by Regina Scott
And then there was the pavement room. It truly had been the most intriguing thing she’d seen in the house so far. Surely no one would mind if she took a closer look.
“Stay with her,” Ivy said. “Send word when she wakes.”
Becky nodded, and Ivy slipped out into the corridor.
She followed the path to the room easily enough, gently refusing the footman’s offer of help. Pushing open the glass-paned door, she stepped inside.
Time fell away.
All around her, white marble statues posed—a youth with a disk of some kind, arm cocked as if he would send it hurtling across the potted ferns at his feet; a mother with a babe in her arms, face wistful as she looked to the future; a warrior leaning on his spear, weary of battle; a maiden, hair down and arms up in praise of her Creator. Terracotta tiles made a path through their silent village, while high overhead, the glass dome sent sunlight down to anoint brow and shoulder. Somewhere she heard the tinkle of water falling: a fountain, most likely.
She should bring Sophia here.
Would he allow it?
She could see nothing that might endanger the child as she wandered the path, hand touching a stone hip here and sculpted foot there, skirts brushing the dusky green leaves of the potted plants. Ahead, the space between the statues widened to a square perhaps ten feet on a side. Ivy approached to stare.
The wood floor had been left open to the ground, which lay a foot or so below the edges. Inside, tiny square tiles were pressed into the dirt—pure white and deep blue and rich copper—to form a mosaic of a flower with waves encircling it. Cool air brought up the scent of earth and water. She knelt and reached out a hand.
“Careful. It’s very old.”
She straightened to find Kendall coming up behind her. He didn’t seem concerned that she would touch the pavement below. Indeed, his face glowed as he stopped beside her.
“This is Roman,” he said, “left by those who first built here. It’s a link to the ancient past, a reminder that we are not alone in this life.”
“May I?” Ivy asked.
He nodded, and she bent again, her fingers tracing the pattern on the rough tile. “And people walked on this, hundreds of years ago?”
“More than fifteen hundred years ago,” he murmured, crouching beside her. “Before there was ever a king of England.”
She pulled back her hand, awe rising inside her. “You are right to protect it.”
His eyes were bright with light and purpose. “It is an honor and a duty.”
So fervent, so dedicated. She had only seen the look one other time.
When he was gazing at Sophia.
That was what he did, that is what he believed—that if you loved, you protected. But there was so much difference between an ancient pavement and a little girl.
And a wife.
She had come to Villa Romanesque to help Sophia. But his response to his daughter and this marvelous mosaic proved he had a heart deep enough to care.
Could she help him see the need to step back, allow Sophia to grow?
Noble ambition, but she had another, one she’d been holding inside since the day she’d first been introduced to him.
Could she encourage him to care for her?
Chapter Nine
Kendall was used to the responses to the pavement. He remembered the first time his father had brought him into the room, allowed him to touch the ancient stones, fewer then. He could still feel the grit of the dirt under his fingers as he and his father had brushed off the edges to reveal the full extent of the work. The former Duke of Wey and his son the current duke, the Earl of Carrolton to the east of him, and dozens of other guests had all talked in hushed tones, faces registering awe, wonder. Ivy had looked the same way when he’d come upon her, her brown eyes wide.
But now she had turned her gaze on him, and it held no less wonder. A man could accustom himself to such looks.
He straightened. “Were you seeking me? You had only to ring for a footman.”
She lifted her skirts to rise. He offered a hand to help. She didn’t appear to notice, for she didn’t accept it. “Your family built all this to protect these tiles? Are the statues as old?”
“No,” Kendall admitted. “Most are copies of ancient pieces, commissioned by my grandfather and father. They felt strongly that such works should remain in the countries where they were created. A few are new works.” He waved a hand to direct her toward the statue to the right of the pavement, surrounded by vases of flowers that were replenished daily from the conservatory. “This was my mother.”
