“You were off doing something, and Ivy and I were more than capable of making this decision. Gray came also, and as you know, he works at Scotland Yard, so he is the best person to judge if Miss Downing is of good character.”
“You can’t tell such a thing from a single interview,” Mungo protested.
“The decision has been made, so be nice. She’s a pleasant, efficient woman, or so her references said. She’ll be teaching the younger ones what to expect if they ever wish to enter society. It’ll be their choice if they do, but as their older siblings—and as Ivy and I are both involved in society—it’s only fair they know what to expect.”
Mungo felt that familiar flare of protectiveness he always got when he thought of the youngest Nightingales, especiallyAnna, the child who had come to them from an orphanage and lived with them ever since.
“We’ll protect Anna, Mungo, no matter what she chooses. But everything will be explained to her. There will be no secrets or surprises. I won’t allow her to be hurt again.”
He knew she would be hurt eventually because life did that, but they’d do everything they could to soften it. She, like him, was born outside this family, and like him, they’d welcomed the little girl in.
“Now,” Bram said, “go for a walk. Clear your head. When you come back, I expect your mood to be less dark. I’ll introduce you to Miss Downing, as she is due to arrive shortly, and you will be polite, as she will live in this household for some time.”
“We’ve no room. It’s full already.”
“We have the attic, which Bud and the children have been readying. It is now a comfortable space,” Bram said. “There is plenty of money, also, to make changes. I have drawn up some plans I think will suit, and I want to discuss those with you, if the decision is to stay and not move.”
Mungo grunted something and then left. He didn’t want a governess to enter their household and change things. Nor did he want to move, so he would be pushing to have renovations made to this home. He loathed change because he couldn’t control it. Control was important to Mungo.
He stepped out the front door, headed through the gate, and out onto the street.
The Nightingales had made their home in a small London crescent, a looping street that circled back on itself. In the middle sat a park where there was always something happening, like art classes, knitting circles, and dogs running wild.
He looked across now and heard a child’s squeal. Lottie. The older children had taken Bram and Ivy’s daughter out toplay. Two dogs were also running around in circles, adding to the mayhem. Both were members of the Nightingale clan.
The new rotunda took up pride of place in the center and looked ridiculous, as far as Mungo was concerned, but as he’d no say in the matter, he’d kept silent. Now, when they held the Crabbett Close games, Mr. Greedy could stand up there so his voice carried clearly to everyone gathered. The children loved it, too, as they were often seen running around inside it.
When the family had found the Pavlov fortune, life had changed for many people, not least of all the residents of Crabbett Close.
Turning right so he didn’t pass Tabitha Varney’s house, he headed down the road away from the house. That woman, who’d had plenty of new dresses made with her money, had made it quite clear she saw him as a future husband, a notion he didn’t reciprocate, but that did not appear to deter her.
The houses here were an eclectic mix. Some were elegant brick townhouses like the Nightingales’, while others were more modest. Some were two or three stories, others single, but each was full of life. Across the street, Flora Nightingale, cousin of the family, lived with her husband, Ram, who drove Mungo crazy but whom he secretly liked.
“Well now, if it isn’t Mr. Mungo!”
He turned to look into the small garden where Mr. Greedy and Mr. Peeky sat sipping liquid from chipped mugs.
“Bit early to be drinking, isn’t it?”
“Well now, good day to you, Mungo, and I’m sure it’s the correct time to imbibe somewhere in the world,” Mr. Peeky replied.
The members of this community were an odd lot who liked to involve themselves in each other’s lives. If you had a problem, there was a high chance someone in Crabbett Closewould be able to solve it for you—whether you wanted them to or not.
“Come and join us. You look a little tight around the eyes,” Mr. Peeky added.
The door behind them opened, and out stomped Mavis Johns, wrapped in a thick gray shawl.
“I wouldn’t mind a wee dram,” Mungo said as Mavis took a mug off the tray at Mr. Greedy’s feet and crouched. Mungo’s knees protested at the sight.
“You would?” Mr. Peeky said, and his expression of shock mirrored that of his two companions.
Of course, they’d invited him to drink with them often, but, clearly, he’d always refused. He knew his reputation was as the grumpy Scotsman who kept to himself, and usually he had no problem with that, unless his bad manners slapped him in the face like today.
“Bring yourself in, then,” Mr. Greedy said. “Sit down and have a dram with us. We’re celebrating.”
“What are you celebrating?” Mungo didn’t sit. He took the glass and stood before them.
“This is our fifteenth year of holding the Crabbett Close games, and cause for celebration,” Mavis said. “So you’ll drink with us to that, Mungo.”
