The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  “Yes, I’m feeling better already.”

  “Thank God.”

  A scuffle step brought their heads around. There stood James Drake, holding Alice by the hand. He adroitly tucked the girl behind his back, as though to shield her from an inappropriate scene. Emotions crossed his face in rapid succession as he tried to work out why his daughter’s governess was in the schoolroom in her nightclothes, his builder on his knees before her.

  “My fireplace,” Mercy sputtered, hoping to quickly dispel the suspicions etched in the tense lines of his face. “Mr. Kingsley saw smoke escaping from under my door. He got me out so I wouldn’t be overcome by it.”

  Hearing this, Alice’s head popped out from behind Mr. Drake, her eyes wide in concern.

  Mr. Drake frowned deeply.

  Before he could say anything, Mr. Kingsley rose and said, “It’s my fault. I should have checked the chimney. Flue probably hasn’t been cleaned in years and wasn’t drawing properly.”

  “No, it’s my fault,” Mercy said. “I should not have lit it and gone right back to bed.”

  Mr. Drake said, “Are you well, Mercy? Shall I send for the doctor?”

  “I am all right.”

  “And your room?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Together they walked next door to survey the situation. Cold wind whipped through the curtains, dispelling the worst of the smoke. A thin layer of soot clung to the furniture nearest the hearth.

  “I will ask Mrs. Callard to send a maid to clean this up.”

  “I can do that, Mr. Drake. But thank you.”

  Mr. Kingsley turned toward the door. “I will send for the chimney sweep directly.”

  “Yes, please do.” Mr. Drake hesitated, brow still furrowed. “May I ask what brought you up here this morning? Not that I am ungrateful you discovered the smoke when you did.”

  Mr. Kingsley’s face reddened. He hesitated, then gestured out into the passage. “I was just bringing Miss Grove a bookcase. There wasn’t one in her room.”

  Mr. Drake looked past him. “I did wonder why that was left haphazardly in the corridor.”

  Mercy felt embarrassed for Mr. Kingsley and herself. Growing increasingly more so the longer she stood there in her nightclothes.

  Mr. Kingsley said, “I made it on my own time, sir.”

  Mr. Drake regarded him somberly. “I was not criticizing. Though puppets one week, now this? It’s a wonder you get any sleep.”

  Joseph Kingsley lowered his head.

  Mr. Drake drew himself up, then turned to look at Alice, her hand still in his. “Well, Alice, it appears school will be starting late today. What say you to a game of chess while you wait? Miss Grove will need time to clean up and . . . dress.”

  “Very well. Though I much prefer draughts.”

  Girl and guardian walked away down the passage.

  For a moment, Mr. Kingsley remained where he was. Then he cleared his throat. “I am sorry, Miss Grove. I never meant to embarrass you or do anything improper.”

  “I know you did not. I am sure Mr. Drake knows it too. But we can’t blame him for being a little . . . stern. Coming upon us as he did, impressionable Alice in tow.”

  He flinched. “Surely not how I imagined this morning.”

  “Nor I. Well. I had better get dressed. I shall see you later.”

  He nodded and trudged down the stairs, shoulders slumped. She’d forgotten to thank him for the bookcase and for coming to her rescue. She would do so later . . . when fully dressed.

  She didn’t see Mr. Kingsley the rest of that day, busy as she was cleaning smoky soot from her room and from herself, and teaching Alice. He did send the promised chimney sweep late in the day, though, and in doing his work, the young man sent another cloud of dust and chunks of soot raining down onto the grate so that Mercy had to clean much of her room all over again.

  Finished at last, Mercy asked Iris to help carry in the new bookcase. It fit perfectly. No more digging through a box every time she wanted a book to read. It reminded her that she had yet to thank Mr. Kingsley.

  The next morning, Mercy went downstairs, hoping to find him. There he was—broad shoulders, sandy hair—on his haunches before a fireplace.

  She said, “Thank you again for coming to my rescue, Mr. Kingsley. I feel a bit like Cinderella myself. I am still finding soot in strange places.”

  He turned, his face lengthened in confusion. With a jolt, she realized it was not Joseph but one of his brothers—with shoulders equally broad, hair a similar sandy brown, but his face younger and features thinner.

