The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  The tall man made a comical face and knelt behind the theatre.

  Supplementing the four puppets with a mismatched collection of dolls, Alice began her own adaptation of Perrault’s Cendrillon, performing all the female roles: stepmother, sisters, fairy godmother, and Cinderella, while Joseph dutifully manipulated and voiced the prince.

  “I am very much in love with the beautiful person who owns this little slipper,” said he, reading from Alice’s script. “I proclaim throughout the land that I shall marry her whose foot this slipper fits. . . .”

  He was no great actor, but Mercy enjoyed listening to his deep, masculine voice anyway.

  When they finished, Mercy clapped appreciatively.

  Alice popped up and bobbed a curtsy. Joseph Kingsley rose more slowly, his knees cracking. He gave a sheepish little bow. “And now I really must get to work.”

  Mercy was sorry to see him go. “Thank you again for the wall slate, Mr. Kingsley,” she said. “And for performing the part of the prince so admirably.”

  “If you are pleased, then it was worth the mortification.”

  She smiled at him. “I am indeed.”

  Jane’s father brought Jack Avi to The Bell that afternoon. He needed to go to Wishford to see his lawyer, Mr. Coine, so Jane took Jack Avi out to Lane’s Farm. She had already broken the news to Gabriel but was eager for the two to become acquainted. She also planned to take her brother to Angel Farm to meet Thora and Talbot.

  When they arrived, Jane helped the boy down as Gabriel limped over to the gig, leaning on his stick.

  Jane said, “Gabriel Locke, may I introduce Jack Avi Fairmont. My brother.” How strangely wonderful to say the words!

  Gabriel sank to his haunches before the boy. “Hello, Jack Avi. I am very happy to meet you.”

  “Gabriel . . . like the angel?” Jack Avi asked.

  “I can claim no similarities to an angel, I’m afraid.”

  Seeing confusion cloud his little brow, Gabriel amended, “Yes, like the angel. Though some people call me Gable, which you would be welcome to do, if you like.” He held out his hand to the boy.

  “Gable.” The boy grasped his large hand and lifted it up and down. “I shake you like an Englishman.”

  Gabriel grinned and asked, “And how would you greet me were we in India?”

  The boy pressed his palms together and bowed. “But we are not in India, Bapu says. Now we are Englishmen.”

  “Father wants Jack Avi to be accepted here,” Jane explained. “Hence the new suit of clothes.”

  “Very smart. You look like a little country squire.”

  The boy straightened the buttons and grasped the lapels of the small wool coat. “It is good, yes?”

  “You look very handsome,” Jane agreed, running a hand over his thick black hair.

  The boy looked at Gabriel again. “You are my sister’s husband?”

  “I hope to have that honor very soon now, yes.”

  “Then you like this.” Jack Avi lifted the chain around his neck and opened a locket very much like his father’s. He held it near Gabriel’s face. “You see? My didi, Jane. And my maaji.”

  “I do see. Two beautiful women. So you had seen Jane before you ever met her in person?”

  “Yes.” Jack Avi nodded, then added matter-of-factly, “My maaji died.”

  “I know. I am sorry.”

  Gabriel shared a look with Jane, then he rose to his feet. “Jack Avi, have you ever ridden a horse?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Would you like to learn?”

  He nodded vigorously, dark eyes wide. “You have a horse?”

  Gabriel chuckled. “That I do.”

  He pointed to Gabriel’s cane. “Did you hurt yourself riding one?”

  “Um, yes, actually.”

  “Then maybe Didi should teach me instead.”

  Jane was afraid Gabriel might be offended, but he laughed out loud. “You are a very clever boy, and no doubt right.”

  He ruffled her brother’s hair. “For now, though, there is a pony I would like you to meet.”

  The boy smiled. “Yes, please, Gable, sir.”

  Mr. Drake and Alice were in the habit of spending an hour together before dinner. Having some time to herself, Mercy picked up a discarded newspaper in the sitting room and sat down to read it. Mr. Drake had left his office door open, and through it she could see the two seated across from one another. Alice sat swinging her legs, her little slippered feet rising up and down, trying to contain herself as she waited for him to finish something he was writing, his brow furrowed in concentration, quill scratching away.

