by Regina Scott
“We won’t be hosting a house party,” Ivy insisted. “Not until Christmas at the earliest.”
Daisy frowned. “Well, what good is a sister who’s a marchioness if you never get to see her?”
Ivy leaned closer. “You should have thought of that before you locked me in the library.”
Daisy laughed.
Ivy squeezed her hand as she straightened. “Be nice to Tuny. Tell Matthew I left a note in his study. It explains everything.”
Daisy’s smile snuffed out. “Everything?”
“Ready to go, my lord,” the coachman called.
Tuny and Daisy stepped back, her littlest sister crying openly. Ivy’s heart twisted inside her.
No. She must not worry about them. They were old enough to take care of themselves. She’d seen to that. If anything more was needed, Charlotte was clever. She’d figure it out. Another little girl needed Ivy more.
Miss Thorn, who had remained back as if determined not to intrude, now came forward. “I expect to hear only good things in the future, my lord.”
Lord Kendall touched his top hat. “I will endeavor to make it so, Miss Thorn.” He dropped his arm to offer it to Ivy. “Shall we?”
Ivy swallowed, but she put her hand on his arm, and he helped her up into the coach.
Her family had never owned a carriage, but she’d ridden in hired coaches as well as Charlotte’s family carriage. They had been comfortable, but tight, built for town driving. The Marquess of Kendall’s travel coach was much wider, with richly paneled walls and seats of deep blue velvet more padded than most armchairs. The equipage moved so sleekly that she scarcely felt the cobblestones as the coachman angled them into the traffic surrounding Covent Garden.
It was hard to look out the window with her bonnet. Ivy removed it and set it in her lap, smiling at the green grosgrain ribbons Daisy had used to trim it. No, it was probably best not to think about her family right then, or she’d be tempted to throw herself out of the coach. She chanced a glance at her husband—her husband!—who had seated himself across from her for all there was plenty of room beside her. His smile remained polite, his posture upright. He still wore his hat. Did he too want to jump out and run back to a time when things were less complicated?
“We should reach Hampton before dinner,” he told her.
“Will we stop to eat?” Ivy asked. Not that her stomach would allow it. It seemed to have wrapped itself into a tight little ball inside her.
“If you’d like. We will stop to change horses in any event. We keep a set there for just such occasions.”
He had so many horses he would leave them about the countryside. What did you expect, Ivy? He’s a marquess.
“Let’s see how we feel,” she temporized.
He inclined his head, then arched his back ever the slightest, as if trying to make himself more comfortable. Daisy claimed riding with her back to their destination for any distance made her bilious. Would his position affect him the same way?
“You may sit beside me,” Ivy said, scooting closer to the paneled wall.
With a smile, he swung himself across, and even though a foot of space lay between them now, the bench felt unaccountably smaller.
“Have you been to Surrey before?” he asked.
Ivy shook her head. “We had never been out of Birmingham before Matthew brought us down to London, and we didn’t go through Surrey. Do you like it there?”
He stretched out his legs on the polished wood floor. “Very much so. My estate is on a slight hill, bounded by rivers lined with trees. You can see for miles.”
She could not imagine that. Covent Garden and Hyde Park were the largest areas she’d ever visited, and even there one could not see beyond a few yards in most places. The piazza at Covent Garden was too full of people. Many parts of the park were too full of trees.
“And the house, my lord?” she asked.
She applauded herself for making polite conversation. That’s what Charlotte said one was to do with a gentleman. Still, he turned his head and eyed her as if she’d said something extraordinary. Her cheeks started heating.
“Since we are married,” he said, “we can surely dispense with my lord and my lady.”
So that was the reason he was looking at her so oddly. Ivy dropped her gaze to the bonnet in her lap. “You never gave me leave to use your first name.”
“How remiss of me. My name is Stephen, but I’ve never gone by that. Since coming into the title, I prefer Kendall.”
