The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  The next day, half an hour before the posted opening time, “Madame Victorine” unlocked the shop door, then walked back to the workroom to gather her composure and check her reflection in the mirror. She wore a simple but elegant gown that had belonged to her mentor, Martine, hoping to look the part. It was one of the few gowns in her possession that fastened in the front. That and her wraparound stays allowed her to dress herself. She had taken in the gown quite a bit, but she thought it looked well on her now.

  Poor Martine. She had waited too long to pursue her dream, but her older friend’s death had spurred her to act.

  She smoothed her hair, a plain coiffure without curls or fuss. Professional, or so she hoped. As she did so, she noticed her hand tremble. She took a deep breath, and then another. I can do this. . . . Or can I? She could almost feel her mother’s hands on the sides of her face and hear her warm voice saying “Ma fille, all will be well.”

  She and her mother had dreamed of opening a dressmaking shop together one day. Instead, she was about to open a shop on her own. Oh, Mamma, if only you were here. Out front, she heard a door open and close. Her first customer? Her heart beat hard, as it always did before a performance.

  Mercy and Matilda met Jane at The Bell, and together they walked over to Madame Victorine’s newly opened shop. Outside, Mrs. Prater and the Miss Cooks stood at the dressmaker’s window, gaping and pointing at the fashionable gowns on display.

  “Can you imagine how fine we’d look in those gowns, Char?” Judith Cook murmured dreamily.

  “I doubt we could afford one between us, Judy.”

  “Very true, Miss Cook,” Mrs. Prater said. “But I will be happy to offer you reduced prices on all our fancy goods today. Do stop by.”

  Poor Mrs. Prater, Jane thought. Left with inventory she would now be unable to sell for her usual high profit.

  Inside the shop, they found Justina and Miss Bingley already there, trying on bonnets.

  The interior—including the shelves, counter, long mirror, and chairs—was the same as before. Apparently Mrs. Shabner had let the place fully furnished and the new dressmaker had added nothing of her own, save the gowns themselves.

  Madame Victorine emerged from the back workroom and drew up short at finding so many people in her shop. “My, my. Quite a crowd.” A smile warmed her startled expression. “Welcome, ladies.” She handed Miss Bingley a bonnet with a cluster of artificial fruit adorning it. “Here you are, miss. I added the cherries, as you requested. I thought this pink satin trim would set them off well, if you like.”

  Miss Bingley put the bonnet on and regarded her reflection in the mirror. “Oh yes. Very smart indeed, madame. I shall wear it on Easter next month. Thank you.”

  Matilda spoke up, “It isn’t likely I shall have occasion to purchase the gold-and-blue gown, but might I try it on anyway?”

  “Of course you may, Miss Grove.”

  Jane said, “You have such a fine assortment of model dresses, madame. Are they to demonstrate what you can make?”

  The woman nodded. “I could sew something new, if you prefer. But I am happy to sell these gowns as well. I can alter them to suit.”

  Miss Bingley murmured, “How . . . unusual.”

  “How convenient,” Matilda insisted with a smile.

  Madame Victorine removed the gown from the dress form and led Matilda to the back room to try it on.

  “Do come out when you’re ready,” Justina called after them. “We want to see it on you!”

  While they waited, Jane looked at hats and bonnets.

  Mercy joined her, browsing halfheartedly, and sent Jane a pained look. “I almost hope it does not suit her, for I hate to disappoint either Aunt Matty or our new dressmaker when we fail to buy it.”

  Several minutes later, Matilda emerged, wearing the gold-and-blue gown. It suited her very well indeed, bringing out the color of her eyes and lending vibrancy to her softly lined cheeks.

  “What do you think?” Matilda swayed this way and that, the full skirt swishing over her ankle bones.

  Madame Victorine came out behind her. “I had to pin up the waist, but I could easily take it in.”

  “Is it not too short?” Mercy asked hopefully.

  “Another flounce at the hem would take care of that.”

  “Yes, I suppose that would do it.” Mercy’s eyes shone wistfully. “It is lovely on you, Aunt Matty.”

  “Thank you, my dear. I shall begin saving my pennies. Perhaps I could sell a few cakes.”