  Apparently unable to wait any longer, Alice said, “Miss Grove has me learning all the monarchs of England. Shall I recite them for you?”

  “Excellent. But perhaps later, Alice. All right?”

  She nodded. “The kittens have grown so much already. Would you like to come out and see them?”

  “I would, but I have to finish this order and get it into the post.”

  Alice said, “I had a bad dream last night. A fox came and devoured all the kittens. I was ever so glad to awaken and discover it was just a dream. I don’t suppose I could keep the kittens in my room?”

  “I’m afraid not, Alice. It is a hotel, after all, and not everyone likes cats.”

  “Really? I can’t imagine anyone not liking cats! That reminds me. Mr. Kingsley told me a funny story called The King of the Cats. Have you heard it?”

  “I believe I have, yes. A long time ago.”

  “Oh.”

  The little legs slowed, then ceased swinging all together. “All right if I go outside?”

  “Hm? Yes, if you like. But I thought we were going to play chess . . . ?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe later?”

  “Very well.” He watched her go, setting down his pen at last. Noticing Mercy in the sitting room, he expelled a heavy sigh and gestured for her to join him.

  As she approached, he groaned. “I know, I should have given her my undivided attention. But good heavens, Miss Grove, the girl does talk a great deal.”

  Mercy nodded and said gently, “Yes, in my experience females have more to say than males. It would be a gift to actually listen.”

  His lips thinned. “I do sometimes have work to do, Mercy,” he said. “And a business or two to manage.”

  “Of course you do. I wasn’t suggesting you need to be constantly at Alice’s beck and call. But I had thought you set aside this time before dinner to spend with her?”

  “I had, but business got in the way.”

  “I understand. But when you look her in the eyes and listen to her, it proves that what she thinks and says and worries about is important to you.”

  He sighed again. “And now I have guilt. Thank you.”

  Mercy looked down. “Forgive me. I did not mean to lecture or interfere. It is not my place. I am not a parent, after all.”

  “No, Mercy, forgive me. I really do appreciate your advice and your listening to me.” His gaze returned to his work, but he looked up at her again. “Was there something else you wanted?”

  She bit her lip, then grinned. “Later. For now, I shall have mercy on your poor, overworked ears.”

  The next day being warm and sunny, Mercy and Alice went outside for another stroll through the gardens. Botany book in hand, Mercy pointed out various species of birds and plants as they walked. “There’s a swallow flying past. And there’s a painted lady butterfly on the blackthorn bush, the one with all the white blossoms. And see that small purple blossom? That’s a pasqueflower.”

  Alice asked, “Do you have a favorite flower, Miss Grove?”

  “It would be hard to say. I like so many. But I suppose this time of year, I like lily of the valley best. They grow along the garden wall at Ivy Cottage.”

  A flash of movement caught Mercy’s eye, and she glanced over. A tall man and a petite woman were sitting beneath the sweet chestnut tree between the garden wall and stables. The man
turned and pointed at something in the distance, and Mercy clearly saw his face. Joseph Kingsley.

  The woman held a basket. She lifted its cover and offered it to him. Mercy could hear her soft feminine voice and the lower rumble of Joseph’s reply, though she could not distinguish the words themselves.

  “Who is that with Mr. Kingsley?” Alice asked.

  Mercy kept her voice neutral. “His sister-in-law, Esther.”

  “Looks like they are having a picnic. Shall we join them?”

  “No, my dear, we’ve not been invited. But it is a perfect day for one.”

  “May we have a picnic sometime? You and me and Papa?”

  Mercy’s heart thumped. It was the first time she had heard Alice refer to Mr. Drake as Papa. She pressed the botany book to her chest and said evenly, “Good idea, Alice. But I think you and Mr. Drake should have a picnic together one day, just the two of you. Wouldn’t that be lovely?” It would not be appropriate for Mercy to picnic with the man as though his—

  Ringing laughter reached her ears, followed by Joseph’s chuckle, warm and husky. Mercy glanced back in time to see Esther give his arm a playful swat.

