The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  The Bingleys arrived, Horace apologizing, blaming his sister for taking forever at her toilette and packing enough clothing to outfit an infantry.

  Sir Cyril guffawed. “Now, that’s an infantry I should like to see.”

  At Sir Cyril’s urging, they began the afternoon with shooting. His man and Timothy’s valet loaded guns for the gentlemen, while Penelope prepared her own. The other ladies declined to participate and watched from a safe distance, parasols poised against the sun. Rachel was thankful for the fine weather and a pleasant breeze filled with birdsong, at least until the shooting began.

  She flinched as the first shots rang out and hoped the men would be careful where they aimed.

  After Nicholas had an unsuccessful round, Sir Cyril clapped him on the back. “Bad luck, Ashford.”

  Nicholas replied easily, “Haven’t had much opportunity to shoot, I’m afraid.”

  “No matter,” Timothy assured him. “There are other abilities more important.”

  “Are there?” Sir Cyril asked, as though sincerely in doubt.

  Horace Bingley watched Penelope shoot with skill, clearly impressed. “You’re a crack shot, Miss Awdry.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bingley. Actually, I’m off the mark today. Something awry with the barrel, I think.” She proceeded to take apart her gun, checking the firing mechanism and chamber before reassembling and reloading. Horace Bingley watched her with wide eyes, mouth loose in amazement.

  “I say, Miss Awdry. You are quite a woman.”

  She sent him a sidelong glance. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Good! Excellent, actually.”

  Next on the schedule was archery. For the inexperienced, Penelope gave a general demonstration of the stance, arrow positioning, aim, and technique, then suggested they try it for themselves.

  Horace Bingley’s first shot went wild, missing the target altogether, as well as the straw bales behind it. Thwunk—right into the gardening shed. The next shot sliced through the privet hedge, glancing off a statue and landing with a plunk in the fountain.

  “Take pity, Miss Awdry,” he beseeched.

  Penelope set aside her own bow and tutored Horace one on one.

  Sir Cyril employed his bow with skill, taking focused shot after shot, each sinking into the target with a satisfying whap. His sister Arabella stood nearby, idly twirling her parasol. She had no interest in this sport either and was content to watch.

  Meanwhile, Sir Timothy took great pleasure in helping Rachel. He stood behind her, stretched his left arm parallel to hers, his hand beneath hers on the grip, then wrapped his right arm around Rachel’s shoulder to help her pull back and take aim.

  She looked up at him with a coy smile. “I thought you said you were not fond of archery?”

  “I never attempted it with my beautiful wife before. Now I find I am enjoying the sport very much indeed.”

  Overhearing him, Arabella teased, “That’s enough, you two lovebirds.”

  To her credit, the pretty young woman seemed to harbor no resentment toward Rachel for marrying the man that she—at least according to Lady Barbara—had once hoped would take an interest in her.

  “And here we are, left to fend for ourselves, Justina,” Miss Bingley pouted, bow hanging limply in her hands.

  Justina struggled to pull back her bowstring and sighed. “It is more difficult than it looks.”

  “Mr. Ashford, you seem to have the way of it,” Miss Bingley called to him down the line.

  It was true, Rachel noticed. Nicholas fared better at archery than he had with guns.

  “Have you done this often?” Justina asked.

  He shrugged. “Not in years, but I had a target behind the house growing up and practiced a great deal. Far quieter than guns, which wore on my mother’s nerves.”

  “Could you come and show us what we’re doing wrong?”

  He set aside his bow and walked over to join the two young ladies. “I will do my best.”

  Much as Timothy had done with her, Nicholas stood behind Justina—though not as close—and placed his hand beneath hers on the grip. He reached around her shoulder and helped her pull back the bowstring and take aim.

  “Elbow up. That’s it.”

  Perhaps noticing the somewhat intimate position, his Adam’s apple rose and fell, and his cheeks were soon tinged with pink.

  Justina released the arrow, and while it missed the center, it did strike the outer ring of the target.

  She beamed. “I did it!”

  Miss Bingley waved to him. “My turn.”

  Nicholas helped her as well, patiently and attentively. But Rachel saw no hint of the blush she had seen when he’d stood so close to Justina.

  Finally, Horace Bingley insisted Penelope had wasted enough time on him and should shoot a round herself.

  He watched the tall woman in amazement as she did so. “Again, Miss Awdry, you astound me. You are an Amazon! What skill! Do you excel at all sport?”

  “Not all.”

  “Yes, she does,” Sir Cyril spoke up. “Pen is just being modest.”

  “An admirable quality in an admirable woman,” Horace breathed.

  My goodness, Rachel thought. At this rate, Penelope would be married before Justina was even engaged.

  After dinner that evening, the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room far more quickly than Rachel had expected. She had thought Sir Cyril would wish to remain in the dining room to drink port and swap tales of hunting and fishing exploits long after the ladies withdrew. But Sir Timothy had been eager to rejoin his wife, and Nicholas also seemed keen to join the ladies, so Sir Cyril acquiesced. Even Horace Bingley, always ready to share boisterous stories with the gents, added his voice to those preferring not to keep the ladies waiting.

