The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  “You are all generosity, my dear,” Helena said. “And when you write to your father, remind him the household allowance still needs to be increased as well.”

  Mercy said, “There is no need to ask for more money on my account. With me taking my meals at the Fairmont, there will be one less mouth to feed here, which will help with household expenses.” Hoping to dispel the tension, Mercy joked, “The savings in candles alone from all my late-night reading should save you a small fortune!”

  Neither of them smiled.

  “Mercy, I must ask you to reconsider,” George said. “As your only male relative currently present, I think I have some say in the matter.”

  Irritation flashed. “George, I am one and thirty years old. I have managed a household and school and made my own decisions for more than a decade now. I am also capable of making this decision. I don’t make it to hurt or embarrass anyone. I make it because I believe it is the right choice for me at this time in my life. I will be happier, and I think the two of you will be happier as well.”

  Helena twisted her hands, casting about for another argument. “Mr. Drake is an unmarried man, is he not? What will people say?”

  George replied, “I wouldn’t worry on that score, my dear. I hear only good reports of Mr. Drake, except perhaps that he isn’t much of a churchgoer. I understand the girl is the orphaned daughter of friends of his and he plans to raise her as his own. Nothing untoward in that.”

  It was what most people thought, and as it was to Alice’s benefit, Mercy would not contradict it.

  “There is nothing between the two of you, I assume?” her brother asked.

  “Of course not,” Helena murmured.

  Mercy hesitated only a second. “No.”

  Mr. Drake had been friendly to her, yes, but there was nothing romantic in his behavior toward her.

  “What about Aunt Matilda?” George asked. “You would leave her?”

  How unfair to bring up her beloved aunt. Oh, that I could take her with me.

  “I will miss her, of course. But I will see her at church every week. Good heavens, I am only going to the Fairmont!”

  Indignation mottled Helena’s pale complexion. “If you insist on doing this, I trust you will take full responsibility for your decision and not let anyone believe we drove you to it? For we shall certainly tell everyone you chose this course without our approval or compunction.”

  “I will,” Mercy replied. She had no intention of blaming anyone. What people concluded on their own was beyond her control.

  Rachel, Justina, and Lady Barbara returned to Madame Victorine’s to see the drawings of the proposed gown. When they arrived, Rachel looked once again at the gowns displayed in the window. As much as she wanted to support their new dressmaker, she had acquired a whole new trousseau just before her wedding and could not justify another dress. She turned to her mother-in-law. “Lady Barbara, this emerald gown would suit you very well. Perhaps for the house party?”

  The dowager paused to look at it. “It is lovely, I own. But I have no need of a new dress. You will be the hostess for the party, Rachel.”

  Rachel studied her face and was relieved to see no resentment in her expression.

  When they entered the shop, the dressmaker spread a series of sketches across her worktable. She had drawn not only the gown, but also Justina in it. She included full-length front, back, and side views, as well as inset drawings of some of the details close up, like the bodice, sleeves, and neckline.

  “Mamma!” Justina exclaimed. “It looks just like me! Well done, madame. You are quite the artist.”

  “Thank you. I enjoyed drawing these, but they are merely sketches, to help me better understand what you have in mind and give you options to choose from.”

  Victorine pushed a page forward. “For example, you mentioned an Anglo-Greek bodice, but I wonder if it will lend an unnatural breadth to the chest. Might this Gallo-Greek bodice be more to your liking? It will accent your slender waist.”

  “Yes, I see your point. I do like this one.”

  “And here are the puff sleeves you requested.”

  “Very nice.”

  “And a back view . . .”

  Lady Barbara lifted her quizzing glass to inspect the drawing of the back of the gown more closely. “I am confused about the detailed drawing here. You propose ties for the waist and bodice closure?”

  “Yes. Would not ties be the most convenient? The quickest way to dress and undress?”

  “I hope you are not suggesting my daughter will have need to disrobe quickly, madame.”

  “No! Heavens, no.”

