Lord of the Beasts

by Susan Krinard

  “It’s lovely,” Cordelia said. The silver emblem seemed to be a complex Celtic knot set with a vivid blue stone, but before she could examine it further Ivy pushed it beneath her dress again.

  “I think he must be dead,” Ivy said. She stopped to stare out the window, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides.

  “And you had no other kin to take care of you,” Cordelia said.

  “None that I ever met.”

  Cordelia rose and went to stand behind the young woman. “Whatever happened to your father and mother, they must have loved you very much. They gave you an education, and the spirit to go on living when it must have seemed…almost too much to bear.”

  Ivy shook her head sharply. “I didn’t need anyone.”

  “And yet you came with Dr. Fleming when he offered you a home.”

  Ivy’s voice softened. “He was the first one who was ever kind to me. And the dogs loved him…” She pressed her hands flat against the window pane. “But ’e di’n’t give me no ’ome,” she said, lapsing back to rough rookery speech. “’E sent me off to live wiv them farmers….”

  “Surely he did so only because he wanted what was best for you,” Cordelia said. She reached out but let her hands fall before she could touch Ivy’s rigid shoulders. “He saw only one part of you, Ivy. He couldn’t guess that you might be destined for something better than life on an isolated farm.”

  “I won’t go back,” Ivy said, low and intense. “They took me in because they owe Donal a debt, but they don’t like me. They think I’m a low, filthy thing.”

  “Did not Dr. Fleming provide you with a…suitable history so that the Porritts would be willing to accept you?”

  “You mean did he lie to them?” Ivy asked. “Of course he did. He made sure I was clean and had new clothes, and he told them a story that made Mrs. Porritt weep into her teacup. He paid them to treat me like one of their daughters.”

  “But you refused to play your part.”

  “Why should I have done? I hated it there.”

  “You did not reveal your true age.”

  “I didn’t want them to think that Donal misled them. And I didn’t want him to know.”

  “Why not, Ivy?”

  The girl scraped her fingers down the windowpane, drawing a frightful squeak from the glass. “I was afraid he would turn me away,” she whispered.

  “You know that he must be told.”

  “Yes.” Abruptly she spun on Cordelia, a wicked smile curving her lips. “I can’t go back to those silly farmers, anyway. I stole that dress from Porritt’s eldest daughter.”

  Cordelia swallowed her instinctive reproach. Thievery was quite likely the very least of what Ivy had been compelled to do in order to survive. Whatever misfortune had led to her fall from respectable life and her apparent loss of memory, her father had almost certainly been of the merchant class, perhaps even a banker or lawyer. Yet Ivy faced a long and difficult climb to regain the state of mind and appropriate behavior that distinguished a well-bred woman. Even the smallest criticism might destroy the fragile truce she and Cordelia had made between them.

  “It does not seem a good idea for you to return,” Cordelia agreed. “But perhaps there are alternatives.”

  “I want to stay here, with Donal.”

  Once again Cordelia suppressed her arguments. It would be unfortunate if Ivy had developed a tendre for Dr. Fleming, though not entirely unexpected. He had been kind to her, and he was not without attractions for a girl who had been living among the dregs of humanity for five or six years.

  At least Cordelia didn’t have to contend with an inappropriate attachment in the other direction. Dr. Fleming showed no signs of regarding Ivy as anything but a child. But before the girl could be made to accept her own best interests, Dr. Fleming must be brought to recognize the complexity and delicacy of the situation.

  “I know we do not yet know each other well,” Cordelia said, “but if you will trust me, Ivy, I believe I may be able to convince Dr. Fleming that it would be best for you to find a more agreeable home.”

  Ivy turned and regarded Cordelia through narrowed eyes. “At Stenwater Farm?”

  “That I cannot promise. But you may be sure that I will hold your concerns very much in mind.”

  Ivy weighed Cordelia’s offer as if it were a question of life or death. Indeed, it must be against her inclinations to trust any stranger, however well meaning. And yet Cordelia couldn’t help but believe that she could offer the girl something she must yearn for with all her heart: comfort, stability, and the constructive discipline that would restore her to her rightful place in society.

