The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  “You may. I must stay here and greet the new arrivals, or I would go up with you. I hope you approve, Miss Grove. We’ve made some improvements.”

  “I am sure it will do very well. Thank you.”

  Alice tugged her hand, and Mercy allowed the girl to lead her to the top floor.

  When they arrived, Mercy drew up short at finding a man inside the bedchamber. He turned, and seeing who it was only made her more uncomfortable.

  “Oh. Mr. Kingsley. I . . . did not realize you were up here.”

  “Hello, Miss Grove. Alice.”

  She saw a level on the mantelpiece and his toolbox on the floor nearby. “Don’t tell me Mr. Drake has pulled you from your more important projects to work on my room?”

  “I volunteered.”

  Mercy looked around. The narrow room had mullioned windows at one end overlooking the gabled roof. A single bed, dressing chest, washstand, armchair, and footstool filled the small space. There was no bookcase, however. Oh well, a minor inconvenience. The room was light, pleasant, and thankfully had a fireplace, which would be welcome on cold mornings.

  Alice walked to the window and peered out. “There’s Johnny. He looks so small from up here!” She pushed opened the window and called down to him.

  Mercy walked toward the hearth, studying the carved oak shelf with interest. “This mantelpiece . . . it looks brand new.”

  “It is. Used to be only a plain pine board. I thought something finer was in order.”

  “It’s beautiful, but you needn’t have done that. It’s too fancy for a governess’s room.”

  “Not at all. I doubt this hearth has been used in years. But I’ve laid your first fire, just in case.” He gestured toward the wood, coal, and kindling. “Nights can still be chilly.”

  “Thank you.”

  He pointed to a mirror hung on the wall. “I found this mirror in the storage room. Thought it might come in handy for combing your hair and whatnot.”

  Mercy was not especially fond of mirrors herself, but she dutifully thanked him anyway. Catching a glimpse of her reflection, she self-consciously smoothed a loose strand of hair.

  “Johnny!” Alice called again. “I’m up here!” She stuck her hand out the window and waved.

  “Alice,” Mercy said mildly, “perhaps we ought not shout from windows, hmm?”

  Mr. Kingsley took a step nearer and lowered his voice. “I was surprised to learn you’d taken a position here. But knowing how you feel about Alice, I suppose I shouldn’t have been.”

  Mercy felt her defenses rise. “You disapprove?”

  “Of course not. Why would I? I’ll see more of you, working here so much as I do.”

  “That is not why I took the position.”

  He frowned. “Of course not. I would never think that.”

  Alice closed the window and turned to them. “Is it not wonderful, Mr. Kingsley? Miss Grove is to be my governess! Now we shall see her every day.”

  He regarded Mercy soberly. “I hope she will be very happy here.”

  Mercy looked away. Seeing Mr. Kingsley more often might once have been a thrilling prospect. Now it would only serve to remind her of her disappointment. She would do her best to forget about him, romantically speaking. After all, they both worked for Mr. Drake now. She would treat him with the detached politeness of a colleague and nothing more.

  Mercy drew herself up. “Come, Alice. Let’s let Mr. Kingsley get back to work. I am sure he has many important things to do elsewhere in the hotel.”

  He recoiled in apparent surprise, then said, “Pardon me; I will trespass no longer.”

  He swiped up his tools, turned, and strode from the room. Mercy watched him go, stomach filled with regret. She had not meant to hurt his feelings, but that was exactly what she’d done.

  Jane sat on the front steps of the innkeeper’s lodge, petting the stable cat, Kipper, that she’d adopted as a pet. Her father alighted from an arriving coach and walked across the courtyard toward her, face sober.

  “Morning, Papa. My offer of a room here still stands, you know. Then you wouldn’t have to take the stage or hire a fly every time you wanted to visit.”

  His expression remained fixed as though she’d not spoken. “Jane, there is something we need to talk about.”

  “Of course, Papa.” She noticed his pale face. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes, except guilt has been plaguing me. I should have told you from the start.”

  “Told me what? Papa, what is it? Come and sit down.” She patted the step beside her.

