Chapter 4
While Ivy situated the older girls with watercolors and the younger ones with wooden dolls, Owen wandered the schoolroom with his hands behind his back, pretending to study the sloppy needlework pillows and smudged charcoal flowers while he thought over what he had witnessed.
That morning, his father’s wife had made an appearance for the first time in the week Owen had been back.
She had joined him in the breakfast room, gaunt in her black mourning gown and as pale as a sheet.
He had noticed her hands trembling even though she had taken care to try to hide it, and it had been painfully obvious to Owen that Millie was withdrawing from the laudanum.
He assumed that was why she had not greeted him upon his first arrival.
Millie had taken the thinnest slice of toast, and Owen had been struck by how young she was.
His father had wanted a younger wife the second time around, one who could bear him a legion of sons.
Despite her illness, her dark hair had been perfectly coiffed, her hazel eyes bitter and fearful.
Was she afraid of him? Or afraid that he would turn her and her daughters out?
Aiming to ease her worry, the first thing he had told her was that she and the girls would always have a home at Brackley Estate. A line had appeared between Millie’s brows, so he had added that his solicitor was already in the process of drawing up generous dowries for his sisters.
“What of when you take a wife?” she had asked slyly, glancing at him from underneath her lashes. “Will she take kindly to such charity?”
“This is my sisters’ home,” he had repeated firmly.
“And what if your future wife takes issue with you living with a beautiful woman?”
It had taken him ten seconds to realize she was not speaking about Ivy, but herself. He had not been able to think of a delicate way to respond, so instead he had sipped his strong coffee, which he had learned to enjoy on a visit to Turkey, and said nothing.
When he had excused himself to visit the schoolroom, Millie had exasperated him by insisting on coming with him.
And yet when the door had swung open to the sunny schoolroom and his eyes had landed on Ivy, he had forgotten all about the annoyance of having Millie tag along.
Ivy’s cheeks had been flushed as if she had been hurrying to ready the children, her hair in disarray.
She was wearing a soft mint gown that had chalk smudges along the forearm.
Her mischievous honey eyes had met his, and it had felt like a hit to the stomach.
His visceral reaction to this woman was unexpected and entirely unwelcome.
He did not like people with sunny dispositions, instead preferring jaded souls who wielded wit and irony like weapons.
So why did he find Ivy’s cheer so damned enchanting?
Then she had stepped aside, revealing eight little girls standing in a line, and this time he was not exhausted from travel and really saw them. And he had fallen flat in love.
During their mother’s interrogation, he had quickly learned that although he might have loved the girls on sight, their mother did not.
His sisters were wary of their mother, and the eldest downright hated her.
When she had called her a witch, he almost failed to conceal his bark of laughter.
It became equally apparent that they adored their governess.
Their little hazel eyes kept darting to her for approval and reassurance, which they always received in the form of a smile, or a slight nod, and once even a discreet wink.
He had not needed the girls to tell him what they thought of Ivy—it had been more than obvious—but the flush of pleasure that had stolen across Ivy’s cheeks when they had spoken had made him grateful he had.
When he had reached the littlest, her words for Ivy had cemented a decision he had made the moment he had seen the girls with their governess.
At last, the girls were occupied and Ivy was able to slip into the corridor with him. Owen shut the door and guided her away so they would not be overheard.
“Have I passed your test, my lord?” She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, and before she could drop her arm, Owen caught it. Her pulse beat in the hollow of her throat when he slowly rubbed his thumb over her sleeve, wiping away a smudge of chalk.
“What test?”
“You were assessing me as much as you were your sisters.”
There was no point in denying it. He released her arm and stepped back. “The girls appear happy.”
“They have two wonderful nannies who have been with them from the beginning, and they are very attached to them, especially the youngest. The staff here love them, from the butler to the head housekeeper. Although the girls can get into quite a bit of trouble, no one really minds.”
“I notice you did not mention their mother on the list of people who love them.”
Ivy hesitated and hedged with, “I have only been here a month.”
“And I have been here a week, and the answer to that question is already quite clear. It is equally clear that the girls adore you.”