  “Strange places?” he echoed, one brow raised in question.

  Heat rushed to Mercy’s face. How foolish she felt. “Oh, sorry. Just a little joke for your brother. I thought you were him. Joseph, I mean.”

  He shrugged easily. “No . . . Aaron. In future, just remember I am the younger and handsomer of the two. And definitely not Cinderella.” He winked, then added, “Joseph isn’t working today. Sent me and Matthew in his stead and told us to check every chimney. Now I am beginning to understand why. . . .”

  “Oh.” Disappointment sank through Mercy. She hoped Joseph wasn’t staying away on her account.

  “I don’t know how long he’ll be gone,” the young man said. “Is there any message you’d like me to pass along, when next I see him?”

  “Oh. Just . . . thank him for me.”

  “That I will.” He returned to his work.

  Mercy walked away, ears still burning. She would much rather have thanked Joseph in person.

  Aaron Kingsley called after her, “You know, you might be able to catch him in the stable yard, if you hurry.”

  “Really? Thank you.” Mercy turned quickly to the door and stepped outside.

  Terse voices in the stable yard drew her attention. Mr. Kingsley’s familiar low tones and a woman’s higher voice. There was Joseph Kingsley, standing very near petite Esther Dudman, talking in hushed consultation. Miss Dudman was holding a valise and standing beside a traveling chaise. Mercy recognized it as the one James had purchased for his own personal use—as well as an investment, to let out for hire. Joseph opened the door and offered his hand to help the woman inside. He had mentioned Esther was staying in the area, but apparently she was going away somewhere. For good, perhaps?

  Mercy’s flash of relief was short-lived, however. For a moment later, Mr. Kingsley climbed in after her and shut the door. Mercy blinked in surprise. The mounted postilion signaled the horses and the equipage lurched into motion.

  Mercy stood, feet frozen to the cobbles, as the vehicle turned the corner and rounded the house. She saw Joseph’s profile clearly through the chaise window, but he did not see Mercy, clearly intent on his traveling companion. An unmarried man and a woman traveling alone together? Her stomach knotted. Then Mercy reminded herself that Esther was his sister-in-law, and the laws of England did not allow a man to marry his deceased wife’s sister. She had heard of such couples traveling to other countries to wed, but surely that was not what they were doing. Where were they going, just the two of them?

  chapter

  Twenty-Three

  On Easter Sunday, Jane and her father took Jack Avi to church with them. The nurse, Priya, remained behind in Wilton.

  As they entered St. Anne’s, they encountered George and Helena Grove in the vestibule. Jane introduced her father to the new Mrs. Grove and her little brother to both of them.

  Helena smiled. “Oh, George, he looks just as I always imagined your servant boy in India.”

  George Grove looked embarrassed on his wife’s behalf. “Only vaguely,” he said. “This lad is far more handsome.” He grinned at the boy and added a greeting in a foreign tongue.

  At Jack Avi’s blank look, her father interceded. “I think Mr. Grove means namaskar.”

  George looked sheepish again. “Never good with languages, I’m afraid.” He shook Winston Fairmont’s hand. “Good to see you again, sir.”

  The Gordon family
came through the doors. Mr. Gordon greeted them, but his wife gave Jack Avi a wide berth and quickly shepherded her children away.

  Jane took Jack Avi’s hand and smiled reassurance into his eyes as they entered the nave. Curious stares and a growing murmur of whispers accompanied them up the aisle, moving through the congregation like wind rustling through wheat.

  Thora noticed and sent several gossipers her famous black look, then turned to the Barton boys and pressed a stern finger to her lips.

  Jane sat in her usual place beside her, and Thora took her hand in a comforting squeeze. Jack Avi sat beside Jane, and her father on the end. Gabriel sat in his customary place across the aisle. They had decided to wait until after they were married to sit together. She sought out his gaze and was rewarded with an empathetic smile.

  Mrs. Barton leaned forward from her place behind them and whispered loudly to Jack Avi, “Is this your first time in a church?”