  “My daughter will have a lady’s maid and has no need of ease or convenience when dressing or undressing, I assure you. Old-fashioned lacing, tiny buttons, pins . . . all of these are perfectly appropriate for her station in life.”

  “Of course, my lady. I do apologize. I will make the necessary adjustments.”

  The shop door opened, and Mrs. Barton, the dairywoman, entered.

  Victorine said, “I shall be with you shortly, Mrs. Barton.”

  “No hurry; just looking.”

  On her heels, a second woman entered. Rachel had seen her pointed out in passing and knew she was lady’s maid to the new Mrs. Grove.

  The maid began speaking to the dressmaker in rapid-fire French.

  Victorine held up her palm. “Je regrette, mademoiselle. Pouvez-vous parler plus lentement, s’il vous plaît?”

  Rachel knew enough French to understand the gist of Victorine’s request: I’m sorry. Please speak more slowly.

  The smaller woman threw up her hands. “J’ai pensé que vous étiez française!”

  I thought you were French!

  “Ma mère, oui. Mais je parle rarement français maintenant.”

  My mother yes, but I rarely speak French now.

  “Dommage.” The French woman huffed, then switched to accented English. “Too bad. I have zis list from my mistress, Madame George Grove. Stockings and such. I shall leave it with you. You deliver, I trust?”

  “Yes, if you like.”

  The woman turned on her heel and swiftly exited. “Au revoir.”

  When the door closed behind her, Lady Barbara said, “You did not understand that woman?”

  Victorine rocked her hand from side to side. “Some. She spoke too quickly. I’m afraid I don’t speak French very often anymore, since my mother passed on.”

  “And your father?”

  “An Englishman.”

  “I did not realize.” Lady Barbara frowned. “You are not from France?”

  “I was born there but have lived in England most of my life. Is that a problem?”

  “I suppose not. Perhaps a disappointment, when one thinks one is viewing fashions popular in Paris, only to learn one’s modiste has not been to France in years.”

  “You are welcome to take your custom elsewhere, my lady, if you like. I will understand completely.”

  “No, Mamma,” Justina interjected. “If I marry, I want Victorine to make my dress.”

  Lady Barbara looked again at the sketches. “Very well. If she can sew half as well as she draws, it should be a lovely gown.”

  chapter

  Eighteen

  Mercy and her aunt went to that night’s gathering of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society together. Mercy wasn’t sure she would be able to attend meetings once she began working as a governess, so she was determined to enjoy this one.

  She considered how best to frame her news. She wanted the women to hear it from her, to see it as a good thing and not feel sorry for her. But before she could form the words, Mrs. Barton launched into another topic.

  “Such a disappointing discovery. Remember how excited we were to have a French dressmaker in Ivy Hill?”

  “Yes . . . ?” Mercy glanced at Jane across the room. Beside her, Aunt Matty dug an elbow into her side. Preoccupied as they had been with Winston Fairmont’s return and Mercy’s move, they had let the issue of the
look-alike gown drop.

  Bridget continued, “I happened to be in the shop when your sister-in-law’s maid came in. Hortaahhnse, something or other. On an errand for her mistress. Well, she tried to converse with the dressmaker in French, but Victorine couldn’t make out half of what she said. It turns out she hasn’t been to France in years. And her father is a plain old Englishman.”

  “Yes, I know,” Mercy replied. “She told us that weeks ago.”

  Undeterred, Bridget went on. “We did wonder why she would settle in our little hamlet, and now we have our answer. Probably driven out of some other place as an imposter. Madame Victorine, indeed. She likely has no idea what is truly fashionable.”

  “And you do, Bridget?” Charlotte Cook tartly asked. “I did not realize you were a fashion connoisseur. Learned that from your prized cows, did you?”

  Mrs. Barton lifted her chin. “If you must know, I am one of the most frequent patrons at the Ashford Circulating Library. I read not only books but all the ladies magazines with their fashion prints as well. I know more than you do, Charlotte Cook, with your lace thirty years out of style.”

  Charlotte gasped. “You take that back!”

