by Regina Scott
~~~
Kendall had ridden out that morning with his steward to see about some of the tenant cottages that needed repair following a wind earlier in the summer. The flat lands formed a channel through which not only water but air could flow. He agreed with his steward’s assessment, assured his tenants the repairs would be made within the month, and rode back to Villa Romanesque to find the house in an uproar.
The drapes had been stripped from the entry hall windows. Martha the elder and another maid were down on their hands and knees scrubbing at the marble tiles. Travis, apron around his waist, was overseeing a team of underfootmen running feather dusters over all the walls.
“Have we had a fire?” Kendall asked him, concern rising.
“No, indeed, my lord,” the head footman told him, pointing one of his underlings higher on the wall. “The Duchess of Wey is coming to call.”
Kendall raised his brows, stepping aside as Martha passed him with her wash bucket. “Somehow I doubt Her Grace will notice the drapes in the entry hall.”
“Her Grace will notice everything,” Travis said. “Duchesses generally do.”
Mrs. Sheppard seemed equally certain of the matter. She requested a moment of Kendall’s time before he could go in search of Ivy. He led her to his study and took his place behind the desk.
“What seems to be the trouble, Mrs. Sheppard?” he asked.
“As you may have heard, my lord,” she said, standing straight in front of him, gaze on the window over his left shoulder, “the Duchess of Wey intends to call. We have suggested next Tuesday.”
Kendall leaned back. “I’m pleased to hear the duchess wishes to make Ivy’s acquaintance.”
“It is an honor.” So much so that it propelled her a step forward. “A great honor. We must be ready.”
“I see you are preparing,” Kendall told her. “What do you need from me?”
“An increase in the household budget for the visit,” she said, face tightening in her anxiety. “Her Grace favors Camho tea. I’ll need to order it from London and have it delivered. I’d like to send all the drapes on the first floor to be laundered as well. We haven’t the capacity. And we’ll need to augment the staff.”
It seemed a bit much for a short visit. The duchess had no need to stay the night. His Grace’s estate was only a couple hours ride to the northwest.
But he had never questioned Mrs. Sheppard’s insights before. He waved a hand. “Whatever you need.”
“And we must have something better than cinnamon buns,” she burst out.
Kendall leaned back. “I am quite fond of those buns. But by all means, tell your new baker to concoct something more elaborate.”
She shifted from foot to foot, gaze dropping to the pattern of the carpet. “I’m not sure she understands the gravity of this visit.”
“She has been hired by a Great House,” Kendall reminded her. “She had better learn.”
“Perhaps a London baker, just this once?” Mrs. Sheppard begged, raising her gaze imploringly.
London was too far to go for any treat. Bakery items could well be stale or squashed before reaching Villa Romanesque. Mrs. Sheppard must know that. Why go to such trouble not to use this new baker of theirs?
Unless…
Sir Matthew had credited Ivy with the Naples biscuits when he had visited. She certainly seemed pleased anytime anyone mentioned the baked goods. Kendall had thought she was simply proud of an employee she had advised, but there was another possibility.
Could Ivy be the new baker?
He leaned back in his chair. “Perhaps I should speak to our baker, impress upon her the importance of this visit.”
Mrs. Sheppard blanched. “No, no. That is my duty.”
Kendall stood, surety growing with every word. “Nonsense. I’m the master of this house. If she will not listen to you, she had better listen to me.” He started around the desk, and his housekeeper scurried to block his way forward.
“Please, my lord. She is a dear. I wouldn’t want to hurt her for the world.”
Her eyes were bright, her hands clasped before her grey gown. But was it Ivy’s reputation or her own she sought to protect?
“Is Lady Kendall baking?” he demanded. “Do not lie to me. You know she’ll admit it if I ask her.”
She slumped. “Yes, my lord. I tried to dissuade her.”
Very likely she had. What a scandal that the lady of Villa Romanesque dirtied her hands in the kitchen. This pastime would only add fuel to the rumors that he had married her to make her a servant in his house, caring for his daughter, baking in his kitchen. Some would find even more reason not to associate with her.