  “Very well,” Ivy said. Without another word she spun and ran for the door, light-footed as a fawn. Her spaniel raced after her.

  Cordelia gathered her composure as she collected the tea things and carried them into the kitchen. Something quite remarkable had occurred in the hour since she had followed Ivy to Stenwater Farm. Of course there were perfectly rational reasons behind her decision to involved herself in Ivy’s life; she firmly believed it was the duty of any decent person to assist those less fortunate. But there was also an element of irrationality in the situation that disturbed Cordelia, and all she could do was push such thoughts aside as she went to find Dr. Fleming.

  WHEN MRS. HARDCASTLE EMERGED from the house, Donal could see that something significant had transpired between her and Ivy.

  He had seen a hint of that change in the girl as she’d rushed out the door, flying past Donal with hardly a glance. But Mrs. Hardcastle’s face seemed to hold a kind of light he could not remember noticing before, a peculiar and exotic beauty that that had nothing to do with her rather ordinary features. And her eyes…those eyes he had seen in his dreams…revealed a hint of vulnerability that had a startling effect on Donal’s heart.

  He rose from his seat on the flagstone steps and held her gaze as she descended to meet him. He did not understand the unprecedented sense of familiarity that assaulted his nerves and turned his mouth too dry for speech. He knew Mrs. Hardcastle no better now than he had an hour ago, and yet she might have been an old and dear acquaintance, a friend in whom he could confide his deepest yearnings. He could share with her his visions of distant wilderness, his need to run in those faraway places, and she would understand. She would even shed those confining, torturous garments and run at his side.

  But she came to a sudden stop, almost as if she sensed his thoughts, and her eyes hardened to tempered steel.

  “Dr. Fleming,” she said, “I wish to discuss a proposal regarding Ivy’s future.”

  Donal shook off his daze and offered his hand to assist her down the remaining steps. “May I ask, Mrs. Hardcastle, what you and Ivy discussed?”

  She took his hand with obvious reluctance, her gloved fingers small and firm in his, and broke away as quickly as courtesy allowed. “We discussed her unhappiness with the current arrangements, and I offered to help her find a more suitable situation.”

  “I see.” Donal paced a little distance away, concealing his anger. “You will forgive me if I speak frankly, madame. I am surprised that you consider the judgment of a twelve-year-old girl of greater reliability than my own.”

  “If she were indeed twelve years of age and a simple child of the streets,” Mrs. Hardcastle said, “I might consider your judgment sufficient. But you have been deceived, Doctor. Ivy is at the very brink of womanhood, and it is not too late to mold her into the lady she was doubtless born to become.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It is not overly surprising that you were taken in. It is human nature to see what we wish and expect to see. Ivy is an excellent actress, and she had an extraordinary motive to play her role well. Even I did not penetrate her disguise until I met her again, here at Stenwater Farm.”

  As Donal listened with growing chagrin, she recounted her meeting with the young woman in the meadow, Ivy’s transformation and the girl’s admission of her masquerade. She asked Donal to a
ccompany her to the byre, where she revealed the soiled white gown that Ivy had stolen from the Porritt’s eldest daughter.

  “Ivy maintained her disguise at the Porritt’s,” Mrs. Hardcastle said, “but she could not resist the chance to be her true self for a short while, even if no one would see her.”

  “Her true self,” Donal repeated slowly. “If she does not remember her life before the rookeries, how does she know what that is?”

  “I am fully convinced that she is of good family, and received at least some education. It may be possible to learn more through my father’s connections in London.”

  Donal sifted the fine material of the gown between his fingers and shook his head. “Why was she afraid to tell me the truth about her age?” he asked. A wash of sickness curled in his belly. “Did she think I would abuse her?”

  Mrs. Hardcastle walked up behind him. He felt her breath on his shoulder, and for a moment he thought she might touch him. His muscles tightened in anticipation.