  Jack Avi looked to his father again, who answered in the boy’s stead. “No, ma’am. We attended services weekly in India.”

  The vicar entered, and the Easter service began, a joyous time of praying and singing together. During the announcements, Mr. Paley, likely having noticed the whispers and stares, said, “And what a blessing to have Winston Fairmont with us, and to meet his dear young son. We share your sorrow over your recent loss but rejoice that you have returned to England safely after that infamously long and perilous sea voyage. You must come and have dinner with us in the vicarage soon. I know my sons will be eager to become acquainted with yours.”

  Jane’s heart expanded with fondness for their vicar. Her father nodded his gratitude, and the celebration of Christ’s resurrection continued.

  After the service, Sir Timothy and Rachel came over to greet her father and to meet Jack Avi. Their example would go a long way to ensuring the boy’s acceptance in the village. Even the dowager Lady Brockwell came over and spoke to them. It was a kind gesture, and Jane appreciated it.

  Then the Miss Cooks came forward, all smiles. Charlotte said, “We’ve never had a Hindu visit us before.”

  Her father replied, “Actually, Jack Avi’s mother was a Christian, and I am endeavoring to raise him in the faith. Hoping, as parents do, that when the child grows up, he will embrace it for himself.”

  “Ohhh . . . yes, very true,” Judith crooned, batting her lashes. “I do hope you will visit us while you’re here, Mr. Fairmont. Not that you have much need of lace, I suppose?” She giggled.

  Charlotte added, “We would so enjoy hearing about your travels, would we not, Judy? Did you ride an elephant while you were in India? So exciting, I’m sure—”

  “There you are, ladies.” Matilda appeared and gently interrupted the awkward scene. “Mrs. Burlingame has just discovered a stain on her favorite lace collar. We are in need of your professional opinion. . . .”

  As she led them away, Jane’s father managed to catch Matilda’s eye, and Jane did not miss the look of gratitude he sent her.

  Finally, Mercy came over to speak to them.

  “Hello, Mr. Fairmont.”

  Her father grinned at her. “Mercy, a pleasure to see you again.”

  “And you, sir.” She turned to Jack Avi, pressed her palms together, and bowed slightly. “Namaskar. Did I say that correctly?”

  He nodded. “You did.”

  Jane said, “Jack Avi, this is my dear friend, Miss Grove. We have been friends since we were your age.”

  The boy’s face puckered. “You were my age, Didi?”

  Jane smiled. “Hard as that is to believe, yes.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Jack Avi.” To Jane, Mercy added, “I would have liked Alice to meet your brother, too, but she stayed home with Mr. Drake. She is not feeling well.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. Jack Avi, Miss Grove is a teacher.”

  The boy asked, “Will you teach me? I am almost old enough for school now, yes?”

  “Yes, very soon now. Though I’m afraid I am teaching only one pupil at present.”

  Again the little brow puckered in confusion. “Only one?”

  “For now.”

  Jane pressed her friend’s hand. “Lord willing, Mercy will have a school again one day.”

  Mercy nodded. “Yes. Lord willing.”

  After church, Mercy walked home with her family for Easter dinner—the last of the ham cured before winter, along with spring vegetables, hot cross buns, and traditional simnel cake. Afterward, she returned to the Fairmont and went upstairs to check on Alice.

  Mr. Drake had been sitting beside the girl’s bed and rose in agitation when Mercy entered. “Thank goodness you’re back. She still doesn’t feel well and seems warm to me. Though what do I know?”

  Mercy sat on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel, Alice?”

  The girl whispered, “My stomach hurts.”

  Mercy laid her palm over her brow. It did feel a little warm to the touch.

  Mr. Drake asked, “Do you think we should send for the doctor?”

  “Not yet. It’s probably nothing serious, maybe just something she ate.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve had a lot of experience with minor childhood maladies in my years with the girls school.”

  His green eyes softened. “For which I am grateful. And very glad you’re here.”

  That night, Mercy opened her eyes with a start. Mr. Drake leaned over her bed in his dressing gown.

  He winced. “I did not mean to wake you. I only wanted to check on Alice again.” He set his candle lamp on the side table.