  He sat down heavily, surprisingly winded from the short walk.

  “Now tell me.”

  He nodded. “You asked me if Rani and I were blessed with children.”

  “Yes?”

  “As I said, we didn’t expect to have any. She was past forty, so we thought it unlikely. But we . . . did have a child.” He looked at Jane, then away, worrying his lip.

  Jane’s heart hammered. She had a half brother or sister in India? Or had the child died shortly after birth, as so many did? Is that what he was trying to tell her? She drew in a shaky breath and asked tentatively, “Did the child live?”

  He slowly nodded. “He did.”

  “He? You had a son, Papa? As you long hoped you would?”

  He nodded. Pulling at a chain around his neck, he fished out a locket from beneath his shirt. He opened it and withdrew a small ribbon-bound lock of black hair. Jane saw that each half of the locket held a miniature portrait: an old one of Jane herself, and the other of a dark-haired, dark-skinned woman. Before she could feel touched by this evidence that he had carried her portrait with him all these years, her eyes fastened on the second image and all other thoughts fled. How strange to think of her father married to such an exotic-looking woman, so different from Jane’s mother or Jane herself. This would have been her stepmother, had she lived. Jane supposed, in a way, she still was.

  “This is Rani. Painted around the time of our wedding.” He lifted the ribbon-bound hair. “And this is a lock of our son’s hair from his first haircut.”

  Jane reached out and gingerly stroked the curl. “How dark it is,” she said in awe. “How thick!”

  He nodded and returned the hair to the locket, snapping shut the two halves. “Not as dark or as thick as Rani’s, but just as beautiful.”

  Jane swallowed. “Where is the child now?”

  He avoided her eyes. “With Rani gone, my heart was no longer in India. But I hesitated to bring the child back with me. How would he be received? Not well, I imagined. Here in England, we are not so accepting of people with darker skin and foreign-sounding names and ways. That prejudice alone I could have borne and done my best to shield him from . . .” He sent her a sidelong glance. “But then there was you to consider.”

  “Me?”

  “Come, Jane. How would you have felt had I shown up in Ivy Hill with a mixed-blood child—not a servant, but a son?”

  “I hardly know, Papa. But please tell me you did not leave behind another of your offspring to cross the ocean again? Do you think life would be so difficult for him here? That people would be cruel?”

  “You tell me. Do you really believe people in Ivy Hill and Wishford would accept a dark-skinned child?”

  “I am not sure about Wishford, but I think people in Ivy Hill would. I know Mercy would. And Miss Matty.”

  “And you?” he pressed. “How would you have reacted had I returned with your brown half brother?”

  Brother . . . The word banged around her heart. “I would have been shocked, of course. But I would not have rejected him. Nor you, because of him.”

  “You rejected me because of his mother,” he quietly reminded her.

  Jane shook her head. “Not because of who she was. Because the choices you made and the way you made them hurt me. But he is an innocent child.”

  He looked down, distractedly scratching Kipper’s ears. “I was worried when Rani became with child at her age. Not only f
or her health, but because I found the prospect daunting. I knew I had not been a perfect parent the first time around. I had thought I might enjoy being a grandfather someday, but . . .”

  Jane shook her head, the old pain returning. “I am sorry I cannot oblige you, Papa. I am not able to carry a child to term.”

  He flinched. “I am sorry, Jane. I had no intention of raising a sad subject. I was not certain, of course, but I assumed that if you’d had a child, you would have written to me to announce that news, if nothing else.”

  “Yes, I would have.” Eager to change the subject, Jane said, “You still haven’t answered my question, Papa. Where is the boy now? How old is he? What is his name?”

  “Timothy!” Her father pushed himself to his feet, a smile breaking over his tanned face. Jane turned and saw Sir Timothy crossing the street toward them, an answering smile lighting his handsome countenance.

  “Good day, Mr. Fairmont. I heard you were back and had to come and see for myself.”

  The two men shook hands, and Jane’s father clapped the younger man’s back.

  “Yes, here I am, alive and well. Well enough, at any rate, and delighted to see you.”

