In her white dress, Ivy looked like a queen of the Fane, wrapped in cloth woven of cobwebs and morning dew. She pulled at the metal pins that confined her hair and the lush, dark tresses spilled down her shoulders and flowed out behind her like a swathe of starless night.
She was nothing less than beautiful.
Ivy flung herself down at the base of the grandfather oak. The dog sat beside her and licked her hand. She stroked Sir Reginald’s silken coat with willow-slender fingers.
“She doesn’t really want me,” she said, her voice catching on a sob.
Tod closed his eyes, driving away the sympathy that kindled unbidden in his breast. He cared nothing for the girl or her troubles. He had enough of his own.
He smoothed his hair and walked out of the shadows, his legs as unsteady as a foal’s on its first day of life.
“Who does not want my lady?” he asked.
Ivy lifted her head and stared. Her eyes widened, for she saw him at once…saw him for what he was, just as Béfind had predicted. Sir Reginald jumped up and wagged his tail.
The girl stilled the dog with a touch of her hand. “Who…who are you?” she asked.
Tod released his breath. She was not afraid. If her voice held a tremor, it was only because he had come upon her without warning, and she had been raised by mortals. She had never seen his like before.
“Tod is the name,” he said. He bowed deeply, his hair brushing the carpet of grass. “Tod is at my lady’s service.”
“Tod.” Her cornflower-blue eyes drifted from the top of his head to his bare feet. “You are…not an ordinary man.”
He straightened and held her gaze. This was the greatest test.
“Tod is Fane,” he said. “Fane of the wood and of the hidden places.”
“Fane,” she repeated, biting her lip. “I do not know that word.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Some have called us the Fair Folk,” he said, “among other things.”
Her brows dipped in thought, and then suddenly her fair face lit with understanding. “The Fair Folk. You are a fairy!”
He grimaced at the corrupted mortal word and wiggled his fingers to imitate the flutter of tiny wings. “Not like those.”
Ivy reached for the delicate chain about her neck. “My mother…she told me such stories when I was little.”
Tod delayed his answer, fixing his gaze on the amulet. From the fine silver chain hung an intricate knot of ancient design, its center marked by a brilliant blue stone—a talisman designed to repel any being of the Fane race.
“Stories,” Tod murmured. “Stories are often wrong. Fane are real.”
“So it seems.” Ivy brushed the tips of her fingers across her cheek, drawing Tod’s gaze with them. His heart seized as if he had been struck by a bolt of Cold Iron. “I think I always knew.” She met his eyes. “Why are you here?”
He wrapped his arms about his chest for fear that he might betray himself before he had won her trust. “My lady was sad,” he said.
Her lips curved in a smile that had a strange and deadly effect upon his resolve. “You came because I was sad?”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. She gathered her skirts about her and rose, shedding leaves from shimmering cloth. “You do not even know me,” she said. “Do the Fane visit anyone who is troubled?”
“Not anyone,” he whispered. “Fane avoid most humans.”
“Then I must be special,” she said, mocking herself.
“Aye. But Tod does know my lady.”
“Do you? What is my name?”
“Ivy.”
She pressed her cheek to the oak’s rough bark. “Where did I come from?”
Dangerous ground. “From another place.”
“Another place.” She bowed her head, hiding behind the fall of her hair. “Was I not sad in that other place, when I was alone? Why didn’t you come to me then?”
The rebuke brought heat to his face, as if he had reason to feel ashamed. “Tod did not know my lady then,” he said. “Fane stay away from the Iron cities of men.”
She laughed. “That’s one name for London.” She sat down again, her gown settling about her in an ivory cloud. “Have you always lived here, at Edgecott?”
“No. Tod comes from…from many places. But now Tod is here, to serve my lady.”
Her breath sighed out, curling through his hair. “Are there others like you at Edgecott, hiding from people?”
He thought of Béfind and her sprites, but he had no need yet to lie. “Most are gone,” he said, “gone away to Tir-na-Nog.”
