by Regina Scott
“Your ladyship. Is there a problem?”
Why did they all assume the worst? “No, not at all,” Ivy promised her. “I merely wanted your advice.”
The woman reared back, setting her blond hair flying under the edges of her ruffled cap. “My advice?”
“Yes,” Ivy said, aware that every gaze was turned her way. “The food you sent up for Sophia was perfect. For now, I thought one type of food at a setting, cauliflower or carrots. Peas did not go over well, but we’ll try them again in a few days. Perhaps you could recommend what else available here in Surrey to add to the rotation.”
“Yes, your ladyship.”
She was so wary. Ivy pressed ahead anyway. “I know you must focus on the large meals for the adults and the staff. If you’ll tell me your cooking schedule, I’ll endeavor to put Sophia on an eating regimen that doesn’t conflict.”
The cook frowned, peering closer at her, grey eyes narrowing. “You’re offering to arrange your schedule to meet mine?”
“Certainly,” Ivy said. “You have challenging, important work to do to feed everyone on this estate. I wouldn’t dream of interfering with that.”
The cook’s mouth dropped.
The door banged open behind them, and Mrs. Sheppard hurried into the room. “Forgive me, your ladyship,” she said. “I didn’t realize you expected to discuss domestic arrangements this morning.” She came around Ivy, her gaze falling to the baby in her arms. She jerked to a stop. “Where is Becky Bradley? Why isn’t she at her post?”
“Here, mum. Sorry, mum.” Becky edged her way into sight from the back of the room, where she must have been putting away the cleaned dishes from Sophia’s breakfast.
“I sent Becky to the kitchen,” Ivy explained before the lightning could flash from the thunderclouds gathering on the housekeeper’s face. “She’s been nothing but a blessing this morning.”
Mrs. Sheppard’s color receded. “Very good, then. And what has Mrs. Grunion done to displease?”
“Nothing,” Ivy hurried to assure her as the cook shut her mouth and paled. “We were just discussing the most efficient way to work Sophia’s diet into the cooking schedule.”
“She offered to let me set the schedule to my convenience,” the cook informed the housekeeper, as if Ivy had suggested they all take a trip to the moon.
“How benevolent,” Mrs. Sheppard said. “We’ll need to speak to his lordship before making any changes, of course.”
The cook nodded, settling on her feet as if order had been restored.
It seemed she’d blundered. She was so used to dealing with Anna, their maid of all work and the only servant she’d had for years, she hadn’t considered the hierarchy in such a large staff. “Forgive me, Mrs. Sheppard,” she said. “I should have realized I should speak to you first.”
Now they were all gaping, and Ivy’s face felt hot. Sophia’s face puckered as if she sensed the tension building.
“Perhaps, when you have an opportunity, we could speak,” Ivy continued to the housekeeper. She turned for the door, only wanting to escape, and her gaze lit on a massive scarlet circle of metal built into the white marble hearth.
Something inside her leaped up, reached out, cried for joy.
“You have an oven,” Ivy breathed.
Mrs. Grunion straightened with evident pride. “We do indeed. We bake our own breads and pastries.”
And cinnamon buns. She loved baking cinnamon buns. No one was sad or embarrassed or dismayed over a cinnamon bun and a cup of tea. At their home in Birmingham and Matthew’s house, she had been confined to a cast iron oven pressed into the coals of the fire. Think what she could do with such a marvel as this!
She glanced from the cook to the housekeeper, both of whom were frowning at her. Marchionesses weren’t apparently supposed to talk to the cook. They weren’t supposed to clean up after babies either. They wouldn’t bake cinnamon buns or take joy from serving them.
But the scarlet door was whispering her name, promising untold delights. Anise biscuits, proper cakes, popovers, hot cross buns for Easter next year.
She raised her head and addressed herself to the housekeeper. “I intend to bake, at least every other day. I’ll need flour, finely sifted; white sugar, scraped and pounded; cinnamon grated; yeast or starter; milk; and freshly churned butter. I’ll let you know a day in advance if other ingredients are required. Is nine in the morning convenient for you?”
Mrs. Grunion and Mrs. Sheppard exchanged glances.
