Susan Krinard - Lord of the Beasts

It appeared that every one of Fleming’s animals had deserted the area, even the somnolent pigs. The silence was so complete that Cordelia could hear the sound of voices from the house … those of Dr. Fleming and a young girl. She lifted her skirts and dashed to the side of the house, keeping her body low.

“… must return to the Porritts, Ivy,” Fleming said, his words carrying distinctly out the half open window. “They will be worried.”

“Oi won’t go back,” the girl said. “Oi don’t loik them farmers. Oi wants to stay ‘ere, wiv you.”

Cordelia leaned against the wall to catch her breath and wondered how she had sunk so low as to sneak about like a common housebreaker and eavesdrop on a private conversation. And yet she sensed that there was something peculiar going on … particularly since the girl’s voice, apart from the thick London accent, was almost identical to that of the young woman she had met in the meadow.

“You don’t want me anymore,” the girl accused. “You brought me all the way up ‘ere, and then cast me off loik an ol’ pair o’ shoes.” She sniffled. “You’re cruel, Donal. Cruel ‘n’ mean.”

“No, Ivy. It isn’t that I don’t want you here. But you are better off with children your own age, and I don’t know how much longer I will be at Stenwater Farm. You have Sir Reginald—”

“Oi won’t go back!” She began to cry with great, gulping sobs. “Oi’ll jump roight off Newgill Scar, just see if Oi don’t!”

The thump of running feet was followed by the creak of hinges, and Ivy burst out the front door. Her gaze immediately fell on Cordelia.

“You!” she cried, and backed away so quickly that she almost stumbled on the flagstones. Cordelia absorbed the girl’s appearance in a heartbeat: the colorless dress, the bare feet, black hair swept up under a man’s frayed straw hat. But the shapeless frock could not quite conceal the womanly curves of her figure, and the dirt-smudged face was instantly familiar.

Ivy was not only the young lady with the white dress, but she was also the ragamuffin who had attempted to steal Inglesham’s purse in Convent Garden.

IVY GLANCED AT THE DOOR and then toward the byre, catching her lip between straight white teeth. The little spaniel planted itself in front of her and growled softly.

“Ivy,” Cordelia said, extending her hand. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

Fleming chose that moment to step outside. He looked from Ivy to Cordelia, his brows drawn low over his eyes, and folded his arms across his chest.

“Mrs. Hardcastle,” he said. “May I ask what you are you doing here?”

Cordelia had always believed that the best defense was a swift offense. “I might ask, Dr. Fleming,” she said, “what a certain young thief is doing in your house when she was last seen snatching purses in Covent Garden.”

Fleming stared at Cordelia, searching her eyes, and let his arms drop to his sides. “The answer is simple enough,” he said. “I found this child in Seven Dials, being assaulted by grown men, and did not consider it fitting to abandon her to such a life of squalor. I offered her a home in Yorkshire—” he shot a narrow glance at Ivy, as if he expected her to protest “—and that is why you find her here. The matter of your viscount’s purse was an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

“I see. A most admirable act on your part, Doctor, one that not many would emulate. It seems that not only the animals benefit from your compassion.” Cordelia caught Ivy’s gaze. “Do you agree with this description of events, Ivy?”

The girl hunched her shoulders but refused to speak. Cordelia nodded, unsurprised. “You helped her to escape in Covent Garden,” she said to Fleming.

“I had no intention of seeing a child go to gaol for such an insignificant offense.”

A child . There was no irony in Fleming’s voice, no sign of awareness that his protégée was anything more she seemed to be—as, indeed, she had appeared to Cordelia in London.

Cordelia briefly wondered if Dr. Fleming was capable of an outright lie regarding such a matter. If he were—and given the young woman’s beauty and older appearance when she was properly cleaned and dressed—it was not such a leap to imagine that he might steal her from the streets of London and set her up as his …

Good God, what was she thinking? Fleming might be unpolished and discourteous, but he was no debauche. Clearly he had never seen Ivy in the white dress or any garment like it, and Ivy intended to keep it that way.

“Do I understand,” Cordelia said, “that Ivy has been living with a neighboring family?”

Fleming sighed and rubbed the crease between his eyes. “Yes. The Porritts are good people, well-regarded in this part of the Dales. What is your interest in Ivy, Mrs. Hardcastle?”

“I could not help but overhear that she seems unhappy where you have sent her. It must seem a very drastic change from the rookeries of London to the life of Yorkshire farmers.”

“Ivy has everything she needs … good food, a warm bed, fresh air and the company of young people. What else could she require?”

What else indeed. Cordelia made a quick and admittedly impulsive decision. “Will you allow me to speak with Ivy privately, Doctor?”

He bristled rather like the little spaniel who so fiercely guarded his mistress. “You will not expose her to the law—”

“Certainly not. As you may recall, I was against turning her over to the constable in London.” She met Ivy’s gaze. “My feelings on that score have not changed.”

Fleming’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “Ivy, you have nothing to fear. Speak to Mrs. Hardcastle, be honest with her, and then we’ll decide what is to be done.”

Ivy shot an uneasy glance toward the byre and reluctantly followed Cordelia into the house. Cordelia closed the door behind them. “Would you like some tea, Ivy, or scones?” she asked. “There were still a few left when my cousin and I departed the farm earlier this morning.”

Ivy slumped in a chair, arms shielding her breasts. “I ain’t ‘ungry.”

“Then perhaps you won’t mind if I prepare some for myself.” The tea things were still lying out from that morning’s service, so Cordelia began heating water, moving about the kitchen as if it were her own. Ivy’s sullen defiance reminded her far too much of another unhappy girl, only a little younger than this one, and she was grateful to have something to occupy her hands.

“I hope you will allow me to ask a few questions,” she said with forced lightness. “I’m a little bewildered at what I have seen and heard today.”

Ivy shuffled her feet under the table. “You followed me ‘ere, di’n’t you?”

“Yes, Ivy, I did.”

“Why?”

“Because I … I wished to learn more of Dr. Fleming, and since you claimed to be his friend—”

“You di’n’t recognize me from Lunnon when Oi had on the dress,” Ivy said suddenly, “but you knew roight away ‘oo Oi was when you saw me ‘ere.”

“And you recognized me at once when we met in the meadow,” Cordelia said, “but you did an excellent job of concealing it.”

Ivy gnawed on her lower lip. “You di’n’t tell Donal about the dress.”

Cordelia paused in her preparations. “It seems obvious that Dr. Fleming did not give it to you. Where did you acquire it?”

Ivy shuffled her feet under the table. “I … borrowed it.”

“From the Porritts?”

“Sometoims Oi loiks to dress up.”

“Have the Porritts seen you ‘dressed up’?”

“Not them.”

“Nor, I venture, has Dr. Fleming.” She took the kettle off the stove. “I presume that you have pretended to be a child since London?”