  Jane guessed it would take more cakes than Craddock’s sold in a year to pay for such a dress.

  “Oh! And this hat would be perfect with it.” Justina fetched a gold-and-blue hat from the rack and carried it to Matilda, helping to arrange it over her silvery hair.

  “More cakes to make,” Matilda teased.

  She admired her reflection in the shop’s long mirror for a minute, then, with a resolved nod, turned to the dressmaker. “Thank you, Victorine. May I call you that?”

  “Yes, if you like. And the rest of you as well.”

  Matilda removed the hat. “I shall take off these lovely things now, in hopes that someone else might buy them from you very soon. We want you to be successful here, so you stay for many years to come.”

  “You are kind, ma’am.”

  “Matilda. Or Miss Matty, if you like. It is what most of my friends call me.”

  “Thank you . . . Miss Matty.” Victorine smiled almost shyly and helped her out of the dress.

  Justina picked up a long fur tippet from a shelf and draped it around her shoulders. “You have such beautiful things. I should love to have you make a new gown for me.”

  “Thank you. I would be honored to do so.”

  Miss Bingley smirked. “I should warn you, madame, that receiving such a commission would be something of a poisoned chalice. Miss Brockwell’s brother is a baronet, and her mother most exacting.”

  “A baronet. Really . . . ?” Victorine’s eyes shone, though Jane saw her swallow hard.

  “Don’t frighten her off, Miss Bingley,” Justina protested mildly. “Yes, my mother can be fastidious, but Madame Victorine need have nothing to fear. French modistes are much in demand in England. From Paris, I imagine? Mamma cannot disapprove.”

  Oh, but she could, Jane thought, holding her tongue.

  Victorine hesitated. “I . . . have not been to France in years, truth be told. And never to Paris, I’m afraid.”

  “Is that why you haven’t much of an accent?” Miss Bingley asked. “I did wonder.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  Jane admired her honesty. She said, “Where are you from, Victorine, if I may ask?”

  “I was born in France. But for many years now I have lived in England.”

  “Where?”

  “In many places, Mrs. Bell.”

  “Jane,” she insisted.

  “In many places, Jane,” she repeated. “And now I look forward to living in Ivy Hill . . . if all goes well.”

  “I have lived here all my life. Mercy too.” Matilda assured her, “You will love it.”

  Victorine turned to her. “And you, Jane?”

  “I grew up closer to Wishford, just east of here.”

  The dressmaker looked from her to Mercy. “Have you two been friends long?”

  Mercy nodded. “Oh yes, since we were girls.”

  A wistfulness shone in the woman’s eyes. “How wonderful.”

  Jane tilted her head and regarded Victorine more closely. “Have you been to Wishford before?” she asked. “When I first saw you, I thought you looked familiar.”

  “Do I? I don’t recall Wishford, but my family did visit Ivy Hill once, when I was young. But you would not recognize me from then, I don’t think.”

  “Probably not,” Jane agreed. “Especially as I only came to Ivy Hill to visit friends in those days. Ah well, I must be mistaken.”

  Justina brought them back to the subject at hand. “Well, I shan’t mention to Mamma
that you’ve never been to Paris. I don’t care a fig about that, but it won’t help my cause. Have you a card I could give her?”

  “I am afraid not. Not yet.”

  Justina blithely shrugged. “Never mind. I shall bring her to meet you.”

  “Thank you.”

  In the woman’s bright eyes and clasped hands, Jane saw both eagerness and nervousness. A commission from Justina Brockwell, a young lady from Ivy Hill’s most prominent family, was certain to secure her future. Unless she failed to please her affluent customer. And knowing Lady Brockwell, that was a distinct possibility.

  Jane could relate to a fear of failure. She recalled her own worries and struggles when she took over management of The Bell. Hoping to encourage their new dressmaker, Jane decided she would buy something in a show of support. Perhaps one of her lovely bonnets.

  At the next meeting of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society, the conversation revolved around Ivy Hill’s new dressmaker.

  “Has anyone bought anything from her yet?” Mrs. Burlingame asked. “She won’t stay here long if none of us patronize her shop.”