“And you deem this shameful,” he accused his housekeeper.
Once more Mrs. Sheppard shuffled her feet. “I did, my lord, but how can I refuse her? She loves it so. Her entire countenance glows as she mixes things together. And the staff love that she bakes enough for them too.”
She would. Ivy was nothing if not generous, with her time, with her talents.
With her love.
“You won’t stop her, will you?” Mrs. Sheppard asked as if she’d seen something in his face. “We don’t have to let anyone else know. It truly isn’t as shameful as I’d feared. Some ladies tend their own gardens.”
She waited, clearly expecting him to protest, expecting contempt for Ivy’s shocking lack of protocol. Adelaide would never have set foot in the kitchen, never have dreamed of trying to bake something that would please Kendall, much less the staff. He knew what his father would advise.
And he knew what he must do.
“I want Ivy to be happy at Villa Romanesque,” Kendall told his housekeeper. “I wouldn’t dream of stopping her. On the contrary, I’d like to encourage her in something she clearly enjoys and excels at. Tell me what else she might need in the kitchen, and I’ll see the very best examples delivered within the week. And as for the upcoming visit, I see no need to send to London. The dowager duchess should be so fortunate as to eat some of Ivy’s creations.”
Chapter Fifteen
The dowager duchess and her daughter-in-law arrived on Tuesday in two elegantly appointed carriages. One held the dowager and her maid. The other held the current duchess and the duke’s three daughters. The only sign that Mrs. Sheppard was displeased to have the children along was the pinch of her nostrils. Ivy was only sad she’d arranged Sophia’s schedule so that the little girl would nap through the better part of the visit. Mrs. Sheppard had already expressed her displeasure that Kendall had been called to the village on some issue requiring his attendance as magistrate.
“As if civil unrest were more important than a visit from Her Grace,” Ivy had heard her mutter to Travis.
And so Ivy stood in the marble entry hall, dressed in her best silk day gown, a soft rose, to greet their exalted guests.
“Welcome to Villa Romanesque, Your Graces,” she said as they all entered the hall to be surrounded by footmen and maids accepting shawls and bonnets. Even three ladies, three children ranging from six to eleven, and six servants didn’t manage to make the space feel crowded. It did, however, make it feel more like home.
Perhaps it was the smile on the face of the younger duchess. She was built sturdily, with thick brown hair that had managed to escape the bun at the back of her head and wide brown eyes. Her cambric gown was embroidered all over with bright yellow daisies, and the shawl she decided to keep with her was a sunny yellow as well.
She came up to Ivy and stuck out her hand. “Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Jane, Duchess of Wey. I hope you’ll leave off the Your Grace business and just call me Jane.”
“Of course, Jane,” Ivy said with a smile, shaking a hand that seemed too firm to have belonged to a duchess for long. “You must call me Ivy.”
She beamed, then leaned closer to whisper. “You’ll have to call Her Grace Her Grace. She insists upon it.” Straightening, she turned to her mother-in-law. “Your Grace, may I present Ivy, Marchioness of Kendall?”
The dowager duchess, a thoroughly elegant woman in a dove grey gown fitted to her slender form, inclined her head. “A pleasure, Lady Kendall. I’ve known your husband since he was a boy. I’m glad to see he has continued with his life after that terrible business with the previous Lady Kendall.”
“And she will mention a tragedy or two,” Jane warned in a whisper. Loudly, she said, “These are my daughters. Lady Larissa—”
The tallest, most regal little girl, inclined her head, setting her light brown hair to gleaming. Her gown of lavender lustring strewn with lace and satin ribbon might have graced a princess.
“Lady Calantha, she prefers Callie—”
The slender towhead in a more sensible blue cambric gown bobbed a curtsey.
“And Lady Abelona. She likes Belle.”
“And unicorns,” the youngest insisted, golden curls bouncing along with the ruffles on her white muslin gown.
The dowager duchess smiled at her granddaughter, then turned to Ivy. “I hope you don’t mind the children, Lady Kendall. Jane and I thought the experience of visiting you would prove edifying.”
