Lord of the Beasts

by Susan Krinard

  The dismissal was gentle, and absolute. Theodora rose, her fingers pinching the folds of her skirt. Cordelia smiled at her reassuringly and led her toward the door. The time for apologies was past.

  Dr. Fleming showed them the courtesy of escorting them to the road and summoning the coachman. The dogs watched from the porch, ears pricked and bodies quivering. The cat and her kittens leaped up on the drystone wall bordering the road and regarded Cordelia with haughty disapproval. Even the pigs heaved out of their wallow, complaining like old men grudgingly roused from a sound sleep.

  Fleming’s expression was mild and disinterested as he handed the women into the carriage and wished them a pleasant journey. It was as if he and Cordelia had never exchanged a single barbed comment or harsh word. Cordelia brooded for all of a half-mile before she signaled the coachman to stop.

  “This will not do,” she said. “This will not do at all.”

  Theodora touched Cordelia’s arm. “Perhaps it is for the best,” she said quietly. “Surely you can find another veterinarian for the menagerie, one who is more congenial.”

  Cordelia frowned. “Did you find him so unpleasant?”

  “Not unpleasant. Unusual, perhaps.” Two vivid spots of color rose in her cheeks. “He does not seem to need anyone.”

  “You notice more than you admit, my dear.”

  “I noticed that you did not dislike him as much as you pretended.”

  “Oh?”

  “Forgive me, but it is true that you are not used to being refused. If that is the only reason you would…I mean…” She sank into the seat, avoiding Cordelia’s gaze.

  Cordelia tapped her lower lip and stared out the window. Green, rolling hills marched away from the road, dotted here and there by clusters of sheep. She opened the carriage door and hopped to the ground without waiting for the coachman to let down the step.

  “I think I’ll take a turn about that meadow,” she told Theodora. “The wildflowers are quite lovely. I shall only be a few minutes.”

  Theodora offered no protest, and so Cordelia started at a brisk pace for the wall at the side of the road. She found a stile and entered the meadow, her skirts brushing the petals of cow parsley, yellow celandine and buttercup, blue forget-me-not and speedwell. Bees filled the air with their droning. Cordelia climbed to the top of the hill, letting her mind wander between the remote beauty of the Dales and the vexatious puzzle that was Dr. Donal Fleming.

  She saw the figure in the white dress while it was still some distance away. At first Cordelia couldn’t judge either age or appearance, but as the girl came nearer it became apparent that she was no shepherdess or farmwife going about her daily chores. The young woman’s black hair fell loose about her shoulders. She wore no gloves or bonnet. Her gown was simple but well-cut, adorned with lace at bodice and sleeves, and the ruched skirts were too full for those of a working woman. She was walking directly toward Stenwater Farm, and a small brown-and-white spaniel trotted at her heels.

  Curiosity aroused, Cordelia descended the hill to intercept the stranger. The young woman saw her and stopped, her slender form frozen as if she were considering flight. The spaniel pressed against her skirts.

  “Good morning,” Cordelia said.

  The girl, whose soft and pretty features proclaimed her to be no more than seventeen or eighteen years of age, performed a brief curtsey. “Good morning, ma’am,” she said. Her voice was cultured and held no trace of the local dialect that had been so distinct in Fleming’s servant.

  “I hope I have not disturbed your walk,” Cordelia said. “I am a visitor to this county, but I have seen no one since I left Stenwater Farm.”

  The girl’s bright blue eyes flew to Cordelia’s face. “Stenwater Farm?”

  “Yes. Do you know it?”

  “Yes. That is, I…” She stammered in confusion, lifted her chin, and thrust out her lip in defiance. “I am a friend of Dr. Fleming.”

  “Are you indeed? I have just spoken with the doctor about his traveling to Gloucestershire to treat the animals in my menagerie.” She noted the dismay that briefly crossed the girl’s face. “What a charming little dog. What is his name?”

  “Sir Reginald.” She looked to the west. “I beg your pardon, but I must—”

  “How remiss of me,” Cordelia interrupted, offering her hand. “I am Mrs. Hardcastle.”