  “Lace is classic!” her sister, Judith, protested, face crumpling. “It never goes out of style.”

  “Your lips to God’s ear, Judy,” Charlotte breathed, and the two Miss Cooks clasped hands in solidarity.

  “Ladies! Ladies,” Mercy soothed. “Let us not devolve into insults and arguments. It isn’t like us.”

  Mrs. O’Brien asked, “What has Mrs. Shabner to say about our new dressmaker?”

  Matilda spoke up. “I don’t believe she has visited the shop, as she didn’t want to intrude. But I could ask her to take a look, if it would make everyone feel better about Victorine’s skills.”

  Bridget humphed. “It’s not only her skills I’m questioning. She’s so secretive-like when you ask her where she came from or anything about her family.”

  Mrs. Klein nodded and said apologetically, “I’m afraid I agree with Bridget. And she isn’t that much more forthcoming when you ask about the dresses in her window. She doesn’t seem very familiar with the fabrics used or details of their construction. In fact, I almost don’t believe she made them.”

  “Oh, come now,” Becky Morris defended. “If she didn’t make them, where did they come from?”

  That was the question. Noticing Jane trying to signal her, Mercy interrupted, “Ladies, we are not here to gossip or to judge anyone on hearsay and supposition. Let us give Victorine the benefit of the doubt. Now, moving along, I have some news of my own to share . . .” Mercy went on to announce her new position. The women reacted with a mixture of surprise, pity, and halfhearted congratulations, but at least the topic of Victorine’s gowns was forgotten. For the moment, at any rate.

  The next morning, Mercy, Jane, and Matilda visited the dressmaker’s shop together.

  Mercy began, “Good day, Victorine.”

  “Good day, ladies. I have not seen you since you returned from London. How was your trip?”

  “We enjoyed ourselves. And Auntie’s gown drew a great deal of notice.”

  “I am glad to hear it.”

  With a tentative glance at Mercy, Matilda said, “Yes. In fact, one night at the theatre a woman wore a dress almost exactly like it, even down to the lining. She was most adamant that it had been made by someone named Madame Roland. Although, in the end, she allowed that perhaps it was just a coincidence.”

  A stillness settled over Victorine, her pupils widening and nostrils quivering, reminding Mercy of a cornered hare.

  Victorine slowly shook her head. “I am not personally acquainted with anyone named Roland.”

  Jane offered, “Are not many dresses made from the same pattern or fashion plate . . . ? Might that explain the identical dress?”

  “I believe so,” Victorine murmured. “I never claimed the design originated with me.”

  For a moment longer, the three of them stood there, hands clasped awkwardly, looking at Victorine. If they expected some revealing confession, they were to be disappointed.

  “Was there anything else, ladies?” Victorine opened the door for them. “If not, I thank you for your call.”

  When the door shut behind the women, guilt swamped Victorine. Should she have told them the truth—that she had not made Miss Matty’s gown, nor the others in the window? Instead, fear had closed her lips. Even now, second-guessing herself, she struggled to think of a way to explain it without giving away her past, without revealing where she and Martine had worked together.

  The thought of Martine brought an ache to her chest. Martine had become a second mother to her after her own mamma died. To lose them both like that, and her sister too . . . She pressed a hand to her throbbing heart.

  After Martine passed away so unexpectedly, her husband, Pierre, had given her the gowns, insisting she take them. “Martine would have wanted it,” he said. “Use them to start your own shop, as you and your mère once hoped to do. That way, Martine will be a part of it as well, in a small way. And something good will come from this horrid loss.”

  And so she had accepted them and determined to set out her shingle as a dressmaker. What else could she do with two trunks full of gowns and things that did not fit her and were styled for an older woman? Besides, if her younger sister could create a new life for herself, then so could she. She had decided she must at least try.

  But she had told the ladies none of this. She knew people would not want to engage someone with her background to make a fine gown. So she resolved to keep her past secret. At least for now.