Edifying. As if meeting her was a great honor.
“I’m delighted you brought them along,” Ivy assured her. “I have a sister about your age, Lady Larissa. Perhaps you will meet when she comes to visit this summer.”
Lady Larissa put her fine-boned nose in the air. “I’m not at all certain that would be suitable.”
Ivy frowned, then noticed the girl’s sister was staring at Ivy.
“Grandmother says you’re the daughter of a merchant,” Callie said. “Mother’s father was a vicar.”
The dowager’s sculpted cheeks were turning pink even as Mrs. Sheppard attempted to blend into the wall. “What have we told you, Calantha,” her grandmother asked, “about reporting everything you hear?”
Callie hung her head. “Not every conversation was meant to be shared.”
“And your grandmother is wrong,” Ivy said. “My father wasn’t a merchant. He was a millworker. And my brother is a famous pugilist once called the Beast of Birmingham.”
She wasn’t sure why she admitted it. Very likely the wiser choice would have been to shrink back like Mrs. Sheppard and say as little as possible. Indeed, both the dowager duchess and Lady Larissa were gaping at her.
Jane reached out and clapped her on the shoulder. “I knew I’d like you! We must talk boxing. Callie is interested in taking up the sport.”
“Purely for the purposes of healthful exercise,” the dowager assured everyone as Mrs. Sheppard hurried toward the emerald salon to open the doors for them.
Thankful for Jane, Ivy led them down to the room where everything had been prepared. Sunlight trickled past emerald draperies newly cleaned, pressed, and rehung. The dowager duchess’ favorite tea was already steeping in the pot, a scent like violets wafting up from the steaming silver spout. Ivy’s baked goods sat on fine china plates edged in silver. Damask napkins embroidered at the corners with an emerald K waited to be placed on the laps of their guests.
Mrs. Sheppard waited by one of the urns, hands alternately rising and dropping, as if she wished to usher each person into a special seat. Ivy ignored her and allowed her guests to sit where it pleased them—Jane with Callie and Belle on either side on the curved-back sofa and Larissa on an upholstered chair near her grandmother. Ivy took up her place at the tea cart. The housekeeper might serve tea to Ivy and Kendall, but Ivy was the hostess now. And she actually had good tea to deal out, tea she had told Mrs. Sheppard to consider in the future, if the household budget would stretch so far.
Conversation flowed with the brew. Indeed, she was surprised how many things they found to discuss—the flooding that plagued the area in the spring, the type of tea best served in the summer, the cost of importing items from London, the instruction of children. Jane dominated the conversation, her brown eyes alight, her smile engaging. She was very good about including everyone from the dowager duchess to little Belle. She even threw a question or two to Mrs. Sheppard and Travis, who were on duty to assist. Her effort seemed to both please and confuse the housekeeper.
“May I have another cake?” Callie asked with a longing look at the tea cart. Mrs. Sheppard had made no complaint when Ivy had attempted a more elaborate set of dishes for the tea, including tiny vanilla cakes with pineapple icing, almond cheesecakes, and lemon biscuits along with her favorite cinnamon buns. She decided not to point out to the housekeeper that her cinnamon buns were the most sampled.
“That’s enough for now, Callie,” Jane told her with a smile. “Though perhaps Lady Kendall will allow us to take some home.”
All three girls brightened at that.
“Quite delectable,” the dowager agreed, pausing to nibble on a lemon biscuit. “Our cook has never managed anything this light. Did you send away to London?”
“No,” Ivy said, feeling Mrs. Sheppard tense. “We have our own baker.”
“Perhaps we can borrow him from time to time,” the dowager mused.
Mrs. Sheppard collapsed against the wall, then hastily straightened again.
“I would be delighted to send you as many treats as you’d like,” Ivy said. “If there’s something special you prefer, just let us know.”
The dowager turned to Jane. “Perhaps we could put in an order for the wedding.”
“We are hosting a wedding ceremony and breakfast for Miss Meredith Thorn and her betrothed, Julian Mayes,” Jane explained. “I saw your name on the guest list, Ivy.”
