Being with Bentley felt natural, like breathing. Whether it was the way our shoulders brushed when he drew my attention to a section in the bookstore, or how our heads would draw together, like the horses grazing in the paddock—it all seemed so natural. It was his scent too that I loved, pine and wool and fresh air—that was Bentley. And I breathed it in like oxygen.
"Here we are," he said, steering me like an older brother toward the academic section of the sprawling, Penn campus bookstore.
"Oh, no," I said. "Not math!"
"Yes, math," he said, piling my arms with floppy workbooks. "These are basic, but they'll do."
"Aren't these college level?"
"Math is math. I'll teach you."
My mood brightened.
"You will?"
"Yes." He squinted as he scanned the book shelves. "I spoke to Mother about your—ahem—education. She agreed her approach was draconian."
"Whatever that means."
"Vocabulary," he said, heading for the English education section.
He piled me me with a few more books and carried a stack himself.
"That's probably enough for now," he said.
We headed for the cash register.
"So, are you really going to teach me?" My heart fluttered at the thought of spending more time with him.
"Yes," he said. "I designed an entire course of study for you." He set down the books not the counter and arranged them into two neat stacks.
"That's eight-five dollars and thirty-seven cents," said the bearded clerk behind the counter who looked like a philosophy student, not that I'd ever met any.
I whistled at the exorbitant price, but Bentley hardly batted an eye as he fished a credit card from his wallet.
"Does Gardenia give you an allowance?"
His face darkened, and I instantly regretted query. It must be humiliating for him to have to ask Gardenia for money.
"Yes," he said, tapping his fingers against the counter while the clerk packed up the books.
I waited until we were back on the street before I said, "Where you get your money is not my business. I'm sorry."
"Don't be." He swung the heavy shopping back in one hand while retrieving the car keys from his pocket with the other. He beeped open the Corvette and set the bags into the cubby behind the seats. He slammed the door shut and leaned his elbows on the roof of the car. "The truth is I passed my high school equivalency two years ago. I could leave Providence House any time I want."
"Why don't you?" My voice was a whisper because as much as I needed to know what motivated to remain under such maternal control, part of me felt a rising panic at the thought that he would take my suggestion. Despite the wealth, Providence House would be unbearable without Bentley. "Not that I want you to go," I added.
His eyes floated upward toward the bare tree branches of one of the stately elms lining the city street. "I've thought about it many times, but without my inheritance I would have a thought time getting by. Also—"
"Yes?"
The look in his eyes was so intense it was difficult to hold his gaze. "You've given me another reason to stay." I blushed, and he ran his knuckles down my cheek.
"Lunch?" he said, breaking the mood with a playful tousle of my hair.
"Yes, sir!"
He linked his arm in mine and we headed off to his favorite campus bistro.
Over thick potato soup topped with shredded cheddar and slices of thick sourdough bread, Bentley laid out my new education "curriculum" and schedule, all overseen by him. I was thrilled. My "classes" would consist of the basics: reading, writing, and arithmetic, plus history and literature. All of these I would take through a self-directed course, like before, only Bentley was somehow able to convince Gardenia to let me use Providence House's library instead of that nasty attic room. Already my mood was elevating at the prospect.
"And the best part," Bentley said, leaning over the table. "Is that your afternoon lessons will consist of art and music."
"Really?" My heart leapt.
"And...physical education."
"Uh oh." I shuddered at the memory of the St.Vincent dodge ball games. "What kind of physical education classes?"
"How does swimming, tennis, and horseback riding sound?"
"Sounds great!" In truth, I was scared of riding and I never touched a tennis racket in my life. "Swimming in winter?"
"We have an indoor pool in the solarium out back. And an indoor tennis court. Don't tell me you've never seen it."
"No, I haven't."
"No one's ever given you a complete tour of the estate, eh?"
"Nope." It was true and it bothered me. In fact, for someone who was for all intents and purposes adopted by the family, I still felt like an interloper, a hired hand. A nanny.
"Bentley, do you have any idea why your mother would refer to me as a "nanny"?
Bentley sat back in the restaurant booth. "Did she say that?"
"She kind of implied it to one of the church ladies who asked about who I was."
Bentley's gaze brushed the shaded lamp hanging over the booth before returning to me. "I don't know why she would have said that except maybe she's a bit...sensitive...about adopting so many children."
The explanation didn't make but sense to me, but I didn't question it. But then I blurted, "Who's Marjorie?"
The ruddiness drained from Bentley's face and I knew I had hit a nerve. I didn't want to alienate my one friend and ally, someone who had been so kind to me, but—
"You finished?" His face was grim and I was immediately sorry I'd opened my trap.
He silently paid for our meal while I stood next to him, my coat bundled in my arms, wishing I could take back my nosy inquiry.
The street felt much colder than before. The sun that had peeked through the clouds earlier had now vanished behind a gray shroud. My feet dragged with regret along the grimy city sidewalk. Bentley's arm, that had only a while before was draped around my shoulders, was now shoved into the pockets of his tweed coat. A burgundy wool scarf fluttered at his neck, obscuring most of his face. I couldn't read his expression, but I could feel the coldness emanating from him and it made me want to cry. Never one to leave well enough alone, I grabbed his arm.
"Hey, I'm sorry if I—"
"Skip it, Ivy," he said, unlocking the car doors with a beep. He opened the door for me, but it was only with politeness.
I slipped into the Corvette's passenger seat, blowing on my hands to warm them. Tears stung my eyes.
