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