  The girl’s grip was a bit too firm for strict courtesy. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Hardcastle,” she said without sincerity. “I hope you will enjoy the remainder of your visit, but I must be on my way.” She had taken several steps before Cordelia caught up with her.

  “Are you going to Stenwater Farm?” she asked. “I would be more than happy to conduct you there in my carriage.”

  The girl cast Cordelia a frowning glance. “I often walk across the fells,” she said. “It is no trouble to me.”

  “But you will ruin your lovely dress.”

  Once more the girl seemed flustered, almost as if she had been caught in a lie. Without another word she rushed off, the hem of her skirts already stained green from the grass.

  For reasons even she did not understand, Cordelia hurried back to the carriage and instructed the coachman to return the way they had come. Once the coach was within a few hundred yards of the lane to Stenwater Farm, Cordelia called another halt and climbed one of the hills that circled the farm to the east, moving as stealthily as her confining garments would allow.

  She crested the hill just as the girl and her dog were approaching the byre from the rear. The young woman looked this way and that, obviously afraid of being seen, and entered the byre.

  Cordelia weighed propriety against instinct, and for once she gave instinct its head. She half slid down the hill, watching for Fleming or his servant, and reached the bottom undetected. She found the back door to the byre and entered cautiously.

  There was no immediate sign of the girl, but a flash of white in the darkness caught Cordelia’s eye. She found the grass-stained gown draped over the edge of the hayloft. When she was satisfied that the young woman had left the byre, Cordelia crept through the front door and looked across the yard.

  It appeared that every one of Fleming’s animals had deserted the area, even the somnolent pigs. The silence was so complete that Cordelia could hear the sound of voices from the house…those of Dr. Fleming and a young girl. She lifted her skirts and dashed to the side of the house, keeping her body low.

  “…must return to the Porritts, Ivy,” Fleming said, his words carrying distinctly out the half open window. “They will be worried.”

  “Oi won’t go back,” the girl said. “Oi don’t loik them farmers. Oi wants to stay ’ere, wiv you.”

  Cordelia leaned against the wall to catch her breath and wondered how she had sunk so low as to sneak about like a common housebreaker and eavesdrop on a private conversation. And yet she sensed that there was something peculiar going on…particularly since the girl’s voice, apart from the thick London accent, was almost identical to that of the young woman she had met in the meadow.

  “You don’t want me anymore,” the girl accused. “You brought me all the way up ’ere, and then cast me off loik an ol’ pair o’ shoes.” She sniffled. “You’re cruel, Donal. Cruel ’n’ mean.”

  “No, Ivy. It isn’t that I don’t want you here. But you are better off with children your own age, and I don’t know how much longer I will be at Stenwater Farm. You have Sir Reginald—”

  “Oi won’t go back!” She began to cry with great, gulping sobs. “Oi’ll jump roight off Newgill Scar, just see if Oi don’t!”

  The thump of running feet was followed by the creak of hinges, and Ivy burst out the front door. Her gaze immediately fell on Cordelia.

  “You!” she cried, and backed away so quickly that she almost stumbled on the flagstones. Cordelia absorbed the girl’s appearance in a heartbeat: the colorless dress, the bare feet, black hair swept up under a man’s frayed straw hat. But the shapeless frock could
not quite conceal the womanly curves of her figure, and the dirt-smudged face was instantly familiar.

  Ivy was not only the young lady with the white dress, but she was also the ragamuffin who had attempted to steal Inglesham’s purse in Convent Garden.

  CHAPTER SIX

  IVY GLANCED AT THE DOOR and then toward the byre, catching her lip between straight white teeth. The little spaniel planted itself in front of her and growled softly.

  “Ivy,” Cordelia said, extending her hand. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  Fleming chose that moment to step outside. He looked from Ivy to Cordelia, his brows drawn low over his eyes, and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Mrs. Hardcastle,” he said. “May I ask what you are you doing here?”

  Cordelia had always believed that the best defense was a swift offense. “I might ask, Dr. Fleming,” she said, “what a certain young thief is doing in your house when she was last seen snatching purses in Covent Garden.”