  Timothy added, “As you have not yet called on us, I have come with specific instructions from Mamma to bring you back with me to Brockwell Court. She wants to hear all about your adventures.” Timothy looked from him to Jane. “But if I am interrupting . . . ?”

  Jane opened her mouth to reply, but her father answered before she could. “Not a bit of it. Of course I’ll come. By the way, I was sorry to hear your father passed on. I hope your mother is in good health?”

  “Indeed she is, sir.”

  “And you are newly married, I understand. To Sir William’s youngest, no less. I am very happy for you both.”

  “Thank you.” Timothy turned to her. “Jane, will you join us, or are you busy?”

  “You two go ahead. But do greet Rachel and your mother for me.”

  “I shall.”

  Sir Timothy led her father away toward Brockwell Court as the two men continued to talk.

  Jane’s unanswered questions would have to wait.

  chapter

  Nineteen

  The next morning dawned bright and sunny. Mercy rose eagerly, looking forward to the first day of her new life in her new home. She stepped to the window and pushed it open to enjoy the sweet spring breeze while she dressed and pinned her hair. Voices reached her from below, drawing her back to the window in idle curiosity. Down in the stable yard, she saw Mr. Kingsley talking to pretty Esther Dudman again. Her heart sank. What was she doing there? Joseph laughed at something she said and smiled at her, and his smile stole Mercy’s breath.

  She turned away, determined to get on with her day. She would not waste time mooning like a love-sick calf over a man who clearly admired someone else. She wouldn’t.

  A short while later, Mercy and Alice breakfasted together in the schoolroom. The room was spacious and tidy, with an old desk, bookshelf, table, and chairs. In one corner stood an ornate puppet theatre that looked brand-new. Noticing her looking at it, Alice said, “Mr. Kingsley made that for me. Is it not wonderful?”

  “It is, indeed,” she murmured, impressed despite herself. Then she pushed the man from her mind again and began their first lesson.

  Midmorning, Mercy gave Alice half an hour respite. The girl was no longer used to sitting still for long periods and had quickly grown restless. Her focus would improve in time, Mercy was sure. But for now, she encouraged her pupil to go outside and take some fresh air. Alice eagerly agreed and dashed downstairs. Mercy, meanwhile, followed at a more sedate pace, heading toward the kitchen to find a second cup of tea.

  Mr. Kingsley passed by with a saw and piece of trim. “Good morning, Miss Grove.”

  “Mr. Kingsley,” she acknowledged politely, but did not stop to talk.

  He paused, then turned back to her. “Miss Grove . . . have I done something to offend you?”

  Mercy hesitated. It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “No, nothing,” and walk away. But she longed to know the truth.

  She took a deep breath and stepped nearer. “I realize we had a . . . friendly . . . relationship when you volunteered at Ivy Cottage,” she quietly began, “but now that we are both in Mr. Drake’s employ, I feel a little professional distance might be a good idea.”

  He studied her, a slight frown creasing his forehead. “Why?”

  She endeavored to keep her voice even. “I would not want anyone to misunderstand our relationship.” She added to herself, Me, most of all. “After all, you did tell me that Esther is more than a friend to you, that she is practically one of the family.”

  His brow cleared. “She is. She is my sister-in-law.”

  “Oh?” Mercy blinked in disbelief. “Which of your brothers is she married to?”

  “She is not married . . . yet. She is my wife’s sister.”

  Mercy stared at him. “Your wife’s sister?”

  He nodded.

  “Oh,” Mercy murmured, embarrassment singeing her cheeks. She swallowed a guilty lump and acknowledged, “She is . . . quite beautiful.”

  “Yes. And very like Naomi.” He winced, running a hand through his hair. “When I look at her . . .” Emotions washed over his face, but he shook his head and said no more.

  Mercy felt a momentary stab of jealousy to hear him praise the woman’s beauty. But then she recognized the pain in his shadowed expression, and her petty feelings deepened into concern. She said gently, “I imagine it helps her to see you as well. Someone else who remembers and loved her sister.”