“Your ladyship, there is no need,” the housekeeper began.
There was every need. The staff were downcast and worried. Kendall rarely smiled. Even Sophia, when she could chew, would benefit from a treat once in a while.
“I intend to bake,” Ivy repeated. “Lord Kendall said you were to obey me in all things. I will demand little, will do all I can not to inconvenience you. But I will not be gainsaid in this.”
Mrs. Sheppard met her gaze. “I’m not sure Lord Kendall will approve.”
“Then Lord Kendall,” Ivy said, “will not be told.”
Someone gasped and was hushed. Sophia turned to look at Mrs. Sheppard, screwed up her rosebud lips, stuck out her tongue, and blew bubbles, loudly.
Mrs. Sheppard blinked.
“Tomorrow at nine,” Ivy said to the cook. “See that you have pans appropriately sized for the oven. Becky can watch Sophia for a short time so I can bake. I will see you then.”
Chapter Eight
Kendall had dressed, taken his ride in the cool of the summer morning, and breakfasted. The house felt odd, and it was a moment before he realized why. It was entirely too quiet. He had one foot on the stairs to go up to the nursery when he remembered Sophia was no longer there. He stepped down into the chamber floor and glanced down the other end of the corridor. An invisible wall hovered between him and Ivy’s suite.
Ridiculous! This was his home. Ivy was his partner. There was no reason he couldn’t visit his daughter. He marched himself to the door of his brother’s old room and opened it.
The staff had removed his brother’s bed and replaced it with Sophia’s crib. The rocker rested near the hearth. But he heard nothing of his daughter or Ivy.
Becky looked up from sweeping the carpet, eyes wide. “Yes, your lordship? Did you need something?”
“Where are Sophia and her ladyship?” he asked.
She gripped the broom tighter, as if she thought he’d take it from her. “She carried Lady Sophia off somewhere. She said something about sunlight.”
Sunlight? Outdoors? What would heat and wind do to his fragile daughter? What about bees? Poisonous snakes? Brigands! He pelted out of the room and careened down the stairs.
“Lady Kendall?” he demanded of the underfootman on duty beside the door.
The young man hurried to open the front door for him. “In the north garden, my lord.”
The north garden, the one with the stone fountain at the center. What if Sophia fell in and drowned? How could he face Adelaide in heaven one day if he were the cause of their daughter’s death?
He skidded across the gravel drive, leaped the first low hedge into the garden, and barely managed to pull himself up as he sighted the fountain.
Ivy stood at the intersection of four of the paths through the garden, next to the curved white stone of the fountain. Though she wore no bonnet, she had found one for Sophia, the soft white fabric forming a cap that protected her face from the summer sun. Her long cotton frock protected her body as well. As Kendall watched, Ivy moved close enough to the fountain that she could put her hand under the falling water, murmuring to Sophia. His daughter reached out her tiny fingers, touched the glittering liquid.
Sophia giggled.
The sound of her joy nearly dropped him to his knees. Had he ever heard such delight before? How could he hear it more often? He made himself approach slowly, carefully, lest he startle her.
Ivy glanced up and smiled. “Good morning, my lord. Lovely day for a stroll.”
> And it was. The blue sky was dotted with fluffy white clouds. The gentlest of breezes brushed his cheek, bringing with it the scent of roses. In her white muslin dress, blond hair confined behind her head, Ivy looked as if she were meant to be here.
“Good morning,” he greeted her. “How are my two beauties today?” He bent to see under the brim of Sophia’s bonnet.
Two blue eyes gazed back at him. Then she pursed her lips, stuck out her tongue, and made a rude noise.
Kendall reared back.
“She discovered that sound this morning,” Ivy told him with an amused smile as his daughter giggled again. “I expect we’ll hear it often before she tires of it. Daisy still occasionally blows bubbles at me.”
His daughter threw out one hand and wiggled as if determined to feel the water again.
He couldn’t believe the change in Sophia. For so long, she had lain listless in her crib, staring at nothing. That was, if she wasn’t crying. Everyone had all but despaired of her.
Now she made rude noises and laughed. He could imagine some would not be pleased.
