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The Drakes were generous patrons.
They compensated Eithne well, enough that she could go home to Tullig once every few years – which suited her fine, as it gave her just enough time to forget the boring details of her hometown before she crossed the ocean again. Although she hadn't children of her own, her two sisters and three brothers had all rooted there. Her nieces and nephews bustled underfoot when she came, eager to hear of her comparatively metropolitan life in Gotham.
But it was not her blood family that brought her from the Drake townhome to this unnecessary display of old money.
She looked at the imposing mansion – she wanted to say mausoleum at first glance, but internally reprimanded herself – then back to the town car behind her. Mr. Corris, the Drake family driver, was putting the windows down to vape. His services were hers during the week, though she rarely called on him.
A rap on the front door presaged a six second wait – short enough to be polite, not so quick as to betray eagerness. Eithne would suspect preternatural ability, were she inclined at all to believe such tripe. It was more likely the house had an alarm system for approaching vehicles.
“Ms. McIlvaine,” Alfred greeted. He stepped back, fastidiously polite.
“My apologies for not calling ahead,” Eithne lied primly. “You were on the way.”
The rules of good manner meant all Alfred could do was cock an eyebrow at her. A bird, surely some rare thing, trilled in the nearby nature preserve that acted as the Wayne family’s front lawn.
“It is of no consequence,” Alfred replied.
In a moment her spring jacket was off and hung gingerly in a closet, a cup of Namberrie made, and her old bones were relaxing in one of the presumably many Wayne sitting rooms.
Only once before had Eithne seen the inside of this particular manor; she had been so fresh off the boat she nearly stunk of brine, with a thick brogue the Americans struggled to make heads or tails of.
Being English, Alfred had deigned to understand her when she was convenient and chosen to misunderstand her when she was not. It was a conceit of his people, she knew, and even as she sipped her Namberrie she remembered the interview she’d undertaken down the hallway in a study, many years ago now.
It had been galling to leave her country for the New World and be so rudely reminded of the old. She’d thought herself freed of prejudice only to end up moored onto ground already claimed by an Englishman.
But those were old stories, now. The Drakes were generous patrons, and Eithne had no true complaints about her eventual landing place.
“Thank you for the tea,” Eithne said. ”Always nice to have something of home.“
“It is such a singular brew,” Alfred replied. He sipped his own, what looked like some green monstrosity that Eithne could gladly say she’d never allow in her kitchen. “I’m glad someone can enjoy it.”
It had been many years since they’d met first and a few since they’d met last. Eithne let herself drink the tea and listen to the creaks of the old, empty manor. Over the years she’d forgiven Alfred for his handling of her during that employment interview, but if Eithne had anything, it was her pride. She was determined not to speak first.
One refill later, Alfred cracked.
“And what brings you here?” he asked.
“I hear that your Mr. Wayne is sniffing around our young Master Drake.”
“Yes. I hear the same.”
Eithne looked around the room, as if evaluating it. “Such a big house, for one young omega to be responsible for.”
“He’ll not be alone; we keep a full complement of staff for the greater manor, and a smaller group tends to the more private areas.”
“And such gregarious alphas he’ll be caring for, as well. With a child at the breast and hip? Hardly enough hours in the day.”
Putting his cup down, Alfred said, “The needs of the Wayne Foundation and Company keep the Masters Wayne quite engaged.”
“The eldest – ”, started Eithne.
“Master Richard – ”
“Yes, that one. He seems a handful.”
“Nothing more than a society omega can handle. Master Richard will hold up perhaps a week to Mr. Drake’s charms.”
Changing tack, Eithne said, “The younger – he barely shows his face in polite company.”
“Master Jason is a good lad.”
“A large one,” Eithne corrected. He truly was massive, from the few public pictures available.
After a moment, Alfred said, “Yes.” Tea steamed into his face, giving the appearance of a flush.
“A bit mismatched, some would say.” Eithne let herself take one incredibly small sip of tea – she only had a thimbleful left and did not want another refill.
“An adjustment period may be necessary,” Alfred admitted.
“That’s all to say nothing of Mr. Wayne himself. After so many years a bachelor, to have him wash up on our shores…”
The dark look that Eithne received she expected – for her daring to judge, as if their employers were beyond reproach. As if a man closer to fifty years old than forty mating a boy decades his junior wouldn’t be a topic of intense gossip, were the boy in question not an omega, born to the task of bearing young and managing a hearth.
“Mr. Drake will be a Mr. Wayne himself soon,” Alfred said neutrally, instead of something more biting.
“Hardly,” Eithne pretended at shock. “Surely Mr. Wayne knows that our young master is the pride and joy of Mistress Drake. An heir must be provided.”
Alfred’s eyebrows drew into concern. “Heres subtitutus?”
“Naturally,” Eithne agreed. “So he will need to be Mr. Timothy Drake-Wayne, so that his maiden name might be passed on to the Drake heir.”
Decades ago she’d seen that face on this butler: bafflement or annoyance, covered up quickly with a sleight of hand. This time it was a sip of tea.
“Mr. Wayne cannot expect for a storied house like the Drake’s to become a moiety, or even worse, forfeit to the state,” Eithne explained, hanging on to every word her counterpart offered in response.
“Mrs. Drake has a beta brother does she not?” Alfred was frowning.
“Yes, one younger. He lives where he pleases on a generous tithe and has no intentions of carrying on the family title.”
“I see. A true dilemma, then,” Alfred said, tea forgotten on its saucer. “Such an old tradition, it must be difficult to find a specialist in that area of law.”
Eithne shrugged, as if the information she had imparted was of no consequence. “A solvable one, I’m sure.”
Somewhere in the manor rang a large thud, followed by a young boy’s voice.
“Titus! Titus!”
Across the table, Alfred’s eyebrow twitched.
Ah, to have a young beta boy in the house. Eithne gladly could not relate. Tim had never been a shining example of an omega, but he’d also followed all the rules – at least, he had appeared to do so, which was all Eithne demanded. They had a very amicable unspoken arrangement, wherein Tim pretended not to do certain things and Eithne likewise pretended not to see them.
“Well,” she said, rising from her chair as the thuds grew louder. “It seems you are needed elsewhere. I’ll see myself out.”
Alfred took the opening and strode down the hall, dismissing her with nary a word.
A curious glance around was all she allowed before she made for the hallway and escorted herself from Wayne Manor.
Mr. Corris put away his vape at her arrival.
“All go well?” he asked, only interested in the vaguest definition of the word. He was the perfect driver for the rich: sharp reflexes and a dull mind, so wrapped up in his own small world he never considered doing anything like selling gossip. Eithne’s visit would go unremarked upon.
“Well enough,” Eithne said, simply.
Later that night she looked over the text messages. Mistress Janet was too busy for a phone call – some cultural event in Dubai – but she stayed in steady contact with Eithne as Tim’s potential mating grew closer.
We’ve secured a backup offer here, in case they get cold feet, read a recent message.
For more than a decade and a half Eithne had cared for the omega child of the Drake family; she had acted as everything but wet nurse to the boy. She hoped for his sake that the Wayne alpha was too set on his prize to turn down the demand of heres substitutus. A child of Tim’s body, given to his parents, set to inherit his maiden name and eventually run the Drake fortune: an old idea, but technically still legal.
10 PM hit. Eithne approached Tim’s wing of the property, her nightly routine.
“Good night, Master Drake,” she called through his bedroom door.
He called back a response, accustomed to the gentle monitoring. Eithne turned back down the hall and in for the night.
She had done everything she could do for her Tim.