a barn won’t kill ’em.” Lord Fredrick pushed his chair
back in a way that made it clear: The conversation was
finished—Penelope’s side of it, anyway. “You can read
stories to ’em in the nursery tomorrow, assuming they
don’t have fleas, of course. Remember, Miss Lumley,
they were found on my property and that means I can
do with ’em as I please. Finders keepers, what? Here,
look: I have chosen names for all three.” He took a
small note card out of his vest pocket and handed it to
Penelope. “See that they learn to answer to these. It is
very tedious to say ‘Hey, boy!’ or ‘Hey, girl!’ and get no
reaction. Even my hounds can come when called.”
“As you wish.” Penelope took the card from him
without bothering to look at it, since her eyes were
suddenly blurry with tears, and this time not from the
smoke. “It shall be our very first lesson.”
By the time Penelope had made her way back to the
barn carrying a basket full of fresh-baked plum cakes
and a large pitcher of milk, the sun had already dipped
far below the horizon. With no daylight to illuminate
its interior the barn was quite dim, and yet with so
much dry hay scattered everywhere, Penelope was
afraid to light a candle. The children seemed perfectly
comfortable in the dark, though, and at the smell of
the cakes, they gathered close to their new governess
without a trace of fear.
Penelope had brought three tin cups from the
kitchen and poured each full of milk to wash down
the cakes. The children lapped at the milk like puppies
and sniffed at the cakes for a long time before deciding
to eat them. Penelope demonstrated what to do, and
soon their faces were covered with cake crumbs and
milk mustaches. If not for the wild, squirrels’ nests of
hair, lack of clothes, and overall unwashed condition,
they would have looked practically childlike.
Penelope hated to let them eat with such grubby
hands, but “First things first,” she said aloud. “Tonight
we must make friends and grow used to one another.
Tomorrow we can think about giving baths.”
The children looked at her quizzically, tipping their
heads from side to side in a way that reminded Penel-
ope of a cocker spaniel she had once seen staring at
itself in a mirror. Then she remembered the card from
Lord Ashton, still unread in her apron pocket.
“The three of you are now the wards of Lord
Fredrick Ashton, and in his capacity as master of the
household, he has chosen names for you.” She slipped
the card out and read. “You,” she said, looking at the
eldest boy, “are to be called Alexander. Can you say it?
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