He had never felt so happy.
“A mermaid, are we?” Ivy asked Sophia. “Perhaps we can give you a proper bath later. Indoors, of course,” she added as if she’d seen the concern creeping back onto Kendall’s face.
And why had he been so concerned? There was nothing here to harm Sophia. He could trust Ivy. Wasn’t that one of the reasons he’d married her?
“And what do you have planned after your stroll?” he asked as she turned away from the fountain.
“Sitting,” Ivy said.
She made it sound an impressive feat. “Sitting?” he asked as they strolled through the garden, the sun warm on his hair.
“On the carpet, I think,” Ivy replied. “Sophia leaned too heavily against Becky this morning at breakfast.”
He frowned. “Isn’t that natural when being fed the bottle?”
“Oh, she didn’t rely on a bottle,” Ivy said with a smile at the little girl in her arms. “She ate food like a big girl.” She looked knowingly at Kendall. “Cauliflower.”
He tried to imagine his daughter chewing the vegetable. “Is that wise?”
“She liked it very well. Carrots too. See how they put a bloom in her cheeks?”
He could not deny it. Sophia’s eyes glowed as she took in the world around her. Still, sitting on a carpet. On the floor. What if she toppled over, struck her head against the hardwood at the edge of the carpet? What if some dirt from the carpet reached her hands, was transferred to her mouth? Was that why Becky was sweeping, to prevent such a calamity? Would she be thorough enough?
“I’ll come with you,” he said, turning back toward the house.
She cast him a glance. “If it pleases you. Do not marquesses have important matters that must be attended to?”
A letter from the opposition leader on bills he hoped to enter into discussion next term, a report from his land steward on the state of his properties, a request from the Duke of Wey to consider joining in the construction of a new weir to further curtail flooding along the Thames. Minor matters compared to the health of his daughter.
“Nothing urgent at the moment,” he assured Ivy.
Sophia blew bubbles at him.
He thought they would ascend to the new nursery as soon as they entered the house, but Ivy turned to the left. “Perhaps you could show us the pavement room, my lord.”
He frowned. “Now? Isn’t it better for Sophia to retire to her room after such an exertion?”
“Exertion? I merely carried her around the garden.” With one hand, she tugged at the ribbon tied under Sophia’s chin and pulled off the bonnet. Ebony curls gleamed in the sunlight coming through the window.
Adelaide’s curls. Adelaide’s daughter.
“Perhaps another time,” he said, reaching for Sophia. “I’d like to see how she sits.”
Ivy cocked her head, eyeing him. Then she straightened and accompanied him up the stairs to the safety of the new nursery.
But it was no safer here; he saw that immediately. The legs of the dressing table had been planted on a portion of the new carpet. What if she fell against them? Worse, what if the table should topple over on her? Handing her back to Ivy, he shoved the table along the wall until it was off the carpet. Then he pulled a quilt out of the crib and wrapped it over the stone hearth. Becky, standing near the window, looked at him as if he’d gone mad. She scrambled aside as he approached to loop the curtains up onto the sill. Wouldn’t want Sophia to tug on them and pull them down on her. She might smother before he could come to her rescue.
“There,” he said, turning to survey his work. “You may safely set her on the carpet.”
Ivy’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t smile as she bent to lay his daughter on the floor on her belly. He had to stand ramrod straight to prevent himself from reaching for Sophia.
The baby lifted her head from the carpet, but her frown suggested she didn’t like the view. She lay down again and rolled onto her back to stare up at the ceiling. Kendall glanced up as well. His brother’s old room had one of the few undecorated ceilings in the house. He’d bring in an artist to fix that. What should it be for Sophia? Clouds? Cherubs? A pastoral scene?
“Well, will you look at that?” Becky marveled.
He dropped his gaze to find that his daughter had risen to her hands and knees and was rocking back and forth as if she couldn’t decide whether to go forward or scoot toward the wall. Ivy was beaming as if she couldn’t be prouder. He knew the feeling.
Sophia lifted a hand, and he crouched on the floor a few feet from her. “That’s my girl. Come to Papa.”
She leaned forward and plopped onto her face on the carpet.