Ivy gazed at the white marble. Kendall had looked at the statue so many times over the years. At first, he’d searched for similarities—the wave of her hair, the shape of her eyes, so like his own. Later he’d tried in vain to spot any kind of emotion. His father had vowed that Kendall’s mother had loved him with a fierce devotion. She had been credited with nursing Wes through the illness that would take her own life. She was a legend, the pinnacle of motherly art.
But the statue kept his mother’s secrets well. The only sign of expression was a slight frown as she directed her gaze toward the pavement that had been her husband’s pride.
“I see where you favor her,” Ivy said. She turned to the next statue of a young woman. “And who is this?”
This statue highlighted emotion. Hair curled around her delicate face, the woman beamed at the world. He could almost see the mischievous sparkle in her eyes. But he couldn’t stand gazing at it. It was cold, lifeless.
“That is Adelaide,” he said. “My wife.”
She recoiled. “I didn’t realize…”
He took her arm and led her toward the door, memories chasing him. “It was a gift from her parents for our first anniversary. Adelaide died before seeing it. I didn’t want to hurt her parents’ feelings by refusing it.”
“Will they be hurt because you married me?”
Her voice held concern, sympathy. He had never met anyone so kind. “No. We lost them shortly after Sophia was born. Influenza, the physician said, but I’m not sure they had the will to go on after losing Adelaide. She was their only child, born late in their marriage. She was everything to them.”
“To you too, I think,” she murmured.
He felt as if she’d brushed dirt off his heart to expose it as surely as he had exposed the pavement. “She was. But enough of such talk. What did you need of me?”
They had reached the door, and he ushered her through and shut it firmly behind him. She paused in the corridor.
“I wasn’t searching for you. Sophia is napping. I thought to explore the house. It is my home now.”
Of course it was her house. A wife had every right to expect her husband to introduce her to it. He had been so focused on Sophia, he had forgotten about Ivy’s needs.
He swept her a bow. “Lady Kendall, allow me to show you your home. I have some little familiarity with it.”
He straightened to find her eyes soft. “I can imagine no finer guide, sir. Lead on.”
She took his offered arm. How well she fit beside him, her head nearly as tall as his. Dressed in silk, his mother’s jewels at her neck and in her hair, she would be a formidable marchioness.
Your mother’s jewels belong to your wife, the nagging voice in his head insisted. You gave them to Adelaide and saved them for Sophia. You cannot take them back.
He forced himself to open the double doors across from the pavement room. “This is the Emperor’s Hall. We use it on formal occasions.”
She glanced around at all the gilded molding, the alabaster urns nearly her height, the carpet woven to represent the head of Caesar from a coin his father had seen on his Grand Tour of the Continent. “Do we host formal occasions often?”
“No,” he admitted, closing the door and escorting her down the corridor. “And this is the conservatory. We grow flowers year-round and oranges, lemons, and strawberries.”
They stepped into the glass-walled room, and the
humidity wrapped around him like a blanket.
“Pineapple?” she asked, voice oddly breathless, as if something more than the humidity had affected her.
“Three plants, brought back from the other side of the world. Mrs. Grunion uses them for ices.”
“And cakes,” Ivy said, gaze as far away as the plant’s home. “The icing would be marvelous.”
Kendall stuck out his lower lip. “Perhaps you could advise her on what you’d like.”
She returned to him and smiled. “Perhaps.”
He led her through the rest of the ground floor and the first floor, surprised by how many times he explained that the room was seldom used. How long had it been since Villa Romanesque had known life, joy? He wanted to draw back the drapes, throw open every window, let in the light. Just as Ivy had done in his daughter’s life.
At length, they reached Sophia’s new nursery, but Ivy stopped him before he could open the door. “What do you expect from me, Kendall?” she asked, gaze searching his.
“To devote yourself to Sophia,” he replied, “as we agreed.”
“Surely you know that will not take all my time,” she protested. “You must have had some idea of my role.”
