Chapter 7
Ivy itched to read the letter so badly she could barely get through the day.
At last, the maids came to prepare the girls for supper, and Ivy dashed upstairs to her chamber.
She threw open the window, allowing a burst of cool air to ruffle the shawl she kept on her wingback chair, and plunked onto the foot of her bed.
With trembling fingers, she unfolded the letter and tilted it toward the lamplight, her stomach in knots.
My Dearest Lover,
I do not wish for us to part on bad terms. We have found comfort in one another these past two years, and we have had many exhilarating evenings doing what you do best.
Ivy read the line twice and her mouth popped open.
Oh! She had overheard many conversations between her brothers over the years, ranging from crass to subtle innuendo, and her cheeks would have flushed at reading something so personal that was not meant for her eyes if she were not also intensely curious to know what made the viscount so good at such a thing.
Ivy had been kissed before, but she would not describe it as exhilarating.
She could not fathom how it could be done differently, and she found she very much wanted to know.
For the briefest moment she pictured how Lord Brackley might kiss.
He would angle his head, and those intense, green eyes would never leave her face.
He would press one wide, calloused hand to the small of her back and draw her closer, until she could feel the heat of his body and smell the saddle polish and leather on his clothes.
His stubborn mouth would soften as he slowly brushed his lips across hers.
Perhaps he would not have shaved, and she would feel the rough bristles against her skin.
Ivy rested her fist on her chest, alarmed by the intensity of her heartbeat from simply imagining a kiss. She quickly shoved the feeling down and returned to reading the letter.
I know you wished for me to accompany you to England, but my world is here. My betrothed is here. Although I am a noblewoman, I was not made for life under your new queen.
Do not be vexed with my decision. I should feel horribly if the way we parted was your last memory of me. You have been good to me—faithful, persistent, and focused. As I endure my new marriage bed, I shall remember you fondly.
~Heidi~
What a witch! Ivy thought, creasing the letter with force.
The viscount had asked his lover to come with him to Brackley Estate, and she had not only turned him down flat, but had also boiled their two-year love affair down to something tawdry she could use as fodder while lying with her new, and by all implications boring, husband.
Clearly Brackley had felt affection for this woman, but she had not returned it, appreciating him only for what he could give her.
The last line had been unnecessarily cruel, and Ivy wondered why he had kept the letter instead of burning it. It deserved to be ash. Or, perhaps, since she had found it stuck to the back of another letter, he had not meant to keep it at all.
After a few more moments of sitting with her indignation, something occurred to Ivy. She reopened the letter and scanned it for the word that had stuck in her mind: Faithful. The woman had said Viscount Brackley had been faithful.
The Dove had asked Ivy to collect information to help her assess Brackley’s character.
Ivy supposed he could have taken other lovers while with Heidi, but Heidi did not seem to think so, and from what little Ivy had observed of the viscount, she had to agree.
He did not seem the sort to spread himself thin with shallow dalliances.
He was a man who would pledge his time and energy to one woman, and his devotion would be relentless. Or, as Heidi had phrased it, focused.
Ivy tucked the letter back into her dress. She would bring it to the Dove tonight and see if the woman found it helpful.
The next morning Ivy and the girls hiked to the northern field to collect autumn foliage.
While the girls sought the crispest, most vibrant leaves, Ivy gazed into the distance and thought about her class the night before.
The Dove had been in attendance, and her eyes beneath the mourning net had sharpened with interest when Ivy had handed her the letter.
After she had scanned it, the Dove had asked if she could keep it before tucking it into her cloak.
“Two more women were committed to the sanitorium yesterday,” the Dove had said in her low, smoky voice. No one would know by looking at her that she had spent an hour practicing what Ivy now realized were very elementary self-defense moves to her.
“I am sorry I do not have more for you. Aside from the Pithins family, he has not had any visitors. He spends all of his time in the stables.”
The Dove nodded thoughtfully, as if Ivy had said something that snagged against a bit of knowledge in her brain. “I will attend your class next week if possible. If I do not, please write to me with any further findings.”