  Fleming stared at Cordelia, searching her eyes, and let his arms drop to his sides. “The answer is simple enough,” he said. “I found this child in Seven Dials, being assaulted by grown men, and did not consider it fitting to abandon her to such a life of squalor. I offered her a home in Yorkshire—” he shot a narrow glance at Ivy, as if he expected her to protest “—and that is why you find her here. The matter of your viscount’s purse was an unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  “I see. A most admirable act on your part, Doctor, one that not many would emulate. It seems that not only the animals benefit from your compassion.” Cordelia caught Ivy’s gaze. “Do you agree with this description of events, Ivy?”

  The girl hunched her shoulders but refused to speak. Cordelia nodded, unsurprised. “You helped her to escape in Covent Garden,” she said to Fleming.

  “I had no intention of seeing a child go to gaol for such an insignificant offense.”

  A child. There was no irony in Fleming’s voice, no sign of awareness that his protégée was anything more she seemed to be—as, indeed, she had appeared to Cordelia in London.

  Cordelia briefly wondered if Dr. Fleming was capable of an outright lie regarding such a matter. If he were—and given the young woman’s beauty and older appearance when she was properly cleaned and dressed—it was not such a leap to imagine that he might steal her from the streets of London and set her up as his…

  Good God, what was she thinking? Fleming might be unpolished and discourteous, but he was no debauche. Clearly he had never seen Ivy in the white dress or any garment like it, and Ivy intended to keep it that way.

  “Do I understand,” Cordelia said, “that Ivy has been living with a neighboring family?”

  Fleming sighed and rubbed the crease between his eyes. “Yes. The Porritts are good people, well-regarded in this part of the Dales. What is your interest in Ivy, Mrs. Hardcastle?”

  “I could not help but overhear that she seems unhappy where you have sent her. It must seem a very drastic change from the rookeries of London to the life of Yorkshire farmers.”

  “Ivy has everything she needs…good food, a warm bed, fresh air and the company of young people. What else could she require?”

  What else indeed. Cordelia made a quick and admittedly impulsive decision. “Will you allow me to speak with Ivy privately, Doctor?”

  He bristled rather like the little spaniel who so fiercely guarded his mistress. “You will not expose her to the law—”

  “Certainly not. As you may recall, I was against turning her over to the constable in London.” She met Ivy’s gaze. “My feelings on that score have not changed.”

  Fleming’s shoulders sagged in defeat. “Ivy, you have nothing to fear. Speak to Mrs. Hardcastle, be honest with her, and then we’ll decide what is to be done.”

  Ivy shot an uneasy glance toward the byre and reluctantly followed Cordelia into the house. Cordelia closed the door behind them. “Would you like some tea, Ivy, or scones?” she asked. “There were still a few left when my cousin and I departed the farm earlier this morning.”

  Ivy slumped in a chair, arms shielding her breasts. “I ain’t ’ungry.”

  “Then perhaps you won’t mind if I prepare some for myself.” The tea things were still lying out from that morning’s service, so Cordelia began heating water, moving about the kitchen as if it were her own. Ivy’s sullen defiance reminded her far too much of another unhappy girl, only a little younger than this one, and she was grateful to have something to occupy her hands.

  “I hope you will allow me to ask a few questions,” she said with forced lightness. “I’m a little bewildered at what I have seen and heard today.”

  Ivy shuffled her feet under the table. “You followed me ’ere, di’n’t you?”

  “Yes, Ivy, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I…I wished to learn more of Dr. Fleming, and since you claimed to be his friend—”

  “You di’n’t recognize me from Lunnon when Oi had on the dress,” Ivy said suddenly, “but you knew roight away ’oo Oi was when you saw me ’ere.”

  “And you recognized me at once when we met in the meadow,” Cordelia said, “but you did an excellent job of concealing it.”

  Ivy gnawed on her lower lip. “You di’n’t tell Donal about the dress.”

  Cordelia paused in her preparations. “It seems obvious that Dr. Fleming did not give it to you. Where did you acquire it?”

  Ivy shuffled her feet under the table. “I…borrowed it.”

  “From the Porritts?”

  “Sometoims Oi loiks to dress up.”