  Mercy told herself not to jump to conclusions again. It was a perfectly innocent encounter. Instead, she directed Alice’s attention to the next plant, and they continued their walk.

  Later that afternoon, Mercy saw Mr. Kingsley in the passage. She was torn between wanting to pass by unnoticed and stopping to talk. Should she mention she had seen the two together, or would she sound jealous if she did so? Just forget about it, Mercy told herself. Then she shook her head, knowing that was impossible. She would only keep torturing herself with doubts.

  He smiled when he saw her. “Miss Grove, how are you keeping?”

  “I am well. And you?”

  “Excellent. It is a lovely day.”

  “Yes, Alice and I went for a stroll through the gardens earlier. We saw you outside, enjoying a picnic with Esther.”

  Mercy watched his face for any sign of guilt or sheepishness, but he answered without hesitation.

  “Yes. Esther has taken to delivering a midday meal for my brothers and me. I’ve told her she doesn’t need to, but she says it gives her something useful to do.”

  And an excuse to come and talk to you, Mercy guessed. “Very thoughtful. Is she enjoying her visit?”

  “Actually, she is staying in Ivy Hill now. Did I not mention it?”

  “No.”

  He nodded. “I must say, what she brings is far more satisfying than the fruit and cheese I usually toss in my toolbox.”

  Mercy hesitated. “You could eat in the coffee room sometime, you know.” She felt forward just saying the words, but he didn’t seem to notice her hint.

  He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t usually stop that long on a workday. A quick bite is all I need.”

  Would the man never ask to court her? Apparently not. “I see. Well, em, have a good day, Mr. Kingsley.”

  “You too, Miss Grove.”

  chapter

  Twenty-Two

  Later that day, Jane walked to Ivy Cottage to ask Matilda Grove to join them at the inn. There was someone her father wanted his old friend to meet. Mr. Basu opened the door to her, and for the first time Jane looked into his face, really looked. She noticed his eyes were shaped differently from Jack Avi’s but were similar in color, while his skin was somewhat darker.

  Jane wondered how the man would respond to meeting Jack Avi and vice versa. But that would have to wait for another time.

  She smiled at the man. “Hello, Mr. Basu. Is Miss Matilda at home?”

  He nodded and showed her into the family sitting room.

  Inside, Matilda was sitting alone with a book. She removed her spectacles as Jane entered. “A caller, how lovely.”

  “Would you come with me to The Bell, Miss Matty? There is someone my father would like you to meet.”

  “Of course. How intriguing. Just let me fetch my reticule and best bonnet.”

  Jane escorted Miss Grove down Potters Lane to The Bell. When they arrived, they found Winston Fairmont waiting in one of the private parlours, a pot of tea and four cups on the table nearby. Jack Avi, Jane noticed, was hiding shyly behind his father’s legs.

  Her father began, “Miss Matilda, my old friend . . .”

  “No older than you are, Win,” Matilda replied with a saucy grin.

  “Very true. Thank you for coming. There is someone special I’d like you to meet.”

  “So Jane said, but that was all she would tell me.”

  Her father laid a hand on Jack Avi’s head and gently drew him forward. “This is my son, Jack Avi Fairmont. Jack Avi, I’d like you to meet my dear friend, Miss Matilda Grove.”

  Matilda’s expression grew solemn. She walked forward and bent toward the boy. “I am pleased to meet you, Jack Avi.”

  Matilda studied the boy’s face, eyes shimmering with surprising sadness. Then she straightened and her grin returned. “He has your nose.”

  “Yes, poor lad. Thankfully, he looks a great deal like his mother.”

  Jane saw Matilda’s thin throat convulse. “She must have been beautiful.”

  “You would like to see her?” Jack Avi extracted his locket again.

  “Yes, let me put on my spectacles, and you may show me.” Matilda extracted a pair from her reticule and sat down on the high-backed bench. The boy scrambled up beside her, offering her a look at his prized miniature portraits.

  She adjusted her eyeglasses and bent to look close. “There’s Jane. How young she looks. And your mother . . . Ah yes, you are very like her, Jack Avi.”