  “Oui, oui! Ooh la la!” Becky Morris exclaimed in an exaggerated French accent, winding a colorful scarf around her neck. “I bought zis just today from Madahm Veectorine.”

  Jane grinned at the comical accent.

  “Can you not fancy me in one of those gowns in the window?” Judith Cook asked wistfully. “I like them all.”

  Her sister nodded. “Me too.”

  Young Miss Featherstone wrinkled her nose. “I looked at the gowns, and they are striking to be sure, but a bit . . . matronly, I thought.”

  Charlotte Cook frowned. “Are you calling us old, Julia?”

  “No. Just more . . . mature . . . in your tastes.”

  “Humph.”

  The laundress, Mrs. Snyder, sighed. “I doubt I could afford anything there, her being French and all.”

  Mercy said, “Jane, you bought something.”

  “Only a bonnet,” Jane demurred. “Though I thought the price very reasonable. Less than Mrs. Shabner would have charged, truth be told.”

  “Really?” Mrs. Snyder’s eyebrows rose. “Then maybe I will stop in tomorrow.”

  “Me too,” Mrs. O’Brien said. “I could use a new pair of gloves.”

  The vicar’s wife spoke up. “Has she hats as well?”

  “Yes, a nice variety.”

  “Then I shall visit her too.”

  “Please do, Mrs. Paley,” Mrs. Barton said. “I have been meaning to say something to you about your old hat.”

  “Bridget!” Mercy exclaimed.

  “What? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. We can’t all have as many fine hats as Mrs. Klein.”

  The piano tuner blushed. “Mr. Klein, God rest his soul, did like seeing me in new hats.”

  The vicar’s wife smiled sardonically at the dairywoman. “Thank you, Bridget. I shall buy a new hat. And if Mr. Paley gives a long sermon on thrift and self-denial, we will have you to thank for it.”

  Several groans went up at that, and Jane hid a chuckle behind her hand. Then she gave her own gloves a second look. Perhaps she could use a new pair as well.

  chapter

  Nine

  Rachel spent the morning in the Ashford Circulating Library, reviewing the accounts and subscriber lists, and giving Anna a few hours leisure, as she did each week.

  Her mother-in-law, Lady Barbara, would have preferred that she wash her hands of the place, but Rachel enjoyed spending time among her father’s books and visiting with some of her favorite patrons.

  The book club gathered to discuss an autobiography, diverting from their usual choice of novels. They read The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano. Equiano was a young African sold into slavery. He traveled the world on several ships, became a skilled sailor, and eventually bought his own freedom. The account of his struggles and suffering brought the women to loud lamentations and even tears. And his conversion to Christianity and efforts to end the slave trade inspired them all.

  When Rachel walked home afterward, she saw her sister on the street ahead of her, looking in the modiste’s window.

  “Something catch your eye, Justina?”

  “I like that hat. I didn’t notice it when I was here before.” She pointed to a blue silk hat with silvery veil and ostrich plume. “But I wonder if it is too matronly for me. What do you think?”

  The jingle of a door opening caught Rachel’s ear. She turned and saw Nicholas Ashford step out of the apothecary shop across the street.

  “There’s Mr. Ashford.” She waved him over.

  With an answering wave, Nicholas waited until a farmer’s cart passed, then crossed the street to them.

  “Hello, Miss Ash . . . That is, Lady Brockwell. Still getting used to that, I’m afraid.”

  Rachel replied, “So am I.”

  He bowed to her companion. “Good day, Miss Brockwell.” A teasing light warmed his eyes. “It is still Miss Brockwell, is it not? Or have you also acquired a new name lately?”

  Justina’s pretty smile faded. “No, not yet.”

  Doubt flickered over his face. “Forgive me. I did not intend to raise an unhappy topic. I was only trying to be amusing—and bumbling it, as usual.”

  “Not at all,” Justina said. “Fear not, Mr. Ashford, I am not pining away for a new surname, though others in my family might do so for me.”

  Dark eyes flashing, she turned away and feigned interest in the window display again.