  “Have the Porritts seen you ‘dressed up’?”

  “Not them.”

  “Nor, I venture, has Dr. Fleming.” She took the kettle off the stove. “I presume that you have pretended to be a child since London?”

  Ivy nodded shortly.

  “You must have a very good reason for hiding your true age from your benefactor. But I suspect that you have been playing the child since long before you met Dr. Fleming.”

  Ivy looked away. “’Ow d’you know so much?”

  “I have seen Seven Dials, and places much worse. To survive under such conditions requires great courage and resourcefulness.”

  For the first time Ivy met her gaze. “Why should you keep moi secrets, when Oi troi to steal from yer gen’l’man friend?”

  Cordelia smiled. “It is certainly true that someone fitting your description attempted to steal Lord Inglesham’s purse. But it seems that I have met two Ivys today—one who is quite grown up, speaks gracefully and is obviously of good family, and another who flaunts the vernacular of the rookeries and pretends to be an unlettered child. I have been quite unable to decide which one is real.”

  Ivy squirmed and stared at the table. “Why d’you care?”

  “Is it so astonishing that others besides Dr. Fleming might take an interest in a promising young woman…particularly when she has been denied the advantages she so clearly deserves?”

  “You don’t even know me. ’Ow d’you know wot Oi deserves?”

  “From the time I was a young girl, I traveled all over the world with my father. I had to learn quickly how to understand many different kinds of people. It has always been my desire to help those in need, whether they be men, women or animals.”

  “You loiks animals?”

  “Very much. At my father’s country house in Gloucestershire, we have horses, dogs and wild creatures few Europeans have ever seen. That is why I came to visit Dr. Fleming, because of his fine reputation as a veterinarian.” She sat down across from Ivy and smiled. “May I speak frankly, as between two women?”

  Ivy nodded warily, but her blue eyes took on a sparkle of interest.

  “I cannot pretend,” Cordelia began, “to guess what kind of situation compelled you to live by such desperate means in a place like Seven Dials, but I can surmise why you chose to disguise yourself as a child. You had hoped to avoid the sort of salacious attentions you w
ere suffering when Dr. Fleming rescued you.” She paused. “He did rescue you, did he not?”

  “Yes.” Ivy rubbed at a bitten fingernail and almost smiled. “’E ran them blodgers roight off, ’e did.”

  “And when he brought you to Yorkshire, he had no idea that you were older than you had made yourself appear.” She stopped to fetch hot water and the teapot, then laid out the cups and saucers in the center of the table. “When I saw you in Covent Garden, you deceived even me. Did you bind your breasts, Ivy?”

  Ivy flushed. “Oi ’ad to. When Oi first got to the rookeries, most blokes left me alone.”

  “How old were you then?”

  “Twelve.”

  Cordelia poured a cup of tea, added a dollop of honey and gently pushed the saucer toward Ivy. “I know that drinking a good cup of tea in a civilized setting is not unknown to you, Ivy. The young woman I met in the meadow wore that gown like one who remembers fine things and better days.”

  Ivy pulled the steaming cup toward her and clenched her fingers around it. “Oi…”

  “Can you tell me where you lived before you went to Seven Dials?”

  “Wiv me muvver. She died.” Ivy lifted the cup to her face, closed her eyes, and breathed in the scent as if it were the ambrosia of the gods. “I don’t remember much from before,” she said in accentless English. “I just know that I lived in a house with a garden, and I had books and pretty dresses.”

  Cordelia released a slow breath. She hadn’t been sure if she would be able to gain the girl’s trust, and she had desperately wanted to. Perhaps it was because Ivy reminded her so much of Lydia. Certainly she needed no better reason than common decency to help the girl, and her persistence had pierced at least one layer of Ivy’s formidable defenses.

  “You can read and write?” she asked.

  Ivy snorted indelicately. “Of course.”

  “What of your father?”

  Ivy jumped up from the chair and began to pace the room, her motions abrupt as if she were resisting the urge to run away. “I don’t remember him at all,” she said. She reached inside the neckline of her shapeless bodice and drew out a silver pendant hung on a worn leather cord. “He left me this.”