Susan Krinard - Lord of the Beasts

At least Cordelia didn’t have to contend with an inappropriate attachment in the other direction. Dr. Fleming showed no signs of regarding Ivy as anything but a child. But before the girl could be made to accept her own best interests, Dr. Fleming must be brought to recognize the complexity and delicacy of the situation.

“I know we do not yet know each other well,” Cordelia said, “but if you will trust me, Ivy, I believe I may be able to convince Dr. Fleming that it would be best for you to find a more agreeable home.”

Ivy turned and regarded Cordelia through narrowed eyes. “At Stenwater Farm?”

“That I cannot promise. But you may be sure that I will hold your concerns very much in mind.”

Ivy weighed Cordelia’s offer as if it were a question of life or death. Indeed, it must be against her inclinations to trust any stranger, however well meaning. And yet Cordelia couldn’t help but believe that she could offer the girl something she must yearn for with all her heart: comfort, stability, and the constructive discipline that would restore her to her rightful place in society.

“Very well,” Ivy said. Without another word she spun and ran for the door, light-footed as a fawn. Her spaniel raced after her.

Cordelia gathered her composure as she collected the tea things and carried them into the kitchen. Something quite remarkable had occurred in the hour since she had followed Ivy to Stenwater Farm. Of course there were perfectly rational reasons behind her decision to involved herself in Ivy’s life; she firmly believed it was the duty of any decent person to assist those less fortunate. But there was also an element of irrationality in the situation that disturbed Cordelia, and all she could do was push such thoughts aside as she went to find Dr. Fleming.

WHEN MRS. HARDCASTLE EMERGED from the house, Donal could see that something significant had transpired between her and Ivy.

He had seen a hint of that change in the girl as she’d rushed out the door, flying past Donal with hardly a glance. But Mrs. Hardcastle’s face seemed to hold a kind of light he could not remember noticing before, a peculiar and exotic beauty that that had nothing to do with her rather ordinary features. And her eyes … those eyes he had seen in his dreams … revealed a hint of vulnerability that had a startling effect on Donal’s heart.

He rose from his seat on the flagstone steps and held her gaze as she descended to meet him. He did not understand the unprecedented sense of familiarity that assaulted his nerves and turned his mouth too dry for speech. He knew Mrs. Hardcastle no better now than he had an hour ago, and yet she might have been an old and dear acquaintance, a friend in whom he could confide his deepest yearnings. He could share with her his visions of distant wilderness, his need to run in those faraway places, and she would understand. She would even shed those confining, torturous garments and run at his side.

But she came to a sudden stop, almost as if she sensed his thoughts, and her eyes hardened to tempered steel.

“Dr. Fleming,” she said, “I wish to discuss a proposal regarding Ivy’s future.”

Donal shook off his daze and offered his hand to assist her down the remaining steps. “May I ask, Mrs. Hardcastle, what you and Ivy discussed?”

She took his hand with obvious reluctance, her gloved fingers small and firm in his, and broke away as quickly as courtesy allowed. “We discussed her unhappiness with the current arrangements, and I offered to help her find a more suitable situation.”

“I see.” Donal paced a little distance away, concealing his anger. “You will forgive me if I speak frankly, madame. I am surprised that you consider the judgment of a twelve-year-old girl of greater reliability than my own.”

“If she were indeed twelve years of age and a simple child of the streets,” Mrs. Hardcastle said, “I might consider your judgment sufficient. But you have been deceived, Doctor. Ivy is at the very brink of womanhood, and it is not too late to mold her into the lady she was doubtless born to become.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“It is not overly surprising that you were taken in. It is human nature to see what we wish and expect to see. Ivy is an excellent actress, and she had an extraordinary motive to play her role well. Even I did not penetrate her disguise until I met her again, here at Stenwater Farm.”

As Donal listened with growing chagrin, she recounted her meeting with the young woman in the meadow, Ivy’s transformation and the girl’s admission of her masquerade. She asked Donal to accompany her to the byre, where she revealed the soiled white gown that Ivy had stolen from the Porritt’s eldest daughter.

“Ivy maintained her disguise at the Porritt’s,” Mrs. Hardcastle said, “but she could not resist the chance to be her true self for a short while, even if no one would see her.”

“Her true self,” Donal repeated slowly. “If she does not remember her life before the rookeries, how does she know what that is?”

“I am fully convinced that she is of good family, and received at least some education. It may be possible to learn more through my father’s connections in London.”

Donal sifted the fine material of the gown between his fingers and shook his head. “Why was she afraid to tell me the truth about her age?” he asked. A wash of sickness curled in his belly. “Did she think I would abuse her?”

Mrs. Hardcastle walked up behind him. He felt her breath on his shoulder, and for a moment he thought she might touch him. His muscles tightened in anticipation.

“You should not blame yourself, Dr. Fleming,” she said briskly, her skirts brushing his boots as she moved past him. “Only a fool would believe such a thing of you.” She turned to meet Donal’s gaze. “Ivy does not know her own mind, but it is clear that she will not remain with the Porritts.”

Donal went to the door of the byre and looked out at the fells, thinking of the preparations he had already begun to make, the arrangements for the farm and animals he was putting in motion. There was no question of taking Ivy with him on his travels. If she refused to remain with anyone but him …

He had never thought to have the simple things that most humans took for granted: courtship, marriage, a wife and children. He had too little interest in the ways of human society, and human society had no place for a man of his eccentricities. But he had made a choice in taking Ivy from London. He had made himself responsible for a human life.

Mrs. Hardcastle implied that Ivy ought to become a lady like herself, that the girl would be happiest wearing beribboned dresses and flirting at balls and fetes like the ones Donal’s mother loved to give at Hartsmere. Donal had met many such young women before he had left his parents’ estate, and he knew the sort of life they desired: a youth of frivolous pleasures followed by a staid and expedient marriage to a man of excellent prospects. There was hardly an ounce of true spirit, honesty or sincerity amongst any dozen of them.

But Donal had seen something in Ivy that Mrs. Hardcastle had not. He had watched her running on the fells, her feet bare in the grass, her arms spread wide and her face rapt with the beauty of nature. He couldn’t imagine her laced into a corset and weighed down by horsehair petticoats. Whatever Ivy’s true age or parentage, she had a love of freedom that would not be suppressed.

“I would … appreciate your advice in this matter, Mrs. Hardcastle,” he said, keeping the despair from his voice. “It seems that I made a mistake in sending Ivy away. I know little of the needs of young ladies, but I believe she can be happy here. If there is anything in particular you feel she requires, I will make the necessary provisions to—”