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decision to come here. Now she had established herself, she was not sure that she might not be welcomed as the child’s aunt, but how could she have known that when she arrived? She could have had the door slammed in her face, and rather than that, she gave herself a new name. And she had the boys.
    On Saturday, a week after her arrival, Ruth blinked awake to broad daylight. Fumbling for her watch, which she’d put on the nightstand, she checked the time and rubbed her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept until seven without interruption. Living in a comfortable, though not spacious, manor house had meant she heard all the movements when the servants rose at five, then the gardeners—arriving to tend to her mother’s pride and joy, her garden—then the maid coming into her room with hot water and a fresh pot. She always slept lightly, and the slightest noise could wake her. That was one reason why her mother had allowed her the little room of her own.
    Swinging her feet out of bed, she found the floor pleasantly warm from the sunlight that streamed through the window. The sense of her surroundings and her current position swept in on her. Hastily she washed—in cold water, because she was not a guest or an honoured family member, but a mere governess—and dressed in one of her other gowns. Making her way to the nursery, she heard a sound. A child lightly grizzling, not yet in full flow. She opened the door.
    Andrea turned and breathed a sigh of relief. “Could you pick up Peter, please? He’s waiting for his feed, but Andrew is not taking his breakfast well.”
    At six months old, surely they should be weaned, or further along the way? Babies needed a firm hand, Ruth’s mother always said, not leniency.
    The rocking cradles were dangerous for children like this. She would change the cradles to something more suitable for active children. The cradles swung from a hook on the support, and the babies were not still, as many could be. One of the children would fall out. They could swing that cradle too far. Peter, currently sitting in his crib, dragged himself to his feet. The cradle rocked madly.
    Horrified at the potential accident, she swept forward and lifted the child into her arms, holding him tightly. He could have come to serious injury. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she loosened her hold and on the solid, warm body in her arms. He gazed up at her with a preternaturally mature expression, but that was probably a trick of the light, for the day was bright and this room shared the same aspect that hers did. She smiled and jiggled him in the way she knew he liked. He chuckled back, but his grizzling returned right on the heels of her relief. “This cannot be allowed to happen again,” she said firmly. Andrea, who had moved to sweep Andrew from his cradle, nodded, white-faced.
    Ruth took a seat on the spare chair at the table and reached for the bottle. Peter knew what to do with it better than she did and guzzled the contents. “Surely they’re too old for the bottle?”
    “You tell his grace that. These babies are six months old. They were three months old when their mother died, poor woman, and then they were in London for a month before his grace brought them here. He says he doesn’t want anything to do with them.”
    “Where is the nearest town?”
    Andrea glanced up. “York, ma’am.”
    “How far away?” She had not marked the distance when she’d come on the coach.
    “About ten miles.”
    “Then I will go to York and find what we require.”
    Andrea grinned. “There might be no need. Don’t you have permission to go into the attics?” Ruth nodded. “This is a big house and an old one. There must be some things up there.”
    A smile spread over Ruth’s face. “So there will. I’ll make a list.” One thing Andrea said dismayed her. “You said you’d eaten breakfast?”
    “I have, ma’am, but there’s another sitting in half an hour for the chambermaids. You