It was not as intimate, but then, they had no intention of being intimate. “If it pleases you, Kendall.”
“It pleases me a great deal. Allow me to say again how much I appreciate your willingness to join me in this effort, Ivy.”
An effort. Not a marriage. Not the meeting of minds and hearts. She’d known that. Why did the thought prick at her, as if she’d misjudged the placement of her needle while hemming?
“We are family now,” she said, raising her head to meet his gaze. “Family helps one another.”
“Well said,” he replied.
Silence reigned, at least in the interior of the mighty coach. Outside, the crowded streets of London had given way to the green of field and garden, the elegance of country estates. Would her new home look so stately? Would she find her footing there?
“Your family is welcome to visit anytime,” he ventured.
Polite conversation again. She should contribute. Ivy composed her face and her thoughts. “You mentioned a brother. Will he visit too?”
“Not for a while,” he admitted, hands on his knees. “We are ten months apart and were close growing up, but he chose a military career. He’s an officer in the Twelfth Dragoons.”
An impressive regiment. She’d read about them in the paper. They were even now fighting on the Peninsula. “You must be proud.”
His mustache twitched. “Weston is proud. I worry more for him. He was always the brasher of the two of us.”
“Like Daisy,” she mused. “I often wonder what Mother would have thought of us now.”
He sighed. “Unfortunately, neither of us remembers our mother, only the stories we were told of her.”
Sadness stole over her. “Daisy and Petunia don’t remember our mother either.”
“But you remember?”
Ivy smiled. “Yes. Her hair was like mine, and she generally wore it up. She had the softest smile, like a brush of a butterfly’s wing.”
He nodded. “You favor her, I think.”
He could not know the praise he’d given her. “Oh, but I hope so. My mother taught me how to love, in any circumstance. That is a rare gift.”
Now he examined his hands. “I envy you. My father did his best, but he had no idea how to raise us. He had never been close to his own father. Such matters were left to nursemaids, nannies, tutors. I want more for Sophia.”
Once again she felt the pain radiating from him, like heat from an oven. Ivy lay her hand over his. “We will give her more.”
He met her gaze, the lines of his face softening. Something simmered in the brown, welcoming her. Was it any more real than her tenuous hopes?
~~~
Her eyes were brown, a lighter shade than his, and he had never noticed how thick her lashes were, like strands of gold against her cheeks. They fluttered now, and her skin turned pink, as if she recognized his attention.
He shifted, and her hand fell to the velvet.
“You asked about the house earlier,” he said. Yes, that was the ticket. The weather, the estate. Anyone might have commented on them. There was nothing overly familiar about the topics. And he could look away without diving into her gaze.
“Yes,” Ivy said. She sat taller, as if gathering herself as well. “What’s it like? What do you love about it?”
There was that word, the word that could not be spoken between them. But it was perfectly fine to share what he admired about his home. In fact, it was remarkably easy.
“I think I appreciate the history
of it most,” he told her. “The estate has been in my family for seven generations, but the first evidence we have found of a settlement dates back to Roman times.”
“Romans.” She seized on the word. “I’ve read about them. They were a mighty army that had swept across the Continent, across even England. Did they build a fortress on your lands?”
He removed his hat and tossed it across to the empty seat. “Not a fortress. We believe the area to have been used as a clay works.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Clay works? As in trade? I thought marquesses were supposed to be above such things.”
“We never practiced the trade,” he said with an answering smile. “We merely protected the remains of it. The first Marquess of Kendall conducted the initial investigation. My great-grandfather took it one step further, enclosing the ruins in an Italian villa, Villa Romanesque.”
Her brows went up. “An Italian villa, in Surrey?”
He imagined the owners of the neighboring estates had initially reacted the same way. “There are others—Marble Hill House, Nympton. In any event, my father and I have worked to ensure the remains are protected for future generations.”
She licked her lips, and now his gaze latched onto the rosy pink, as soft looking as petals. “Remains. Dead bodies?”