  “You should not blame yourself, Dr. Fleming,” she said briskly, her skirts brushing his boots as she moved past him. “Only a fool would believe such a thing of you.” She turned to meet Donal’s gaze. “Ivy does not know her own mind, but it is clear that she will not remain with the Porritts.”

  Donal went to the door of the byre and looked out at the fells, thinking of the preparations he had already begun to make, the arrangements for the farm and animals he was putting in motion. There was no question of taking Ivy with him on his travels. If she refused to remain with anyone but him…

  He had never thought to have the simple things that most humans took for granted: courtship, marriage, a wife and children. He had too little interest in the ways of human society, and human society had no place for a man of his eccentricities. But he had made a choice in taking Ivy from London. He had made himself responsible for a human life.

  Mrs. Hardcastle implied that Ivy ought to become a lady like herself, that the girl would be happiest wearing beribboned dresses and flirting at balls and fetes like the ones Donal’s mother loved to give at Hartsmere. Donal had met many such young women before he had left his parents’ estate, and he knew the sort of life they desired: a youth of frivolous pleasures followed by a staid and expedient marriage to a man of excellent prospects. There was hardly an ounce of true spirit, honesty or sincerity amongst any dozen of them.

  But Donal had seen something in Ivy that Mrs. Hardcastle had not. He had watched her running on the fells, her feet bare in the grass, her arms spread wide and her face rapt with the beauty of nature. He couldn’t imagine her laced into a corset and weighed down by horsehair petticoats. Whatever Ivy’s true age or parentage, she had a love of freedom that would not be suppressed.

  “I would…appreciate your advice in this matter, Mrs. Hardcastle,” he said, keeping the despair from his voice. “It seems that I made a mistake in sending Ivy away. I know little of the needs of young ladies, but I believe she can be happy here. If there is anything in particular you feel she requires, I will make the necessary provisions to—”

  “She cannot remain with you at Stenwater Farm,” Mrs. Hardcastle interrupted. “Surely you understand that an unattached and unchaperoned young woman cannot share residence with a bachelor unless she is prepared to sacrifice her reputation.”

  Donal flinched. “I am aware that your society is unforgiving of the smallest breach of its nonsensical rules,” he said, “but surely Ivy has already put herself beyond the pale…”

  “Not at all.” Mrs. Hardcastle maneuvered herself so that Donal could not avoid her eyes. “The only people who might recognize her from London are you, myself, my cousin and Viscount Inglesham. When she is decently clothed and in an appropriate environment…” She took a deep breath. “Dr. Fleming, what Ivy requires above all else is loving care that includes firm discipline and thorough instruction in the skills and comportment that will secure her future. I believe that I can provide that care.”

  Donal heard her words with dawning comprehension and bitter realization. “You?” he said. “You wish to take Ivy into your home?”

  “Yes.” She clasped her hands at her waist almost like a supplicant, but Donal wasn’t fooled. “I have the resources to give her what she needs at Edgecott. She will have more than adequate chaperonage there, as well as congenial surroundings and pleasant country society.”

  Donal strode out of the byre, scarcely waiting to see if Mrs. Hardcastle followed. “Has Ivy agreed to this…proposal?” he asked.

  “I have not told her,” she said behind him. “I knew I must speak with you first.”

  He turned on her, nearly treading on the toes of her sensible half-boots. “So my opinion is still of some value, madame?”

  “Naturally, since it was you who saved her.”

  “But I am not fit to keep her.”

  Her nostrils flared with annoyance. “Dr. Fleming, I think you would find your free bachelor’s life, as well as Ivy’s reputation, much compromised if she were to stay.”

  “But your life will not in the least be affected.”

  “I can provide you with any number of references, Doctor, if you require them. I do not believe you will find any cause to object. I have had considerable experience in seeing to the welfare of the people of our village. I am accustomed to having dependents—”

  “Perhaps you consider Ivy another addition to your menagerie.”

  She flushed, and her eyes struck his like hammers on an anvil. “You may regard animals as people, but I most assuredly do not subscribe to the reverse view.”

