“We know only English,” said Imogene.
“What instrument?”
“We’ve been made to sing hymns . . . so many hymns . . . but with no particular skill or finesse.”
“Do youlikesinging?”
“No,” the girls answered in unison.
“Do you derive any enjoyment from music?”
“Not really,” said Imogene at the same moment Ivy whispered, “I am curious about the xylophone.”
Both Drew and Imogene turned to stare at Ivy.
“I read about it,” she whispered. “In a book.”
“Very good,” said Drew, smoothly. “Xylophone. So be it. Perhaps Lachlan can have one brought in.”
“Horses?” Drew asked, her heartbeat increasing.
“We rode a little before Papa died,” said Imogene. “Anything after that, I’ve sorted out on my own. Ivy has ridden only behind me on a shared mount. We have not used a saddle in years. No tack.”
“Oh, well done. Alright. Riding instructor, a mare or two. Proper saddles...” Pound notes swam in Drew’s head, and she ignored them.
“Imogene,” Drew asked, “it occurs to me that sport may interest you. If music does not.”
“Sport?”
“Yes. Archery. Lawn bowling. Or tennis, perhaps?”
And now the silence was better than words, because Imogene’s face lit up. It was the most genuine look of hopefulness she’d yet seen.
“Right,” said Drew. “I’ll see what we can do about a little of each.”
Drew was just about to make some concluding statement about how well this had gone and how excited she was, but a footman interrupted them, descending on the room with trays of pudding.
“Oh, lovely,” Drew said, fighting to keep the excitement from her voice. They’d made progress. Perhaps the three of them could get on. “Who will take pudding?”
On the heels of the footman, Lachlan strode in from the opposite door with Lady Tribble on his arm.
“Timothea has returned for pudding,” he announced.“Which I understand is neither beef, nor fish, nor white in color. Chocolate, I believe?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said a footman, setting a tiered confection at the baroness’s place.
Lady Tribble settled into her seat, glancing at her daughters. It was a quick look but Drew saw her search their faces, toassessthem. She made no comment, asked nothing, and quickly transferred her attention to the chocolate.
The baroness seemed to employ a strange mix of neglect and performative oddness to shield herself from any useful interaction. She wore it like a nun’s habit, projecting to the world,I adhere to a different set of expectations.
Drew was no stranger to terrible mothers, but Cynde had assured her there were many different ways to be a good one. She would hold out hope for Lady Tribble.
Not that it mattered. Manners and good sense could spring from even the rockiest history; Drew’s survival of her own childhood was living proof of this. If Drew could conduct herself like a reasonable human, if she could be useful and fulfilled, anyone could. And honestly, the less Lady Tribble engaged any of them, the more Drew was able to do as she pleased.
The pudding was rich, and cold, and delicious, and the five of them devoured it in near amicable silence. Twice Drew glanced at the duke—she couldn’t help it—wondering what he must think of her admission as the Originator of Terrible, praying he would consent to the many expensive enrichments she’d just promised the girls. Most of all, she wondered how a man who seemed as clever and full of energy and as...vitalas the Duke of Lachlan wound up living in near seclusion in Dorset.
As new clients went—well, asfirstclients went—the girls were nothing like she’d expected, but she was very fond of them already.
As employers went—