“You wish for me to stay then, my lord?”
Owen rubbed his hand over his stubbled jaw.
He had awoken that morning resolved to send Barnes’s little sister on her way.
Owen’s new role was complicated enough without the baby of the Bennett family heaping more worries onto his plate, but after what he had witnessed in the schoolroom, he knew it would be not only stupid to let her go, but cruel.
He dropped his hand and sighed. “I not only wish you to stay, but I beg you to. You are everything my sisters need.”
A small sigh of relief escaped Ivy’s lips. “What did Octavia say to you?” she asked curiously.
“That is a secret between Octavia and me.”
“You cannot leave me in suspense.”
“If you insist. She called you an ogre.”
“She did not!” Ivy planted her hands on her hips, and in her schoolmarm voice said, “Tell me what she said right now, my lord.”
Commanding little thing, but Owen had spent a decade handling the wildest beasts with nothing but a firm touch and a deep voice.
“I can see you are used to giving orders,” he said in a low tone, stepping closer.
The scent of lilac and mint filled his nostrils—her scent. “But are you adept at taking orders?”
Ivy blushed.
Bloody hell. He hoped to God she thought he had said that in the capacity of an employer, which he was.
He was her employer and she was the sister of his former friend, and what on earth had he been thinking saying something like that to her in such a tone?
Owen almost always kept that part of himself tightly under wrap.
So why had it felt so natural to speak to sweet, innocent Ivy in such a way?
Because he was a rotter. There was no other explanation. If Ivy Bennett was to remain in his employ, and for his sisters’ sake she must, then he would have to stay far away from her.
“I apologize,” he said neutrally, inserting space between them. “You are doing a splendid job with the girls. Carry on as you have been.”
Before she could speak, he turned on his heel and strode away.
Ivy was exhausted by the end of the day. The girls had been flushed with excitement ever since the viscount’s visit and could not stop talking about how lovely they had thought their brother.
“I wish he were our father,” Opal had whispered to her twin, Ollie.
There were two sets of twins among the eight children, and all of them had names that began with the letter O.
Ivy supposed the lady of the manor had thought it a cunning tradition, but in truth almost no one could tell the horde of girls apart, and even if they could, they could not remember which name belonged to whom.
“I do not remember Father. Do you?” Ollie asked.
Ivy was wiping the chalkboard with a rag, and slowed her motions to listen to the girls. The twin six-year-olds were cuddled together in a patch of sunlight, looking over a nursery rhyme picture book while they whispered.
“Only that he was scary,” Opal answered. “Scarier than Mother.”
“I heard Mother say he almost killed Octavia when she was born because she was not a boy.”
Opal traced her fingertip over the colored drawing of a rabbit. “Boys are better.”
Ivy opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Ollie said, “Miss Bennett does not think so. She says we are lucky to be born girls because we are stronger than anyone knows.”
“Maybe our brother will like us as girls, too,” Opal said hopefully.
Ivy’s heart was cracking in two when the nannies and maids swept into the room to gather the girls and ready them for supper.
As the girls usually supped in the nursery, and the dowager viscountess took her meals in her quarters, Ivy had made a habit of eating in the kitchen, mostly because it was a hot center of gossip and Ivy dearly loved to listen in.
She was not a servant, so her choice had been unusual at first, but the maids and footmen had grown used to her presence and no longer curbed their tongues around her.
Ivy had proven to be a vault with their secrets, and in doing so had earned their respect.
The kitchens would be the perfect place to start spying for the Dove. If anyone knew about Brackley’s personal business and the goings-on of the manor, it was the servants.
Ivy was settling down at a rickety corner table with a plate of chicken and stewed vegetables, when one of the maids, Eliza, stormed into the kitchen, her eyes bright and angry. “That—that—that wench!”
Several of the cook’s helpers were arranging heaping platters of food, but paused in excitement to see what had stirred Eliza into such a froth.
“What happened?” one of them asked, a sprig of dried rosemary forgotten in her hand.
“The dowager,” Eliza spat. “She is in a horrid temper. Worse than usual.”