  “Humans would be far better off if they recognized their kinship to animals,” he retorted. “What if Ivy does not agree to your scheme?”

  “I am confident that Ivy and I have established a certain rapport,” she said stiffly. “If you place no obstacles in her path…if you encourage her to recognize the benefits she will enjoy at Edgecott, I am sure she will be reasonable.”

  Reasonable. Donal clenched his jaw. “And what benefits do you gain by this, madame? What payment do you expect for your selfless generosity?” Before she could reply, he rushed on. “Is this all a convenient ploy to acquire my services for your private zoological gardens?”

  “What?”

  “Your interest in Ivy is most timely,” he said, refusing to relent before the shock in her eyes. “You must know that she finds it difficult to trust anyone, and she’ll never go with you unless I accompany her.”

  Mrs. Hardcastle’s small fist clenched, and Donal entertained the absurd image of the woman raising that fist to strike him in the jaw. She was certainly angry enough to attempt it; her usual air of cool self-possession had deserted her, and a tigress crouched behind her outraged stare.

  “How poorly you must think of your fellow men and women if you ascribe such motives to me,” she said. “I require nothing of you but your permission to help a young person in need.”

  For all his previous certainty of her ulterior motives, Donal was the first to look away. His breath came quickly, but not out of anger; his senses had turned traitor, making him painfully aware of the woman’s body beneath the stout cage of Mrs. Hardcastle’s corset. He could almost taste her scent, a subtle blending of soap, lavender and warm skin. And the blaze of her temper only ignited the long-banked fire he had worked so hard to extinguish.

  She brought out the worst in him, the very strength and stubbornness of her character provoking his passions as no other human had done in many years. He should not find her in the least attractive, yet he did. And it was all because of the tigress in her eyes.

  God knew that he should do anything but allow himself to be drawn more deeply into Mrs. Hardcastle’s sphere of comfortable, self-satisfied English society. But she had spoken no less than the truth where Ivy was concerned. And if he were honest with himself, he would admit that the lady had offered him a reasonable alternative to surrendering his dreams.

  All he need do was spend a few weeks in Gloucestershire to see I
vy well established in her new home. And then, once he had completed the arrangements for Stenwater Farm—and made Tod understand why he must leave England—he would book his passage from Liverpool and be on his way.

  He eased the tension from his shoulders and essayed a smile. “What is your name?” he asked.

  Mrs. Hardcastle had clearly expected another round of sparring, and his mild question took her aback. “I…beg your pardon?” she stammered.

  “Your given name. Your Christian name.”

  She perched on the edge of indignation, but she must have recognized that such a minor breach of etiquette was a small enough price to pay for peace between them.

  “Cordelia,” she said.

  “Cordelia,” he repeated. “King Lear’s loyal daughter.”

  “You know your Shakespeare, Dr. Fleming.”

  “Donal,” he said. “My name is Donal.”

  “Irish, I believe?”

  “I spent my early childhood in Ireland.”

  The wariness in her eyes gave way to curiosity. “Is Fleming also Irish?”

  “English,” he said. “My parents live in Westmorland.”

  “I have heard the Lakes are very beautiful.”

  “Yes.” He glanced over her head toward the road, searching for a change of subject. “Where is your cousin? She might wish to join us for luncheon, if simple fare meets with your approval.”

  Cordelia touched her lips. “Oh, dear. I did not intend to leave Theodora alone in the carriage so long. I shall go at once and fetch her…”

  “That will not be necessary.” Donal closed his eyes, picked out the carriage horses’minds from among the other equines in the vicinity, and sent them a brief message. “I believe they are already on their way.”

  “But how could you know that?”

  “Any good doctor—even an animal doctor—must rely on instinct as well as science,” he said. He whistled, and his dogs came to him, prancing with delight at the newfound goodwill they sensed between him and his visitor. Cordelia gamely patted a few bobbing heads, but Donal discouraged them from licking her hands or leaping up on her full skirts, and they raced off again to find Ivy.