In truth, he hadn’t thought any farther than his daughter. He hadn’t even considered where Ivy would sleep! Mrs. Sheppard had managed the household since he had returned from Eton. Adelaide had done little to interfere with her.
He spread his hands. “This is your home, Ivy, as you noted. Do whatever pleases you.”
She eyed him a moment, as if doubting his word, then inclined her head. “Very well, Kendall, but remember you said that. I am not sure what pleases me will be what should please a marchioness.”
~~~
Ivy managed to have everything in place so she could bake the next morning. Kendall had said she should do as she pleased, but she still doubted he’d approve if he knew. She made sure Sophia was settled first. Breakfast had been successful: carrots this time, with minimum spills on Sophia’s pretty pink gown. She would have to see about making bibs, if marchionesses were allowed that little task. Becky was going to clean her up and then take her on a walk about the house, staying away from the pavement and the conservatory. Ivy had a feeling the mere mention of Sophia and those rooms would make Kendall twitch.
“But come fetch me if there is any issue,” she stressed as she and the nursemaid descended the stairs, Sophia up in Becky’s arms and twisting to take in everything they passed, from the gold crowning the columns to the landscape paintings gracing the walls.
“Yes, your ladyship,” Becky said, treading carefully as if she knew she carried the most important person in the house.
The staff went rigid again when Ivy walked in the kitchen door, but she decided to pay them no mind. So long as she didn’t get in anyone’s way, they would likely become accustomed to her in time. Mrs. Grunion had bowls and ingredients and pans spread out on the end of the massive work table, closest to the oven.
“The oven has been heated, and the coals swept out, your ladyship,” she reported. Then her thick-fingered hands laced in front of her. “Do you need any assistance?” Her brows were so tight in concern she puckered her forehead below her cap.
Ivy began rolling up the sleeves on her white muslin gown. “Just an apron, thank you. I know what I’m doing.”
The cook’s sniff said otherwise.
Ivy couldn’t care. It was easy to lose herself in the measuring and mixing, the cool, springy texture of the dough as she kneaded it. Leaving it to rise, she buttered her pans, marveling at the shiny surface. Her pans at home were dull, battered. She knew how each dent had been earned—the first time Tuny had helped and dropped the buttered pan on the floor, the time Daisy had tried to cram a pan into the cupboard so Matthew wouldn’t guess what they had been baking for his birthday. Perhaps one day she and Sophia would put dents in these pans.
She snorted and looked away from Mrs. Grunion’s frown. Sophia would never be allowed to bake. If Kendall found sitting on the carpet frightfully dangerous, he would have apoplexy over a heated oven. Which meant Ivy had to find a way past his defenses.
And the cook’s. Mrs. Grunion continued to hover as Ivy punched down the dough, then rolled it out and sprinkled it with cinnamon and sugar. But two hours later, the cook was the first to crowd around the oven as Ivy took out her cinnamon buns, and this time, any sniffs sounded decidedly eager.
Ivy lay the pans on the work table, cinnamon skipping through the air and satisfaction lifting her heart. The edges were golden brown, the swirls dark with spice. She might be a marchioness now, but she still knew her craft. And the oven was such a blessing!
“Mrs. Grunion,” she said, “please send up four for his lordship and me for a mid-morning treat and serve the rest to the staff.”
The cook clutched her chest, eyes widening. “Oh, your ladyship. How kind.”
Ivy smiled. “It’s not kind to do what I love, but I hope you all enjoy them as much as my family did. Perhaps Naples biscuits on Thursday. Sophia might enjoy gnawing on them.”
“I’ll have the ingredients ready,” the cook promised, gaze straying to the steaming buns.
Ivy removed her apron, tucked a few strands of heat-limp hair back into her arrangement, and went in search of Becky and Sophia.
She found them in the nursery, with Kendall. Sophia was once more in her crib and crying this time, the whimpers clinging to the walls.
“What happened?” she asked, hurrying closer.