  Mercy recalled then where she was—in her nightclothes and shawl, lying atop the counterpane on Alice’s bed. Poor Alice with her hot skin and upset stomach.

  Mercy whispered, “I did as well, but she asked me to stay with her. I did not intend to fall asleep.” Feeling self-conscious, she tugged higher the neckline of her nightdress.

  Mr. Drake sat on the opposite edge of the bed and tenderly felt Alice’s forehead and cheeks.

  “Better, but she is still too warm.”

  Mercy sat up. “I shall go for water and cloths.”

  “Shh . . . stay as you are. I shall fetch them.”

  He returned in a few minutes with a basin and face cloth. Gently he dipped it in the water, wrung it, and dabbed it to Alice’s neck and cheeks.

  Mercy whispered, “I can do that, if you like.”

  “I don’t mind.” He continued his ministrations, then rewet the cloth and laid it over Alice’s forehead. He looked at Mercy. “How are you feeling? I hope you are not ill too?”

  “I don’t think so. Just a bit tired.”

  He tentatively stretched out his hand. When she didn’t object, he laid his palm over her forehead. “You feel cool.”

  His fingers gently traced down one cheek before lifting. “I shall bring you a blanket before I go.”

  “Thank you, but perhaps I should return to my own bed.”

  “Stay, if you would. It would ease my mind. I will return at daybreak to relieve you.”

  “Very well.”

  He pulled a spare blanket from the wardrobe and spread it over Mercy. Gently lifting her plait of hair over its edge, he murmured, “I did not realize your hair was so long.”

  Surprise and embarrassment heated Mercy’s cheeks.

  Perhaps realizing the intimacy of what he’d done, he sat there awkwardly, silence hanging between them.

  Then he rose. “Well. Good night, Mercy.”

  She licked dry lips. “Good night . . . James.”

  By morning, whatever had been ailing Alice had passed, and she was soon her smiling, energetic self again. Mercy, however, was slower to recover from her vigil. For two days, whenever she saw Mr. Drake, she felt herself blush, recalling the feel of his hand on her face. Her hair . . .

  Mercy Grove, stop acting like a schoolgirl, she scolded herself. It had only been a gesture of concern and nothing more.

  chapter

 
; Twenty-Four

  On day one of the Brockwells’ house party, Sir Cyril and his sisters were the first to arrive, followed closely by Nicholas Ashford, who carried a single valise. Among the Awdrys’ many trunks, valises, and bandboxes, Rachel noticed several gun and bow cases, quivers, and fishing tackle.

  Expression eager, Sir Cyril asked, “We will be shooting, I hope? Fishing? Boxing?”

  His pretty sister, Arabella, rolled her eyes. “And what are we ladies supposed to do if you men spend the entire time shooting up the countryside and wrestling like lads?”

  “I said boxing, Arabella,” he replied. “Although wrestling would be diverting as well. And as far as the ladies, hang me; what do I know about female amusements? I suppose you will sew cushions or a sampler or something.”

  His athletic sister, Penelope, groaned.

  Sir Timothy smiled at the tall woman. “Actually, we were thinking of an archery tournament for all of us, if you might offer lessons first?”

  “I could, yes,” Penelope agreed, face brightening.

  Rachel knew archery was not Timothy’s favorite sport, but he’d suggested it because he recalled Penelope excelled at it. What a kind and generous husband she had.

  Arabella did not appear encouraged by the prospect, so Rachel added, “And we will also have music and dancing.”

  Justina said, “Though I’m afraid we are short one gentleman to even our numbers. We had hoped our brother Richard might join us, but alas, he sent his regrets.”

  “I can sit out,” Penelope said. “I don’t mind.”

  “But you don’t play, Penelope,” Arabella reminded her. “One of the ladies will have to accompany us on the pianoforte.”

  “I shall,” Justina offered.

  “But you so enjoy dancing, Miss Brockwell,” Nicholas protested. “And I had hoped to dance with you again.”

  “As had I,” Sir Cyril added with an awkward little laugh.

  Oh dear, Rachel thought. This will be an interesting few days. “Never fear,” she said. “We have hired musicians, so everyone will have the opportunity to dance.”