd couple there on the floor in front of the music room.

"Nellie," Miss Kenway hailed her.

"Yes, Miss?"

"Can you please find the Master for me and ask him to meet me in the nursery? If he is not in, come and tell me in the nursery when he is expected back, and leave a message for him to come to the nursery as soon as he can. You got that?"

"Yes, Miss." She looked askance at the crying Philip. "Has Master Philip taken a turn, Miss?"

"No, he is just very upset. He needs his father."

"Yes, Miss. Right away, Miss."

"And Nellie?"

"Yes, Miss?"

"Could you please ask the kitchen to send up some tea and something sweet to the nursery?"

"Yes, Miss."

The maid disappeared down the stairs, and Miss Kenway rubbed Philip's back. "Philip, would you like me to talk to Papa? Ask him if he might consider curtailing your punishment? For I believe you have learned your lesson, haven't you."

A shuddering breath. "I'll never say anything about Ginny's playing again."

She couldn't help a chuckle. "Well, I suppose that is an improvement of sorts. But why not say something nice about it?"

Philip made no reply; maybe he did not think Ginny's playing merited compliments.

"Come on," she said encouragingly. "Let's get back to the nursery and hope that Papa comes quickly. And if not, I have an idea that might help you get through these days."

It took some trouble though to get up from the floor, especially with Philip at first refusing to let go of her. But at long last, they made it back to the nursery, with their arms tightly around each other.

Nellie was already waiting for them. "I'm afraid the Master is out for the afternoon, Miss," she reported. "He won't be back for tea either. But I left the message you gave me."

"Good. Thank you, Nellie. We will manage."

She guided Philip into the nursery. And picked up his bear off the floor and handed it to him. He immediately hugged it tight, and thanked her with a watery little smile. She was glad to see he was pulling himself together a bit.

"Come." She installed him on the sofa, and went to fetch a slate and chalk.

But Philip pushed it away with a groan. "No writing. Please."

"No writing; I promise. We are doing music. Look." Quickly, she drew five straight parallel lines over the slate, and sketched a slightly deformed G-clef at the left end. "See? You already know how to read notes perfectly, Philip. And if you can read them, there is nothing to stop you from making your own. Try it. Draw some music for me, and I will play what you draw."

It was still several hours later that an agitated Lord Hartwell appeared in the nursery. "Miss Kenway? What is wrong?!" His clothes were still splattered with mud. But although it was her he addressed, his eyes sought out Philip. Philip, who sat on the sofa hugging his bear, with some slates scattered around him. "Philip?"

Once again, Philip softly began to cry, and in a few long strides, his father was at his side, lifting his son up in his arms.

Philip clung tightly to him, bear and all. "I'm sorry, Papa," he choked out. "I'm so sorry."

Lord Hartwell asked something that she did not catch, and Philip nodded.

Another question.

A look of hopeful disbelief on the boy's washed out little face as he looked up.

His father kissed him, and carried him over to the pianoforte and sat down with him. And played the opening phrase of Good King Wenceslas.

She smiled. Moved. It was one of the first tunes she had taught Philip to play. How old had he been – three? Within a week, he had even figured out the teacher's part, and was teaching the student's part to his musically quite illiterate father so that they might play together.

And to hear it now again…

Philip in the meantime regarded his father with anxiously questioning eyes.

"Your turn," the father gently reminded his son.

A few more moments of uncertainty; then Philip hesitantly reached out to the black and white keys and completed the phrase.

At that, Miss Kenway turned and quietly left the room.

They did not need her.

This was between father and son.