Becky shrunk in on herself.
Kendall crossed his arms over his chest, widening the shoulders of his bottle green coat. “I found them in the library,” he informed Ivy with a look to Becky. “Looking at books.”
Oh, dear. Ivy swallowed. “Were the books very rare and expensive?”
Kendall lowered his arms. “No, not at all.”
Ivy regarded him. “Then they must have been urgently needed by someone else on the estate.”
“No,” he allowed. “But surely you see the problem, Ivy. If there had been any sort of tremor, the bookcases might have fallen on Sophia.”
“Tremors. I see.” Ivy made herself look concerned. “Forgive me. I haven’t studied the geology of Surrey. Are we prone to tremors here?”
“Never saw one in my lifetime,” Becky muttered.
“No,” Kendall said again. “But one can’t be too careful.”
Once more that fierce protectiveness surged up inside her. Perhaps he felt it too to keep Sophia so swaddled. Ivy could not allow him to continue. “Yes,” she told him, “one can be entirely too careful. One can be so careful that one’s daughter shrivels away into a listless, lifeless husk. Is that what you want?”
He stiffened away from her. “Ivy! Of course not.”
“Good.” Ivy reached into the crib and picked up the baby. “Then hold your daughter and tell her you’re sorry.”
He blinked at her as she held out Sophia. The baby wiggled as if eager to greet her father, and Kendall seized her as if terrified Ivy would drop her. Sophia eyed him solemnly.
“Apologize,” Ivy said.
He frowned. “I will do no such thing. She doesn’t even know what I’m saying.”
The little girl might not talk yet, but those blue eyes missed little.
“Sophia,” Ivy said, pointing toward the spindles of the crib. “Do you want to go back into your crib?”
Sophia shrank against her father, clutching at his arm for dear life.
“Talk to her,” Ivy urged. “She understands more than you know.”
Still, he frowned at the baby. Sophia blew bubbles at him. His frown evaporated.
“Think you’re clever, do you?” he said. And he stuck his tongue out and blew bubbles back at her.
Becky stared.
Something warm and joyous pushed up inside Ivy, and she shared his grin.
Sophia giggled. Then she bounced in his arms.
He pulled her closer, merriment melding into worry once mo
re.
“I believe,” Ivy said gently, “she’s asking you to do it again.”
“Is she?” He tried, and Sophia giggled and bounced some more. Grin returning, he did it once more.
Ivy could only watch them. Sophia’s fingers had found his hair, mussing the no-doubt silky strands. His eyes were as bright as his daughter’s. Oh, to have them both like this all the time.
To bring him such joy.
After the seventh exchange, he glanced at Ivy. “How long will she continue like this?”
“As long as you are willing,” Ivy assured him. “But we could try sitting again, if you’d like.”
“No, no.” He met Ivy’s gaze and sighed, and Sophia’s little face bunched as if she felt his frustration. “You are the one I owe an apology, Ivy. You have done so much for Sophia. I just don’t want to see her hurt.”
“No one who loves a child wants to see that child hurt,” Ivy told him. “But you have to free her to try new things. It’s the only way she’ll grow.”
He glanced at his daughter, who was reaching for his mustache this time, and held her a little farther away. “But what if she fails?”
“She will fail, at least once,” Ivy promised him. “Everyone does. But she must learn to keep trying until she succeeds.”
Sophia was wiggling once more, and he bent to set her gently on her rump on the carpet. She glanced around as if surprised to see the world from that angle. But Ivy was pleased to see that she kept her balance.
“Did your father struggle with raising you and your sisters?” Kendall asked, crouching near the baby.
She had to go carefully. She didn’t want him to think badly of her father. An injury at the mill and a bad second marriage had driven him into the bottle and an early grave.
“He had to work long hours,” Ivy explained. “We didn’t see him much. You have the luxury of spending time with Sophia. Remember what you told me? How you wanted to teach her about the stars and clothe her in silk?”