She closed her eyes. “I have heard that name before,” she said. “The home of the Fair Folk, where all is light.”
“Aye. There my lady would be a queen.”
“Me? I’m no one’s queen.” Her eyes darkened to the color of a summer storm. “Sir Geoffrey is as horrid as the worst men in Seven Dials. Cordelia took me in because I remind her of her dead sister and Donal…” She stared toward the great house as if she might gladly topple it to the ground. “I don’t belong to anyone. I should go somewhere else—”
“No.” Tod patted the grass near the edge of her skirt, his hand trembling. “Stay. My lady must stay.”
“For what?”
“For…” He exhaled, letting his fear leak away with his breath. “For me.”
She turned her haunted gaze back to his. “I still don’t understand. Why have you come to be my friend?”
Tod thought quickly. “Fane ways are not mortal ways.”
She lay on the grass and looked through the branches at the distant stars. “Then you must tell me all about them. And about Tir-na-Nog.”
Tod sat beside her and drew his knees to his chest, holding his body snug as a hedgehog in a fox’s den. “The chain,” he said. “Who gave it to my lady?”
She grasped the knot in her fist. “Cordelia gave me the chain,” she said. “Do you know Cordelia?”
“I have seen the Hardcastle,” Tod admitted.
“The Hardcastle,” Ivy echoed. She opened her hand, cradling the pendant reverently. “My father gave me this.”
“Your father?”
She tilted her head, lost in some memory. “I told them I didn’t remember him,” she said. “But I saw him, once, when I was still living with my mother. He didn’t speak his name, but I knew who he must be.”
“What was his appearance?”
“Beautiful.” She polished the silver knot with her thumb. “Everything about him was beautiful.”
“As is my lady.”
She slipped the talisman back inside her bodice. “Thank you, Tod,” she said. “I believe you will be my friend.”
“Always.”
“I won’t let you forget.” She sat up, suddenly alert. “Someone is coming.” She retreated to stand with her back against the oak. “It’s Donal. I don’t want to talk to him tonight.”
Tod understood her reluctance all too well. “I can hide you,” he said.
“He won’t see me if I stay very quiet,” she said, circling to hide behind the oak’s broad trunk.
Tod had no chance to argue, for Donal appeared at the crest of the hill and saw him before he could disappear. Donal descended quickly, his face set in a frown.
“Tod,” he said. “I’m looking for Ivy. Have you seen her?”
The hob had never directly lied to his master until this moment. It was more difficult than he had anticipated.
“Tod has not,” he said in a small voice.
Donal sighed. “She took Sir Reginald with her, and he’s here,” he said, bending to give the dog a quick pat. “I only hope she didn’t act precipitously because of an unfortunate misunderstanding.” His mouth twisted in a grimace. “Perhaps it’s just as well. Keep watch for Ivy, and report to me if you find her.”
“Aye,” Tod said, bowing to hide his eyes.
Donal looked askance at him, his frown deepening. “Is something wrong, Tod?”
“All is well, my lord. All is well.�
��
“Good.” Donal slapped his thigh, inviting Sir Reginald to accompany him back to the house. “I’ll have a word with Mrs. Hardcastle and then retire to my cottage. Good night, Tod.”
“Blessed eve, my lord.”
When Donal had passed over to the other side of the wold, Ivy slipped out from behind the oak. She advanced on Tod, hands on hips.
“You know Donal,” she accused, her voice taking on the hint of an accent Tod hadn’t heard before. “You called him ‘my lord.’”
He bobbed his head. “Tod has known Donal for many years, as Tod knew his father.”
“Then Donal must know you’re Fane.”
“The bond between Tod and my lord’s family is an old one. There were once many such alliances. Fane lingered longest in the North, near the home of the Flemings, before they left this world for Tir-na-Nog.”
“But you did not go to Tir-na-Nog.”
“Tod stayed with Donal.”