We drove a few blocks and at last the car warmed up enough to relax the tension in my spine, but I still felt horrible about hurting someone who had been so kind to me. This Marjorie person must have meant a lot to him. But what happened to her?
We rode in silence, my mood plummeting when we turned down Providence Drive. My lunch wasn't sitting well in my stomach now, and for a moment I thought I might vomit all over the smooth black leather interior.
I was shocked when he abruptly veered the car off onto the shoulder with a spray of gravel.
He turned to me with a stern look that ran instant shivers down my spine.
"I said I was sorry—"
"It's not your fault, Ivy. It's mine."
I started blurting out something dumb, but he put his finger to my lips. "None of this is your fault. I should have never let my guard down with you. It will only end up hurting you in the long run."
"I don't understand."
He gazed through the windshield at Providence House—a stone fortress visible through the thickening mist. "How could you understand such evil? You're an innocent."
"I'm not that innocent," I laughed.
"Yes, you are," he looked at me sternly then his gaze drifted back to the house. "So was she."
"Marjorie?"
He nodded. "She was brought to this house the same way you were. She lived with us for two years. During the time, she was 'educated' just like you are. Groomed." His voice was bitter.
"Groomed?"
He nodded. "She couldn't take it and she left."
"Bentley," I whispered. "Did you?"
"Love her?" He nodded and folded his hands over the leather covered steering wheel. "I suppose I did. But Mother couldn't have that. She couldn't share her precious son with anyone."
I didn't pretend to understand Gardenia's hold over Bentley. "Where did Marjorie go?"
He frowned. "I have no idea. She just vanished, and then you showed up to take her place."
I rubbed a spot between my eyes where a headache was forming. None of this made any sense to me. "Bentley, you explained why Gardenia has this obsessive need to adopt children. It's weird, but I guess it makes sense. But what I don't understand is why she takes in older foster children, like me and it sounds like Marjorie too. Why take us into her home if she's just going to ignore us? And don't even get me started on Mrs. Roche or Mr. Robinson. What the hell's wrong with those assholes?"
Bentley laughed and the tension growing inside the car popped like a balloon. I couldn't help but laugh too.
"You're amazing, Ivy." He reached over to tousle my hair. "Maybe when you grow up a bit I'll let you in on more the dire household secrets."
"I don't know if I want to know."
"Smart girl." He shoved the car into first gear and we crept forward, slowly and reluctantly, toward the house.
What I didn't say, but what I was burning to know, was whether or not Bentley still loved Marjorie.
* * *
Bentley was true to his word, and the following day he had set me up inside my new classroom, the Providence House library. It was twice as big as my Kensington apartment with tall arched windows and French doors facing the garden. The hedges and holly bushes still held some greenery, but the flowers hadn't survived the first frost. Some of their frozen ghosts, however, clung to the dry stalks. I imagined what glorious colors I'd see in the spring. A low fire in the stone hearth warmed the room.
Bentley advised me to start with my least favorite subject first in order to get it out to the way. Naturally, I chose math. I hadn't had the best education, but the nuns had taught me some things. The more problems I completed, the more I saw math as kind of a puzzle. He left me alone, and I whiled away an hour on the workbook problems and then I turned to a history reading. Bentley had bought me a book on American history and I read all about the first colony in Jamestown, Virginia. But the prose was dry and I found myself rereading the same paragraph. Sitting back in the cushioned leather chair, I ran my gaze over the shelves of books in the Robinson's library and wondered if anyone ever read them or were they just for show. Needing to stretch my legs I stood up—the chair squeaking as I did so—and walked over to examine the book shelves spanning from floor to ceiling on two walls. Fighting the instinct to ride the library ladder with a great whee lest Mrs. Roche were to wander in, I ran my fingers lightly over the leather spines. The books looked very old. Some of the titles so worn I couldn't read them. I was hoping to find a book on American history.
These books are so old they probably came from Jamestown colony, I thought.
I realized, with disappointment, after seeing most of books had titles with the word "jurisprudence", that these were mostly law books. That made sense considering Mr. Robinson was a judge from a long line of judges. What does a judge do exactly? Sit on a high desk in his black robe banging a gavel. I thought of Morningstar standing before a judge wearing an orange jumpsuit, head bowed, stringy black hair obscuring her eyes. My stomach clenched at the thought. No one had asked me about her. Even Ms. Crenshaw seemed reluctant to talk about her.
"Ms. Crenshaw!"
There was a phone on the desk. Why hadn't I thought of it before? I should call her just to let her know I'm okay. Maybe she had some news about Morningstar, or at least she could tell me where she was being kept. Did she have a trial? Maybe one of her dudes bailed her out. Anything was possible. Was she trying to find me? I needed to talk to Ms. Crenshaw and find out what's going on with Morningstar. I was surprised she hasn't been by to check on me. She is my case worker, after all. Guess I have to call her.
Damn!
I remembered that Ms. Crenshaw's number was in my room. I should have memorized it in preparation for this exact opportunity. The grandfather clock began its noon chime. One, two, three...
Almost lunchtime, I thought. I'll be expected in the dining room any minute and then my afternoon will be spent with Bentley learning about art and music, which of course I didn't mind. But this was the first opportunity I've had to use a phone in relative privacy. There were no cell phones allowed in Providence House. I'd never even seen Bentley use one.
The chimes continued eight, nine, ten.
I bolted across the thick Persian carpet, opened the double doors, and skirted down the darkly paneled hallway to the back stairs to get up to my room and find Ms. Crenshaw's number. I promised myself I would memorize it.