The Captain and his Will-o’-the-Wisp

Her tummy rumbled. The pencil moved, marking another little line in the far corner of the scrap of parchment she had laid out on her writing desk. Well, the Captain’s writing desk – though it was now in the lodgings that Frau Hudson had shown her to. She had wanted to write back to the abbey almost immediately, but after unpacking her meagre belongings, she found herself unable to settle down and write anything meaningful. She was starving!

Though the young woman had found it somewhat strange that she would be dining in her room. All families worked differently of course. Not that she was a part of theirs. No, she was a servant. As such, she had thought she would have at least eaten with the others. But no, she sat alone, waiting, wondering whether she knew anything about families any more. She didn’t think so. After all, it had been such a long time since she had had one. The thought made her lay down her pen and she lifted her locket from out of the collar of her dress. It was the one thing she had been permitted to keep upon her admittance into the abbey. The Reverend Mother had asked after her reasons for joining them. The locket was part of that tale.

Clicking open the little engraved door, she felt moisture rise in her eyes at the sight of the smiling faces of her family. On the left, a picture of her and her mother when she had been but a babe in arms, all curly hair and toothless smile. On the right, her father and brother in their uniforms when they had first enlisted together. The last time they had seen each other, too – while on the earth, at least. Millie’s fingers clicked the locket closed again and she closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry.

And yet, the tears came. She threw to the wind the caution of her sisters, urging her not to mourn them for it questioned God’s plans. She didn’t understand the plan. She didn’t care that it wasn't her place to. She wanted to know why. She wanted to know why, of all of them, she had been the only one to make it out of the war alive. She wanted to know why she no longer had a place – not in the place she used to call her home, nor in the abbey, nor in the Captain’s house. Grief overrode everything, and silent sobs wracked at her frame.

Then, there was a knock on the door. And another. Millie sniffed, lifting her head. She wiped furiously at her eyes and shoved the locket back into her dress, determinedly thinking about anything and everything else. Raindrops on roses, whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens. Then she wouldn’t feel so sad. Sort of. Of course, it all depended on who she found behind the door. She was wishing terribly that it was Frau Hudson. Somehow, she didn’t think it would be.

She glanced quickly in the mirror across the room and rubbed at her eyes again before pulling at her hair, hoping that she looked presentable. Then, the young woman reached for the door handle and wrenched the door open, the stiff hinges creaking noisily. The Captain. Her gaze flickered across his face and she took a step back bringing the door to a little as though it was a guard against him. Well, at the very least, it was a guard against his mood.

But why was he so …

She looked down at his clothes. Dressed for dinner. Where he should have been. And yet … he was at her door, jaw set with … he was expecting her. She wasn’t meant to dine in her room alone at all, was she? Hurt surged unbidden within her and Millie was half tempted to shut the door and throw herself upon the bed to cry until she had exhausted herself. She was certain, however, that he would not allow it.

“I am sorry, Captain,” she murmured. “Forgive me. I was unpacking my things and I must have lost track of time. I did not mean to keep you waiting on my account.”

When the door opened, the captain was glaring down at his children's new governess, but something struck him as odd. Perhaps he was imagining a redness around her eyes, but Keiran doubted it. He watched her warily for a moment, but when she spoke, his chin lifted in the silent representation of Ah. The children.

She did not mention any of them, which he found surprising, as several others had been quick to pin the blame on his kids. He didn't think that they were wrong to do so, admittedly, but the ones who insulted his family certainly had not lasted long.

Still, his glower softened from sheer anger to a simpler emotion: frustration. Mostly with his children, but a small bit of it was with her, and the other - the smallest, of course - was with himself. He really should have registered before. Keiran liked to think that the kids would grow up - at least the twins, for starters - but apparently that had not yet happened. This poor almost-nun had no idea what she was getting into.

Or, he supposed, maybe she did, now.

Instead of reprimanding her, or calling her out on trying to cover up for the children, he nodded and stepped back. Intimidation was unnecessary when she had already resigned herself to being in trouble. And he could admit that he was a little concerned. She was certainly not acting like herself, according to what he had seen earlier that day. Perhaps his previous chiding was more abrasive than he had thought.

Clearing his throat, Keiran glanced over the bannister towards the first floor. When he looked back at her, he was relaxed, yet still authoritative. "Are you ready, then? Or shall I have someone prepare something for you later?"

As if on clichéd cue, Melissa’s stomach rumbled grumpily. She had been on the verge of telling him she had long since lost her appetite and that, weary, she would rather retire to sleep a while. Her unconscious exclamation of her peckishness thwarted any attempts to do so. Swallowing, a hesitant smile spread across her lips and she nodded.

“I believe so, yes,” she agreed, squeezing out between the frame and the door, bringing it gently to behind her. “I’m sorry,” she added again, lacing her fingers together loosely over her middle. She nibbled at the inside of her cheek and offered him a smile again before hesitantly falling into step beside him.

It felt odd to be walked down to dinner by her employer. She was used to pulling Mai and Alice down to the refectory at least fifteen minutes before supper. There was something still quite childlike in her enthusiasm for food. During the war, though, it had become so scarce … she supposed she always made sure to be early in order to make sure she got something at all. That habit was one she didn’t think the nuns would ever succeed in getting her out of.

“I’m not very good at small talk,” she burst, lifting her head, her eyes shining with apology. “I should ask something, though, I suppose,” she nibbled on her lower lip, wringing her fingers together. “Only I’m not sure what, exactly.”

The children, of course, had been expecting at least one audible outburst. Dalton was standing at the doorway, peeking his head out to listen, but had to turn back to his siblings and shake his head that no, their father had not shown their new superior the full capacity of his temper. They had obviously not been around earlier when he had done just that, though, so perhaps they were just missing out on the fun.