“As his servant?” Tod inclined his head. “Yet you deceived him,” she added.
“Only for my lady,” Tod whispered. He clasped his hands. “Tod begs that she does not speak to my lord of our meeting.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
“Tod…wishes this to be our secret. For my lady’s sake.”
“Even though we’ve just met?”
“Tod wishes only to help my lady find peace.”
“Peace.” Ivy stretched out on the grass, arms spread wide. “I won’t go back to the house tonight. Will Donal miss you if you stay with me?”
No, Donal would scarcely notice. His thoughts were upon more important matters than the happiness of one small hob.
Shivering with confusion and sorrow, Tod lifted Sir Reginald into his arms and sat beside Ivy. His hatred for her had vanished in a few brief moments. The world had become a strange and frightening place, and he had never felt so alone.
CORDELIA ALMOST COLLIDED with Donal as she was ascending the hill, intent on holding the satin skirts of her evening dress above the uneven ground. They broke apart in confusion, each stammering awkward apologies that to Cordelia’s ears sounded stiff and cold.
Donal bowed. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hardcastle,” he said. “Are you quite all right?”
Cordelia knew he didn’t refer merely to their near-accident. She let the silence stretch too long, and Donal moved as if to continue on his way.
“Please wait,” she said. He stopped immediately, spearing her with the harrowing directness of his gaze.
“About tonight,” she said carefully. “It did…not quite turn out as I had planned.”
“So I gathered,” he said with no hint of mockery in his voice. “I apologize for any part I played in the evening’s difficulties.”
Difficulties. How simply he spoke of disaster. “It would have been better if you had not challenged Sir Geoffrey,” she said, avoiding his eyes. “I warned you that he was easily upset. He is eccentric—”
“And rude, and more than a little cruel,” Donal finished.
Cordelia flushed. “I asked you to say nothing that would agitate him.”
“Even when he insults you and Ivy and Theodora almost in the same breath? As ill-bred and unpolished as I may seem to you, I was not taught to stand by in silence while ladies in my company are maligned…even by a gentleman.”
Cordelia winced. Donal could not have been more plain in his dislike of Sir Geoffrey, and she found it difficult to defend her father under the circumstances. Donal had acted sincerely in her defense. Sincerely and gallantly. As upset as she had been when the dinner had ended so ignominiously, she was compelled to admit that his chivalry had both flustered and pleased her out of all reason.
And was that not the root of every disturbance she had felt since his coming…that constant inner battle between pique and pleasure, annoyance and admiration? She simply wasn’t accustomed to being protected, and Donal seemed to provoke in her a mortifying defensiveness and frightening vulnerability.
“I thank you for your concern,” she said, “but I am quite accustomed to dealing with my father’s—”
“Hard-heartedness?” Donal interrupted. “His utter lack of consideration for anyone but himself? Is that what you and your sister had to endure while you grew up in his care?”
Cordelia choked on an intemperate reply. Donal was not blind. But he had not known Sir Geoffrey in the days when he was whole and intent on his work, when the baronet had delighted in so many varied interests and diversions that it was all Cordelia could do to get him to eat and sleep and rest the body of which he demanded so much.
“He was not always so,” she admitted. “He has grown bitter since his illness robbed him of his old vigor, and has frequently kept him confined to the estate. Surely a man as active as yourself can understand that.”
“I can understand the toll such an illness must take,” Donal said. His voice softened. “To give up such freedom must have been difficult indeed.”
His sympathy left Cordelia with no will for further argument. She lowered her head. “You must have many questions after the things you heard tonight.”
“I knew you had lost a sister,” he said. “I am sorry.”
“It was many years ago.”
“Some sorrows do not lessen with time.”
She stole a glance at his face. “You speak from experience,” she said.