He jerked his gaze away. “No, no. No bodies. Whoever left this establishment moved on, as we found few belongings. The most marvelous piece is a mosaic pavement. I’ll show you when we reach the house.”
She nodded eagerly. “I would greatly enjoy seeing that.”
Perhaps as much as he would enjoy showing her. His passion, Adelaide had teased him. The only thing capable of taking him from her side for long. Until she had left his side forever.
Ivy was watching him expectantly. Had she asked him a question?
“Sorry,” he said. “Woolgathering.”
She titled her head to one side. “And what marquess gathers wool with the farmers?”
How easily she made him smile. “What else can I tell you?”
“An Italian villa sounds like a cozy home. How many rooms are there, all told?”
He frowned, skimming over the plans of the house in his mind. “Forty to fifty, I suppose, around the center plaza.”
She stared at him. “Forty to fifty?”
“Yes, nothing too ungainly. I know some of the larger country houses boast more than two hundred rooms, but I never saw the need for anything larger. I hope you don’t mind.”
She visibly swallowed. “No, I don’t mind. It sounds quite large to me. I would not want to clean so many rooms.”
Her voice had a breathless sound to it, as if she feared he might set her to such a task.
He waved a hand. “I leave the cleaning and maintenance to Mrs. Sheppard, our housekeeper. Though I imagine she will want your direction. You are the marchioness.”
All color fled. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
And she did not look the least bit happy about it.
Chapter Five
Villa Romanesque. What a name for an English estate. Ivy could only stare out the window in trepidation as the carriage rolled up a gently sweeping drive to the front of the house. The summer sun, low in the sky, made the white stone gleam like a pearl, yet every angle of corner and roof was precise, a massive block on each side. Even the gardens across the gravel drive from the front door were laid out in squares and triangles, the thick green hedges cropped low and perfectly flat, so that not one leaf was out of line. She had never seen nature so controlled.
Then again, she hadn’t seen much of nature, having been raised in the city. How amazing to see fields of rippling grain stretching in every direction until they lapped against the wall of trees to the east and west. Those must mark the rivers he’d mentioned, making their way to the mighty Thames.
And the servants! As the coach drew to a stop, Kendall’s staff came running from the stables to one side, spilled out of the three-story house. Groomsmen took charge of the horses; footmen hoisted off the trunks. Men in black tailcoats and women in grey gowns covered by simple white aprons lined the path from the coach to the wide arched front door.
Kendall climbed down, turned, and offered her his hand. “Welcome home, Ivy.”
She wanted to stay in her seat, beg the coachman to return her to London. This wasn’t a home; it was far too grand.
And this marriage was a mistake. If she hadn’t fit into London Society, how could she possibly fit in here? The housekeeper would take one look at her and send her to the servants quarters, if she was even good enough to serve there. She fumbled to put her bonnet back on with the insane idea that it might make her look more presentable.
As if he saw her fear, Kendall leaned into the coach. “You are Lady Kendall now. This is your staff. You dance to no one’s tune.”
Ivy stilled. How amazing. All her life, she’d done what needed to be done. She loved Daisy and Tuny, had been proud to keep Matthew’s house. But always, someone else had made the decisions—her father, Mrs. Bateman, Matthew, even Charlotte and Miss Thorn.
Here, at least some of the decisions would be hers. She could not doubt him. That face was too solemn, too sure.
She put her hand on his and stepped down from the coach.
He tucked her hand in his arm and smiled as he turned toward the waiting staff. At the end of the line, the door stood open as if to welcome her. The rounded pediment over the door was carved with the face of an elderly man, hair long and eyes bulging. He might have been beaming approval.
Or laughing that she thought she had any place here.
A woman came forward to greet them. She was past middle-age, grey threading the sleek black tresses confined in a bun at the top of her head. Cool blue eyes regarded Ivy steadily from a face smooth of line, blemish, or emotion.