“I haven’t received an invitation yet,” Ivy said. “But I know Miss Thorn well. She chaperoned me and my sister part of the Season. She introduced my brother, Matthew, to his bride, Charlotte Worthington. I’d be delighted to contribute to the event in any way I can.”
They talked a while longer before the dowager rose, signaling that it was time to take their leave. Jane made Ivy promise to return the visit as soon as possible. Ivy walked them to the carriages, Mrs. Sheppard and Travis right behind, and waved as her new friends trundled down the drive. She’d survived her first visit, and in rather fine style, she thought.
She turned to find Mrs. Sheppard frowning at her. Ivy’s stomach sank. “What did I do wrong?”
Mrs. Sheppard’s face cleared. “Nothing, your ladyship. The dowager duchess and Her Grace, the Duchess of Wey, seemed pleased with their visit.”
Ivy drew in a breath. “Oh, good. And I thought we fended off the issue of the baker well.”
“Exceedingly well,” the housekeeper agreed, falling into step beside her as Travis returned to his place by the door. “May I speak to you a moment before you go to Lady Sophia?”
Perhaps she wasn’t out of the woods just yet.
“Of course,” Ivy said.
Mrs. Sheppard led her to Ivy’s suite and made sure to shut the door to the corridor and the one to Sophia’s room, where Becky was mending a frock in the rocker while the baby napped.
The housekeeper turned to face Ivy and drew in an audible breath. “I must apologize, your ladyship.”
Ivy’s brows lifted. “Apologize? Why?”
Mrs. Sheppard was worrying her hands before her neat grey gown. “I have, perhaps, been overly focused on the honor of hosting the first family of the region.”
“I understand,” Ivy assured her. “You wanted to make a good impression.”
“I wanted to make the best impression,” Mrs. Sheppard corrected her, “because I was certain you would make a poor one.”
Though she had suspected as much, hearing it said aloud hurt. “I see.”
“That’s why I must apologize,” the housekeeper insisted. “You are nothing but a credit to Villa Romanesque. I had no right to assume otherwise or to take your place in the preparations. If you would like me to tender my resignation, I will do so.”
She dropped her hands, back straight, head high: a condemned criminal walking toward the gallows. Ivy would never have pulled the lever to hang her.
“You are
a valued part of this household, Mrs. Sheppard,” she said. “I would no more discharge you than paint the emerald salon pink.”
The housekeeper managed a smile. “Thank you, your ladyship.”
“Lord Kendall and Sophia deserve a house that is well run, clean, and pleasing to the eye,” Ivy continued. “We all rely on you to provide that. I will help however I can, but if I am ever in a position to hinder that, you must let me know.”
Mrs. Sheppard curtsied. “As you wish, your ladyship.” She straightened and took a step closer to Ivy. “Now, how are we to manage baking for this wedding?”
~~~
Meredith was preparing to go out for the afternoon. Lydia had invited her over to see the latest progress on the balloon, and they planned to take tea with Yvette afterward. She was pulling up her lavender gloves as she descended the stair, Fortune padding along hopefully beside her, when she spotted Mr. Cowls standing in the entryway. He had been her family butler when she was a child. He had come out of retirement to serve her now. She fully intended him to attend her wedding, along with Cook and Enid, her maid, who had joined her since she’d received the inheritance.
Now the look on his lined face under his pomaded white hair could only be called severe.
“What’s happened?” Meredith asked as she reached his side.
Fortune wound around his ankles as if offering support.
His long nose gave a twitch, as if he’d smelled something distasteful. “There is a stranger speaking to Cook. Would you like me to throw him out, or would you prefer to ask him his business first?”
Meredith frowned. “A stranger? A beggar you mean?”
“Likely not, madam. Beggars generally do not ask such leading questions.”
Fortune returned to Meredith’s side, tail up, as if now aligning herself for battle.
“I see no reason for anyone to be asking my staff leading questions,” Meredith informed her butler. “Why didn’t you call a constable, send for a Bow Street Runner to investigate?”
