A Curious Beginning

“I am Rosie,” she said solemnly.

“No, she isn’t.” Lady Cordelia’s maid, Sidonie, appeared as if out of thin air, taking the child by the hand. “She is Lady Rose. Her father is Lord Rosemorran.”

The child looked at me closely. “Who are you?” she demanded with an imperiousness that would have done credit to an empress. As a rule, I did not much like children, but I might learn to like this one, I decided.

“I am an adult person who is not answerable to children.”

Before she could formulate a response, Stoker appeared.

“Hello, Lady Rose,” he said, sweeping her a formal bow.

“Stoker!” the child crowed. She flung herself at him for an embrace, but Sidonie put a dampening hand upon her shoulder.

“Lady Rose, you have the manners of a savage. Greet Mr. Stoker properly.” She herself gave him a nod, darting a gaze up at him through lowered lashes. “Mr. Stoker, it is good to see you again. I hope that you are well.”

“Very,” he said solemnly before turning to the child. “And how are you, little Rose?”

“Tolerable.”

Tolerable! The child had the soul of a dowager in an infant’s body. She indicated me with a graceful wave of her hand. “Do you know this person?”

“I do indeed,” he said.

“Her eyes are peculiar. I have never seen eyes that color. What color is that?”

“It is the precise color of the wing frills on a White-browed purpletuft, Iodopleura isabellae, from South America,” he replied with such unthinking swiftness that I gave him a searching look.

“A White-browed purpletuft? I am afraid I am not familiar with that bird,” I said quietly.

“It was something I happened to notice. Nothing more,” he replied in haste. He flushed a little, and if his remark did not cause Sidonie to take notice, the sudden color of his complexion did. She gave me a look of frank speculation as Stoker turned again to the child. “Miss Speedwell is a friend of mine and of your father’s and your aunt Cordelia’s,” he added significantly.

It was the mention of Lady Cordelia’s name that did the trick. She sketched me the briefest of curtsies.

I gave her a casual nod just as her aunt appeared. “There you are! Rose, you have been stealing treacle from the kitchens again, haven’t you?”

“No,” the child said, widening her eyes innocently.

Lady Cordelia bent and put a finger to the child’s cheek, then popped it into her own mouth. “Treacle. Sidonie, take Lady Rose to her room. I shall be up directly.”

The pair of them left, little Rose dragging her feet until Stoker slipped her a sweet behind Lady Cordelia’s back. Sidonie cast a lovelorn look over her shoulder at Stoker as she went.

“I do hope my niece hasn’t been disturbing you,” Lady Cordelia said to me. “She and her brother arrived late last night rather unexpectedly, and we are between governesses at present.”

“Not at all,” I said, very nearly meaning it. Lady Rose had the potential to be an interesting young acquaintance.

“She was just discovering that Miss Speedwell lacks the maternal instincts,” Stoker said blandly.

Lady Cordelia gave me an appraising look. “Miss Speedwell is not the only one.”

I would dearly have loved to pursue that line of discussion further, but Lady Cordelia was clearly harried.

“Forgive me, but I must attend to the children. According to Cook, Rose has drunk an entire tin of treacle and will no doubt be sick very shortly, and little Arthur keeps trying to ride Betony.”

“Doesn’t his lordship spend time with his children?” I asked. “It is Sunday, after all.”

Her voice was carefully neutral. “Sunday is Ambrose’s day of contemplation. He withdraws from all company and spends the day in his rooms, reading.”

“How fortunate,” I remarked. “For him.”

She inclined her head and left us then, and I turned on Stoker with scorn. “O, the perfidy of men.”

“What have I done?” he protested.

“Nothing at present, but you are the only representative of your sex I have at hand to abuse. Take your lumps for your brothers.”

He settled himself into the armchair opposite. “Ah, I understand. You think his lordship should play nursemaid to his own children.”

“I think he ought to take a greater interest in the formation of their intellect and character as well as their discipline. Why must it be left to poor Lady Cordelia to herd them about like so many recalcitrant sheep? Lady Rose is a pretty child and precocious as well, but it ought not to fall solely to her aunt to guide her.”

“You are seeing the Beauclerks at their worst,” he told me. “It is always difficult on Lady C. when a governess gives notice.”