Blood congealing, he rushed to lift her even as her eyes pooled with tears. “Fetch Doctor Penrose,” he demanded, and Becky flew toward the door.
“Stop,” Ivy ordered. She swept up to him and peered into Sophia’s face. His daughter’s attempt at a smile showed her new tooth to advantage.
“She’s fine, Kendall,” Ivy said gently. “Babies need to explore.”
Not his daughter. She needed to be safe, protected. “She can explore some other time.” He carried her carefully to her crib and laid her down on her back. She gazed up at him as he straightened. Then her lips trembled, and two fat tears slid down from her beautiful eyes.
“Is she in pain?” Kendall asked, heart twisting inside him.
Ivy came to join him. Sophia held out her arms.
“No,” Ivy said. “She is coming to understand her world is bigger than these bars. She is no longer content to hide behind them. She should be encouraged.”
“She should be kept safe,” Kendall argued, stepping back, fear and duty battling inside him. “We cannot push her beyond endurance.”
Ivy eyed him. “Her endurance or yours?”
Kendall raised his head. “My endurance has nothing to do with the matter. I am beyond delighted at her progress thus far, Ivy. I just don’t want to see her hurt. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there are some matters this marquess must attend to.” He turned and left the room, with the unsettling feeling that he was running away.
~~~
Well! If it wasn’t enough Nurse Wilman had nearly smothered the baby, now Kendall refused to allow her to grow. Ivy gazed down at Sophia in her crib. The little girl rolled onto her stomach and raised herself up, but there wasn’t any room to move. She slumped back down with an audible sigh.
“Should I pick her up?” Becky asked from the other side of the crib, face pinched with concern.
Kendall wouldn’t like it. But he’d asked Ivy to marry him so she could take care of his daughter. Allowing her to remain weak, helpless, was no way to care for her.
“Yes,” Ivy said. “Take her to the rocker, and see if she wants to nap.”
Becky did as she was bid.
That made one of them.
Ivy leaned against the crib and watched the nursemaid rock the bab
y slowly. Why was Kendall so protective? He’d called his daughter frail, and she was small for her age. But Ivy had been with Sophia less than twenty-four hours and already the baby had proven resilient. She certainly wasn’t at death’s door. Ivy’s mother and father had never treated Daisy as if she were made of thin glass. Even Mrs. Bateman, who had spoiled Tuny something terrible, had not coddled her so much. Ivy and her sisters had had chores since they had been old enough to undertake a responsibility. Lady Sophia would only have to raise her pretty little hand before a servant came to fulfill her every wish.
But first she had to raise her hand.
So did Ivy. She couldn’t just sit around. She wasn’t used to idleness. She straightened and busied herself gathering up the things for the laundry, smoothing the blankets in the crib. Becky hummed a tuneless lullaby, head bent over the baby in her arms. Sophia yawned, then cuddled closer, then relaxed in sleep. Becky looked up at Ivy wide-eyed, as if amazed at what she’d done.
Ivy tipped her head toward the crib, and Becky came to lay the baby down. They both stood watching her a moment.
“She’s almost like a real baby now,” Becky said.
Ivy motioned her back from the crib and led her into the other room.
“A real baby?” she asked.
Becky dropped her gaze and shuffled her feet under her grey skirts. “Yes, your ladyship. Seems like all she did was cry before you came. Babies shouldn’t cry that much. It’s not natural.”
Very likely not. Too many things had conspired to keep Sophia in such a state. Nurse Wilman had mentioned colic. Now the baby was teething. Perhaps there had been the usual ills that attended infants—ear aches, fevers. All the more reason to celebrate her health now.
And with Sophia napping, Ivy had a few precious minutes on her hands. She had never appreciated the social whirl in London, but she refused to be kept in two rooms for the rest of her life. At home, before Charlotte had tried to make her into a Society lady, she would have helped with the cleaning, baked for dinner and breakfast the next morning, done the laundry, or worked on the mending. A marchioness did none of those things, and she’d promised she wouldn’t bake until tomorrow morning. Unlike in London, there were no invitations from friends expecting a response, no park in which she could promenade. Kendall must have a library.