  He glanced up at her from beneath a fall of sandy-brown hair, and for several moments their gazes held. “You know, you may be right.”

  Mercy added, “Perhaps that is why she comes all this way to visit.”

  He glanced away and said, “Oh, I think there is more to it than that.”

  “Oh?” What did he mean? Mercy wondered. Did he have feelings for her, and her for him, in-laws or not?

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again, thinking the better of whatever he’d been about to say. “I hope you will forgive me, Miss Grove. I find it difficult to talk about my wife, but I should have told you who Esther was earlier.”

  “Yes, I wish you would have. Well. Thank you for explaining now.”

  He gave her a tentative smile. “We are all right then, you and I?”

  “Yes, we are.” Mercy returned his smile and walked away, her step suddenly lighter. A dozen more questions circled through her mind, but she decided she had enough answers for the time being.

  When her father did not return to Ivy Hill the next morning, Jane asked Ted to harness a horse to the gig, determined to travel the few miles to him.

  Reaching the Wilton inn shortly before noon, she approached the booking desk and asked the innkeeper where she might find Winston Fairmont. The man’s gaze skimmed over her and, apparently deciding she looked respectable, said, “Number three. He has a gentleman visiting at present. But there’s a bench in the passage if you’d like to wait.”

  Jane thanked him and took herself upstairs, pausing when she reached the landing.

  A little boy, perhaps five years old, sat alone on the bench, swinging his feet. In one hand he cradled a leather ball. In the other, a biscuit. His skin was a beautiful shade of generously creamed coffee. He wore a collarless shirt of unbleached linen and loose cotton trousers.

  Hearing her footfalls, he glanced in her direction, then quickly away again. But not before she saw his eyes—large, dark, and beautiful. Jane’s heart began beating a little faster.

  “Good day.” She stepped nearer and asked quietly, “What are you doing out here all alone? Are you lost?”

  He shook his head. “Waiting.”

  “My name is Mrs. Bell. May I know your name?”

  He kept his shy gaze on his toy. “Jack Avi.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Jack Avi. Whom are you waiting for?”


  He shrugged. “Bapu.”

  She twisted her gloved hands. “And where is your . . . bapu?”

  The boy pointed across the passage to a closed door marked 3. Of course.

  Jane sat on the bench. Just to be sure, she clarified, “Mr. Fairmont is your papa?”

  “Um-hm.”

  Jane’s throat tightened. “He is my papa too.”

  The boy looked at her directly then, his big breathtaking eyes fastened on hers.

  He lost his grip on his ball, and it rolled away. He hopped down after it and scooped it up. Returning to the bench, he inadvertently laid a hand on hers as he wriggled himself back into position beside her. He left his hand there.

  Jane’s heart squeezed. “May I wait with you?”

  He nodded and offered her a bite of his half-eaten biscuit.

  The door next to her father’s creaked open, and a woman’s dark face appeared, her eyes lined with kohl, bangles on her wrists. She was draped in a colorful flowing tunic as exotic as her looks.

  “Jack Avi,” the woman called in an accented voice, gesturing the boy toward her.

  “Who is she?” Jane whispered.

  “My ayah.”

  “Ayah?”

  “Nars . . . ?” He scrunched his face, searching for the right English word. “My nurse.”

  “Oh!” Jane should have guessed. Her father would not have left the boy unattended when he visited Ivy Hill alone.

  The boy hopped down again, responding to the summons, and disappeared within the room. The woman closed the door behind him.

  For a few moments, Jane sat there alone, her heart rate slowly returning to normal. Then her father’s door opened and Dr. Burton stepped out.

  “Oh, Mrs. Bell. A pleasure to see you again. Your father did not mention you were expected.”

  She rose. “He did not know. I just came over to visit him. Is he well?”

  Her father appeared in the threshold, cravat missing but otherwise fully dressed. He waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, Burton here was just giving us all a once-over. Checking for insidious foreign fevers under every bush. Man is a nervous mother hen. We are all perfectly well. Hello, Jane. What a nice surprise.”