“We have all dealt with loss,” he said. He hesitated, glancing off toward the wood. “If you would find it helpful to confide in an impartial listener…”
He trailed off, clearly embarrassed by his offer, and she did not answer. Perhaps he believed what her father had said, that she had taken Ivy into her home only because the girl reminded her of Lydia. She would have to disabuse him of that notion, and they would have to reach some sort of understanding regarding Ivy. The girl must learn how to deal with discourtesy—especially from persons of rank—and bear it with poise and calm if she was to make a place for herself in society.
“Your offer is most thoughtful,” she said. “But I believe this day has been trying enough for both of us. I shall find Ivy and bring her back to the house—”
He raised his hand. “No need. She can come to no harm here, and she needs time alone.” He took Cordelia’s hand in his. “I ask you to trust me again, even if I have disappointed you in the past. She’ll return tomorrow none the worse for a night away.”
Cordelia stared down at their joined hands, the white of her glove against the weathered tan of his skin.
“She spoke of leaving Edgecott.”
“Hotheaded talk. I will see that she is at the house before breakfast.”
Cordelia slipped her fingers from his. “We will speak of this further tomorrow. I thought perhaps we might ride to a place I know that has a pleasant aspect of our river. Theodora and I will provide a picnic luncheon, if that is acceptable to you.”
He smiled again, a teasing light in his eyes. “Does Theodora ride?”
Cordelia found her mouth quivering with inappropriate laughter at the image his words evoked. “No. But she is quite a hand with a dog cart, and she will be glad enough to get out of the house.”
“What of Ivy?”
“Provided she returns before breakfast, I shall leave her with Mrs. Priday. It won’t hurt the child to learn more of keeping a country house, and contemplate her immoderate actions at the same time.”
Donal’s smile faded. “Are you so certain that she will marry some lord and become mistress of a grand estate?”
“Come, let us not quarrel any more tonight. If you see Ivy on the way to the cottage, please send word to Croome.”
“Put your mind at ease. She’ll be back by morning.”
She nodded and stepped back, half afraid and half hoping that he would take her hands again. But he only bowed and offered a quiet good evening, leaving her to wonder how such an unremarkable parting could stir her heart to an ache that would stay with her through the long night.
IVY RETURNED early the next morning, just as Donal had predicted. Her gown was soiled with grass stains, dirt and twigs; Cordelia’s maid declared it beyond recovery, but Ivy offered neither contrite explanations nor defiant excuses for her behavior.
Cordelia refused to begin the day with another quarrel. By tacit agreement, she and Ivy postponed the inevitable discussion of the previous evening’s events. If Ivy was unhappy with the prospect of staying in with the housekeeper on a lovely May morning, she thought better of expressing her displeasure.
Cordelia had enlisted Cook to pack a basket of cucumber sandwiches, boiled eggs, seasonal fruits and meat pie, which Theodora was to take in the dog cart. A groom saddled Cordelia’s favorite mare, Desdemona, and a handsome chestnut gelding for Donal, but when Donal arrived he declared that the gelding was out of spirits and calmly led the stallion Boreas out of his stall.
“You intend to ride Boreas?” Cordelia asked, watching as Donal took a saddle from a nervous groom.
Donal stroked the horse’s arched neck and smiled. “I assure you that Boreas and I are already good friends. He’s in need of a good run.”
“I suppose he confided this desire to you?”
Donal tightened the girth strap and inspected each of the stallion’s hooves. “Naturally.”
“He has been known to throw even the most expert riders.”
“And with good reason…as you know, having saved him yourself.” He finished his work and straightened, meeting her gaze. “He’s improved immeasurably since you took him from that creature who called himself his owner.”
One of the junior grooms stepped forward, twisting his cap in his hands. “It’s true, ma’am,” he ventured. “And since the doctor came yesterday, Boreas has calmed down considerable. It’s like a miracle, it is.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Cordelia murmured. She could see that Boreas no longer fidgeted and stamped when held on a lead, and he showed no signs of attempting to bolt. She’d left him in Gallagher’s care when the stallion first arrived, but the Irishman hadn’t achieved as much in months as Donal had in a single day.
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