  A silent Mr. Basu helped Mercy move, carrying down her small trunk, valise, books, and bandboxes. Mrs. Burlingame waited outside with her cart. Mr. Drake had offered to send a carriage from the hotel, but Mercy declined. She would feel less self-conscious riding through the village with her friend the carter.

  When all was loaded, Matilda, Mrs. Timmons, Agnes, and Mr. Basu came outside to bid her farewell. Mr. Basu bowed low, his solemn eyes communicating more respect than words could have. Mrs. Timmons thrust a cloth-wrapped pudding into her hand and then wiped her eyes on her apron.

  “We shall miss you, my dear.” She lowered her voice. “I’m too old to make a change, but if you hear of anything for Mr. Basu, let us know, won’t you? She wants him to start wearing livery. I think it will kill him.”

  Mercy nodded. “I shall.”

  Agnes embraced her. “God bless you, Miss Grove. You will come back and visit us, I hope?”

  “Of course I will.”

  Aunt Matty walked with her to the cart, arm in arm.

  “Am I doing the right thing?” Mercy whispered.

  “You are.”

  Mercy implored, “Tell me you shall be all right.”

  “I shall be all right.”

  At the gate, Matilda halted. She bracketed Mercy’s shoulders with determined hands and looked her full in the face. “And so shall you be, Mercy Grove.” She squeezed all the confidence and affection into her niece she could muster, then released her, eyes bright with unshed tears.

  “I will see you on Sunday,” Mercy reminded her.

  Aunt Matty pressed her lips together to stop their trembling and silently nodded, sending a tear down each cheek.

  Alice and Mr. Drake were waiting in the Fairmont hall to greet Mercy when she arrived. He introduced her to Mrs. Callard, the housekeeper, who in turn introduced her to the rest of the household: chef, kitchen maids and chambermaids, clerk, porter, waiters, potboy, and boot boy.

  Mercy concentrated during the introductions, trying to remember every name. She glimpsed Joseph Kingsley crossing the hall with his toolbox, and he paused, raising a hand in greeting. Determined to guard her heart, she nodded in his direction but did not wave or smile back. Instead, she quickly returned her attention to the housekeeper as she explained the daily schedule.

  “Mr. Drake suggests that you and Miss Alice take breakfast together i
n the schoolroom and have your other meals with him in the coffee room.”

  Mr. Drake interjected, “If that is agreeable, Miss Grove? I rise early and often make do with coffee, but I would enjoy your company later in the day.”

  “Whatever you think best. I don’t mind eating my other meals alone, if you prefer.”

  “Not at all. I would like to hear how Alice’s studies progress.”

  “Of course.”

  Did the others think it strange that their master wished to take meals with the governess? Mercy was glad to see no censure in their expressions.

  Horse hooves and the jingle of harnesses heralded the arrival of a customer, and Mr. Drake stepped to the window as a grand post chaise arrived, flanked by two outriders. Alice skipped after him.

  Mrs. Callard dismissed the assembled servants, who hurried off to return to their duties or meet the chaise.

  Mercy asked the older woman, “Mrs. Callard, were you not housekeeper when the Fairmonts lived here?”

  “Indeed I was. Good of you to remember.”

  Mercy’s gaze swept the compact, tidy woman. She had dark hair with only a few strands of silver and a remarkably smooth face. “How is it you have not aged a day in all these years?”

  “Kind of you to say so, miss, however untrue. I will ask Theo to deliver your baggage up to your room as soon as he’s seen to the chaise. And one of the maids, Iris, will help you dress. Anything else you need, just let me know.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Callard.”

  The housekeeper began to turn away, then paused to add, “It will be good for Alice to have you here, Miss Grove. The sweet child is lonely, I think. Everyone is kind to her, don’t mistake me, but we are all busy with our work.”

  Mercy smiled. “I will keep her happily occupied with studies for several hours each day, though she will still have time to wander and play. And to spend with Mr. Drake, of course.”

  The woman nodded approvingly. “As it should be.”

  Alice hurried back to Mercy’s side. “Come up and see your room,” the girl enthused. She then turned to Mr. Drake, who was still standing at the window. “May I show her?”