As Keiran backed away to give her the space she needed to join him in the corridor, he was still trying to cover up the bemused smile itching at his lips. The larger part of him was still irked, however, so the almost-amusement failed to surface, unfortunately for Melissa.

What did one do when walking someone who worked for them into dinner? Certainly it wasn't the same as technically escorting someone. He had been to enough nice dinners to know that sort of behavior, but it didn't seem appropriate at all now. He brought his hands together behind his back as they walked, instead, his gaze focused downward.

When she spoke, he didn't look up but he did acknowledge it with a slowing of his steps. "If it helps," the captain began, lifting his chin, "I may not be the most eloquent of men. I have been surrounded by people who are quite talkative."

He halted halfway down the stairs, waiting for Melissa to do the same before speaking again. "I know that you're covering for them," he announced. Despite the gravity of his words, his tone was very calm. "I... approve of your bonding with them, or... finding a reason for them to trust you. But I do expect you to inform me if my children are in any real trouble.

"As long as we can agree upon that, I will forget what happened this afternoon."

It was times like these that Melissa sorely wished she could have gone to her mother and begged for direction. She would have known. Of better breeding stock than her husband, Lavender Brown had been brought up in a genteel household. When her father had called on a carpenter to repair a table her errant younger brothers had broken it in a quarrel over cards, she'd met Seamus Finnigan and everything had changed. Of course, her upbringing had not. She had attempted to imbue her children with that similar sense of poise that she had been. Elliot had carried it better than Melissa ever had. Hence, small talk was an issue. Verbosity did not make up for lack of gentleness and tact.

"There is something companionable in silence," she decided, offering him a little smile, a quick flash upwards of her lips, hoping she had done a little to endear herself to him - or at least render him less irritated with her than he had been.

When he stopped, her feet immediately halted and she came to a stop a few steps further up than him. She was used to the abbey stairs. The strangeness of these ones for a young woman who had never been particularly fond of steps anyway made her take them a little slower than he did in his natural, practised familiarity.

Her urge was to deny his accusation. Or statement. She supposed it was that. He knew. Of course he knew. He knew his own children inside out. He was their father, after all. Her cheeks reddened guiltily though, thwarting her intentions entirely.

She decided against verbally acknowledging his assessment of the situation, feeling as though she'd truly betray them if she confirmed it. But misguided though she may have been, he appreciated it. On condition, of course.

"You will be the first to know," she promised, her expression earnest.

She meant it, not least because she imagined that if they were in real trouble, she wouldn't be too far behind them, in real trouble too.

Once he was satisfied with her answer, supper called. Belatedly, at least.

The dining room was a beautiful, ornate affair. It was so different from any apartment she had ever taken supper in. Towards the end of the war, and indeed afterwards, her meals were so sparsely found that it only ever made sense to eat immediately, propriety be damned. She could only dream about what the Captain's library looked like, but didn't dare entertain going to look for it lest it fell under the umbrella of rooms better off left alone. Still, perhaps by candlelight at night she could look and steal away a few that had already been cut so that she could read... No. It was a terrible idea.

The children were assembled when they arrived and Millie stilled a little way inside, turning her head to silently ask for direction to her seat. Having retrieved it, Millie stepped around the children to move to the opposite end. She took back the chair and just managed to spot the peculiar object sat waiting for her. A smile twitched around her mouth and she plucked it off of the seat before gently lowering herself into the chair.

"Thank you for this, children," she announced brightly, setting the pine cone on the table. "I'll put this amongst my treasures. What a gift," she added, twirling it gently. "Should we eat now? I am terribly sorry for keeping you all. You must be ravenous!"

When Keiran looked up at her, turning over his shoulder though his hand reached out to the railing of the staircase, he believed her. He simply stood there for a moment, bizarrely comforted by the near truce they had formed. But then he nodded and led the way, only to step to the side and let her walk in first.

Anthony was pouting when they returned, and his father could not blame him. After all, he was only little, and a growing boy at any age merely wanted his food once it was set in front of him. But the children knew better than to eat without someone else. He looked up sharply when he heard footsteps and his father directing their new housemate (of sorts) to the far end of the table. He started fidgeting even before she sat down, amusing his father, whose eyes suggested the emotion even though his mouth did not.

Keiran wasn't sure what to think about the pinecone situation, but Will, who was next closest to Melissa besides Anthony, looked disappointed by her reaction. As unamused as Keiran was, he didn't bother saying anything about it. He just glanced at Melissa before sinking into his chair as well. The instant he settled in, the kids reached for their silverware enthusiastically.

Not typically a group to chat much, and with the children seemingly embarrassed by their actions and the way both of the adults had reacted to them, the Hayes family focused in on their meals.

A few minutes later, though, their butler came in and passed the captain a telegram. Keiran cut it open and glanced through it, his lips pressing together as he considered it. Kelly said something to Darren but Keiran wasn't paying her much attention. In the end, he was pleased, though. When he set it down, the kids were staring at him, likely knowing precisely what he was going to say. "In the morning," he began slowly, anticipating the retaliation ahead, "I am leaving for Vienna."

Groans and complaints lifted from the children's lips, but a lift of their father's eyebrow silenced them. The disappointed expressions didn't go away, however. When Darcie spoke up, Keiran did feel a bit of guilt. But they couldn't have known that it was all going to be for the better, in the end, if things went as he planned.

"How long will you be gone this time, papa?"

His jaw clenched, and he glanced at the note for another moment. It had been a long time since any of them had called him that. Darcie, especially. When he looked up, though, his expression was casual again. "Two weeks. But when I return, I'll be bringing the Baroness with me, so you all can meet her." There were a few murmurs of interest at that. "And," he added with emphasis, drawing curious expressions, "I'll also be bringing Uncle Theo..."

"Yes!"