A breeze ruffled Ivy’s gown now, and a maple leaf drifted from above and landed on her shoulder.
She did not feel as if she were helping the Dove or the women being incarcerated.
The newspaper headlines that morning had suggested fathers and husbands consider whether the females in their lives should stay in the house, lest the hysteria be “catching,” and it had made her feel like a failure.
A hand appeared and plucked the leaf from her shoulder. Ivy yelped and spun around, pressing her palm to her wild heart. “You frightened me, my lord.”
Brackley stared quizzically down at her, the sun pulling golden highlights from his short, curly locks. His eyes were greener in the harsh, natural light, the cut of his jaw more angular, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes more visible.
“Saxony and I were as loud as a thundering army. You were lost in thought.”
Saxony was indeed nearby, happily grazing on the short, yellow grass.
One of the girls squealed in delight, and three others raced over to see what she had found.
“A lesson?” Owen asked, lifting a heavy brow.
“We are going to identify the leaf species and make prints.” Ivy waited for him to admonish her for taking the girls outside.
“It is good for them to breathe fresh air.”
On second thought, she should have expected he would approve. In the past week she had rarely seen the viscount indoors, and when he was, he appeared to be more of a restless prisoner than a lord at ease in his domain.
Ivy’s thoughts involuntarily returned to the contents of the letter from his mistress, Heidi, and her cheeks reddened.
His eyes traveled over her cheekbones. “You are wind-chapped, Miss Bennett.”
“It is chilly.”
His gaze roamed her face for a moment longer, then returned to the girls.
He slapped his gloves against his powerful thigh.
“They seem happy. Stronger, somehow, than even a week ago.” He did not speak for several minutes as the wind ruffled his hair.
His brows were drawn, his mouth hard as his gloves continued to slap against his thigh.
Slap, slap, slap.
“I fear I have some uncomfortable inquiries to make of you, Miss Bennett.”
Ivy gave him a gentle smile. “I grew up with six older brothers, my lord. You would have to work quite diligently to fluster me.”
For some reason, the reference to her brothers made him frown harder. “It is ironic that you should mention them, as that is what my first inquiry is about. Do your brothers know you are employed here?”
Ivy pulled her cloak tighter. “Most of my brothers are gallivanting around the world and pursuing lives of leisure. They are not here to monitor my daily life.”
Her brothers were experiencing all life had to offer, while she’d had to become a governess to avoid marriage.
Early on in life, her father had made it clear her only value to her family lay in her ability to make an advantageous marriage.
When she had first entered society, her father had strongly suggested a number of suitors, each more unpalatable than the last. When her third Season had ended and she had remained unbetrothed, her father had written her a scathing letter in which he had informed her that he was tired of funding her “frivolous lifestyle,” and therefore she would marry the next suitor he chose.
Then he had selected a monster.
Powerless, Ivy had not known where to turn. All she had known was that she could not, would not marry Mr. Marthin.
Days later, she had glimpsed the advertisement for the governess position at Brackley Manor, and felt as if her prayers had been answered.
If she were a governess and her father no longer had to support her existence, then perhaps she would not have to marry.
Perhaps he would leave her alone. Perhaps she could be free.
She had written to her father, declining the marriage to Marthin and explaining that she would no longer be a financial burden, as she had taken a position as a governess.
Her mother had cried for days afterward and taken to trembling every time the front door opened.
Ivy had known her father would not visit, but she had accepted the mail with a sour stomach for weeks afterward.
So far, her father had not contacted her.
Although Ivy was tentatively hopeful, she knew her father and feared there was still misery on the horizon.
When she realized her shoulders were hunched at the thought, she forced them down. She was safe and happy for now, and she would never cower before her father again, whether in person or in thought.
And she would not ever marry his monsters.
In fact, there was only one person Ivy would accept a proposal from, but during her three Seasons she had not once caught the man’s eye: Lord Hartford.