  To bridge the awkward moment, Rachel asked lightly, “What do you say, Mr. Ashford? Justina likes the blue hat but fears it might be too matronly for her. What do you think?”

  Nicholas glanced at the hats, but his focus quickly returned to Justina’s profile.

  “I think Miss Brockwell would look charming in anything she wore.”

  Justina turned toward him at that, her pique evaporating and replaced with warm interest. “You are too kind, Mr. Ashford.”

  “Not at all, Miss Brockwell.”

  Rachel looked from one to the other, mischief tingling her stomach. Dare she? Lady Barbara would not be pleased. “Mr. Ashford, perhaps you might join us for dinner at Brockwell Court sometime soon? We would enjoy that. Would we not, Justina?”

  “We would, yes.” Justina beamed up at the tall young man, a rosy glow in her cheeks.

  Nicholas held her gaze, then, realizing he was staring, looked down and cleared his throat. “I thank you for the kind invitation and will wait upon you to name a date at your leisure.” He bowed and doffed his hat. “For now, I shall bid you good day, ladies.”

  As he turned and walked away, Justina watched him go, her eyes soft and thoughtful. “There’s something about that young man. His diffidence only makes him more appealing. I . . . believe Miss Bingley admires him.”

  “And you like him as well?”

  Justina turned to her. “My dear sister, are you playing matchmaker?” A dimple appeared in her cheek. “Mamma won’t like that, you know. She does not want anyone interfering with her plans for me.”

  “I am more concerned about what you want, Justina.”

  Tears brightened the young woman’s eyes, but she blinked them away. “I want Mamma to be happy. Is it selfish to wish I might be happy too?”

  “Not in the least.”

  Justina shrugged and lifted her chin. “It’s too late anyway. Mamma is already anticipating the wedding. Just this morning she said, ‘These pastries are delicious. We should serve them at the wedding breakfast.’”

  “But you are not yet engaged to Sir Cyril.”

  “No, but my birthday will soon be here. The days are flying by much too fast.”

  “Justina, if you don’t want to marry him, you need to tell your mother that in no uncertain terms.”

  “I’ve tried, gently. But I hate to disappoint her.” Justina took her arm. “Come. Let’s go home. I want to be there when you tell Mamma you’ve invited a single man to dinner.”

/>   “You stay by my side, then. I shall need reinforcements,” Rachel teased.

  To be fair, Lady Barbara had been kind and gracious to Rachel since she’d joined the family. She’d set aside her former objections to Timothy marrying her, but that did not mean the dowager was ready to relinquish her plans for her daughter’s marriage as well.

  Before Rachel could seek out her mother-in-law, her husband greeted her and asked her to join him in his study.

  “How was the library today, my love?”

  “All seems well. The ladies were enthralled by the autobiography you suggested—except for Mrs. Barton, who complained that it kept her up so long reading that she was late milking her bossies this morning.”

  He grinned.

  “By the way,” she added, “I spoke to Justina on the way home. She does not seem happy about your mother’s plans for her to marry Sir Cyril.”

  “Does she not? She was reticent at first, I know. But I thought she had warmed to the idea of marriage, after our sterling example.” He winked, sliding his arms around Rachel and drawing her close.

  “She might be enamored with the idea of wedding gowns and wedding trips but not with the man himself.”

  “No? Well, there is no hurry for her to decide.”

  “But your mother pressures her. And Justina—like her eldest brother—has always wanted to do the right thing, for the honor of her parents and the Brockwell name.”

  “That is to her credit.”

  “But likely not to her happiness.”

  Timothy kissed her forehead, then lowered his mouth to her cheek. Her ear. “I will talk to her later. Right now, I don’t want to talk about Justina or anyone else. Only you. And me.” He leaned down and kissed Rachel’s lips, turned her to face him more fully, and kissed her again.

  The next day, the three Brockwell women sat together in the morning room. Lady Barbara read the newspaper, Justina flipped through a ladies magazine, and Rachel embroidered.

  When Carville brought in the post on a silver salver, Justina looked up eagerly. “Anything for me, Carville?”

  “I am afraid not, miss.”

  He extended the tray to the other two women in turn. Rachel was pleased to receive another letter from her sister.