Lord of the Beasts. Susan Krinard
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“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 accompany 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