  Her father watched Matilda’s face and quietly asked, “You seem . . . unhappy. Do you disapprove?”

  “Disapprove? You know me better than that. Disappointed, maybe, but not disapproving.”

  “Disappointed . . . why?”

  “Oh . . .” Matty hesitated. “Only that you stayed away so long.” She removed her spectacles and took a deep breath. “Well, we shall have to make up for lost time. I shall enjoy talking with young Mr. Fairmont as well as old Mr. Fairmont.” She winked. “I see you’ve already ordered tea. I shall order something to go with it.” She rose and turned to the boy. “Which is your favorite, Jack Avi: biscuits, cake, or sponge?”

  The little boy nodded vigorously. “All of them.”

  Miss Matty smiled. “All three it is.”

  Jane followed her out into the hall. “I’ll go, Miss Matty. You stay.” She looked at the woman’s face in concern. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Just surprised.”

  Jane pressed her hand. “I know exactly how you feel.”

  That afternoon, Mercy knocked on the open door of Mr. Drake’s office. “Mr. Drake, may I ask you a favor?”

  “Of course. And it’s James, if you please. I have taken to calling you Mercy, you may have noticed.”

  “I have.”

  “Do you mind?” he asked.

  “No, but as you are my employer, I don’t think I ought to call you by your given name.”

  “We were friends first, remember. At least I hope we are.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, then gave up. “Very well.”

  He gestured for her to sit. “Now, what did you want to ask me?”

  She sat down, clasping her hands. “I’ve discovered that neither the scullery maid nor the boot boy can read. In this day and age! I wondered if I might teach them? I realize they have their own work to do, and I have mine, but even half an hour a day might go a long way to . . . What? Why are you smiling?”

  He slowly shook his head, impish grin remaining. “You can take the teacher out of the school but not the schooling out of the teacher. . . .”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “The boot boy, yes. I happen to know he has time to spare. But you’ll have to ask Mrs. C. about the scullery maid. Even if she agrees, heaven help the poor girl stay awake for lessons. I gather she is up at four in the morning and falls in bed exhaust
ed at ten.”

  “But I may ask Mrs. Callard?”

  “You may.”

  Mercy smiled. “Thank you.”

  His gaze lingered warmly on her face. “Completely worth it, I assure you. You have the loveliest smile.”

  A cold wind blew over the Salisbury Plain that night, and the temperature dipped to winter-like levels. Mercy huddled under the bedclothes and fell asleep reading, her candle lamp still burning on the side table. The cold woke her in the wee hours, wind howling around the windowframe, her feet like ice. She rose, wrapped a shawl around herself, and pulled on stockings. Seeing the kindling and coal already laid in the hearth, she used her candle to light the fire. It leapt to life.

  Thank you, Mr. Kingsley. . . .

  She dove back into bed and pulled the covers over her head, willing the room to warm and sleep to overtake her once more.

  The next time she awoke it was to loud rapping. Were workmen hammering next door? She lowered her covers. The window glowed with a halo of morning light, but . . . why was her room so dark? She felt groggy with sleep, unable to make sense of what she was seeing.

  Then she began coughing.

  “Miss Grove?” a man called. “Miss Grove!” Her bedchamber door burst open.

  Mercy opened her eyes wide in alarm. Mr. Kingsley appeared through the smoke. Was she dreaming? Why was her room full of smoke?

  He ran to the window and pushed it open. Cold air rushed in.

  He returned to the bed. “Miss Grove, let’s get you out of here.”

  She tried to sit up, but her limbs felt detached from her muddled mind and were slow to obey.

  He threw aside the bedclothes and bent low, scooping her up in strong arms. Stupefied and embarrassed, Mercy tried to wiggle from his grasp. What was he doing? She was in her nightclothes!

  He carried her out though the passage and into the nearby schoolroom, where he lowered her onto a chair. “Stay here. I’ll make sure the fire is out.”

  Sitting there breathing clean air, Mercy’s mind cleared.

  He returned quickly and knelt to look into her face.

  “Are you all right? I arrived early to bring you something. When I came upstairs, I saw smoke coming from under your door and feared the worst. Are you sure you’re all right?”