“Lady Kendall,” the marquess said, “allow me to introduce Mrs. Sheppard, our housekeeper.”
The housekeeper curtsied, and Ivy had to stop herself from returning the gesture.
“Lady Kendall is new to Surrey,” he explained. “I expect you will explain our ways of doing things.”
Mrs. Sheppard inclined her head, and Ivy smiled her appreciation.
“However,” Kendall continued, “if she has a different approach, I expect you to listen and obey.”
Mrs. Sheppard blinked. Ivy stared at Kendall. Did he understand the power he’d just conferred on her?
“Of course, my lord,” the housekeeper said, breaking the stunned silence. She had a precise way of speaking, as if making sure each vowel and consonant had its proper time and place. “And I will be sure to bring the matter to you for approval.”
Kendall wouldn’t give her even that little concession. “No need. I trust Lady Kendall in all things. Now, would you be so good as to introduce the staff?”
The only sign of the housekeeper’s shock at his statement was a quirk of her black brows, but she turned to lead them up the walk, pausing every few steps to comment on the staff member standing on either side.
Ivy did her best to remember the name and positions, but by the fifth set of them, her brain balked. It didn’t help that there were more than one of many positions (how many upstairs maids did a house need?) and similar or duplicate names. Martha the elder was a downstairs maid while Martha the younger worked in the laundry in an outbuilding behind the house, and neither would have been pleased to be confused with the other. Parkins was a groom, but Perkins was an underfootman, and she knew enough about the positions to understand one worked outside and the other in. A shame there wasn’t some book listing who was who as there was for the aristocracy—Debrett’s Peerage of the Servants of Villa Romanesque.
One thing they all shared was their tension. Every body was tight, every gaze pinched with worry. Did they doubt Ivy knew how to manage them? She certainly did.
As they reached the door, Ivy drew in a breath of relief. But the housekeeper wasn’t finished yet.
“Will we need to add your maid to the staf
f, your ladyship?” she asked, hands clasped before her grey gown. “Make other changes in positions?”
Someone behind her muttered a prayer. Glancing back, Ivy saw every gaze on her. Martha the elder was visibly trembling. Parkins, no, no, Perkins was white. Small wonder they were so tense. They thought the new mistress of the house might want her own staff close. They were afraid she’d toss them out.
Ivy gave them an encouraging smile before turning to the housekeeper. She raised her voice just the slightest, so even Martha the younger at the edge of the drive would hear.
“My sisters had need of our maid, so I could not bring her with me,” Ivy explained. “And Lord Kendall has given me nothing but praise for his staff. I could not imagine replacing a single one.”
Air wafted past her, as if all thirty-seven staff members—she’d counted at least—had exhaled at the same time.
“Very good, your ladyship,” Mrs. Sheppard said, stern lips hinting of a smile at last. “There are two staff missing, but you’ll meet them shortly. Nurse Wilman and Becky Bradley have charge of the nursery.”
Kendall took her elbow. “Perhaps we should go there now.”
If the housekeeper heard the concern in his voice, she did not acknowledge it. She stepped aside, and the head footman, Travis, opened the door to admit Kendall and Ivy.
My, but Kendall’s great-grandfather had favored marble. White stone veined in silver circled the columns holding up the high ceiling of the entry hall. White marble tile spaced with black covered the expanse of floor. White marble flanked the hearth that warmed the space and crowned the tread of the stairs rising to the next story. Stairs placed in a stairway that turned at precise angles, of course.
Travis remained with Mrs. Sheppard to deal with the staff, and Kendall and Ivy took the stairs. Their footsteps echoed as they climbed, but another sound rose louder.
A baby. Crying.
The sound raged with pain, frustration. It demanded a response. Each breath urged Ivy closer, propelled her steps, until she was the one leading Kendall. She did not have to ask the way. The cry drew her to the top story and a closed door along a plastered corridor.