  As the men settled themselves in the drawing room, Rachel overheard Nicholas say to Timothy, “I admit, I used to have an erroneous view of the life of gentlemen landowners. Now that I’ve lived in Thornvale for several months, I have begun to see the role as much more demanding than I ever imagined. I also realized that since Mr. Fairmont left the country and Sir William’s ill health limited his participation, you have shouldered more than your fair share. Not only managing your own estate, but serving the parish as well: almshouse board of governors, village council, magistrate. . . . I don’t pretend to have your experience, but if there is anything I can do to help, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Ashford. That is insightful and kind of you. I will keep your offer in mind.”

  Justina looked from the two men to Rachel, then leaned closer to confide, “How good to see those two talking so companionably when they were once adversaries for your affection. How wonderful if they might be friends like your father and mine—the master of Thornvale and of Brockwell Court—once were.”

  Rachel nodded. “I agree completely.”

  When they had all taken seats, Justina began, “As you gentlemen have subjected us ladies to a day full of sports, you must now attempt one of the feminine arts you tried to consign us to, like sewing a cushion or sampler.”

  Sir Cyril laughed. “Ha, ha! Good joke, Miss Brockwell.”

  “I am perfectly serious.”

  His smile faltered. “I have never held a needle in my life and don’t mean to start now.”

  Nicholas said, “I don’t mind, Miss Brockwell.”

  “I shall give it a go as well,” Mr. Bingley added.

  Sir Cyril smirked at the younger men. “Skilled needlewomen, are you?”

  Nicholas shook his head. “Not at all. I’ve had to sew on a few buttons here and there, and repair a tear when need be, but that is the limit of my experience.”

  Horace nodded. “The same for me. When I was on my grand tour, my manservant fell ill. I had to learn to do many things I’d never done before.”

  “Not shoot archery, apparently,” Cyril quipped.

  “No. Not that.”

  “How interesting, Mr. Bingley,” Penelope sai
d, and Rachel believed it was the first time she had ever heard the woman enter a social conversation of her own volition.

  Penelope continued, “Did you meet with any adventures? Danger? Wild animals?”

  “All of the above, Miss Awdry.”

  “Mostly misadventures, if I remember right,” his sister teased.

  Penelope said, “I would like to hear more about it sometime.”

  “Then indeed you shall. But later, I think. After whatever Miss Brockwell has in mind for us.”

  “Yes. Do go on, Justina.”

  “Never fear, Sir Cyril, I shan’t arm you with needle and thread, which would likely be more dangerous in your hands than guns and arrows.”

  He chuckled. “Very true.”

  “But each gentleman must trace a silhouette.”

  “Oh, I would love to have my silhouette drawn,” Miss Bingley enthused. “Excellent idea, Justina.”

  To prepare for the “shade party,” Justina and Rachel hung a large piece of white paper on the wall and set a chair before it, positioning a candle lamp nearby to cast the shadow of the subject’s silhouette onto the paper.

  When all was ready, Justina asked for a volunteer to go first.

  Horace Bingley replied instantly, “I shall be the first to draw if Miss Penelope will oblige me by sitting for me.”

  “Me?” Penelope faltered. “I . . . don’t think I have ever had my likeness taken.”

  “Then you are overdue. It shall be my honor to take the first, though I doubt I can do you justice.”

  Uneasy with all the attention, Penelope rose with clasped hands and moved toward the chair.

  Mr. Bingley showed surprising artistic aptitude, positioning Penelope and the light just so and tracing the outline of her head, face, neck and shoulders. Later, he even created a miniature version by hand, though they had no pantograph to reduce the image mechanically.

  As he filled in the outline with lampblack, Rachel looked over his shoulder and decided the likeness was both recognizable and flattering.

  “Well done, Mr. Bingley. I am impressed.”

  “As am I . . .” Penelope breathed.

  Next, Timothy drew Rachel’s profile. She was relieved that the novelty of the first drawing had passed. Now people began to mingle and help themselves to coffee or tea, so less attention was given to each artist and his subject. The low murmur of voices in the background hopefully meant that people were occupied with their own conversations and not listening to Timothy’s flattery.

  “I don’t need a pantograph,” he said to her. “For I know every one of your features by heart. How blessed I am to have such a dear, beautiful wife.”

  Rachel looked into his face, and tingles of pleasure needled her stomach. After eight long years of pining for this man, she was struck anew with wonder that he was now her husband. “Thank you, my love.”

  Sir Cyril next traced Justina, more comfortable studying her shadowed profile than he ever seemed looking at her directly. Thankfully, no eye contact was required to draw a silhouette. He created a fair likeness, and Justina thanked him, though Rachel guessed she would have much preferred if Nicholas had been the one to do it, to look at her so keenly and sit with her in such close proximity.

  Instead, Nicholas drew pretty Arabella—a pleasant task, Rachel did not doubt.

  As they were short one gentleman, Sir Cyril—emboldened by his success with Miss Brockwell—volunteered to draw Miss Bingley’s silhouette. Somehow he botched the drawing though, making her nose bigger, her cheeks plumper, and her shoulders slumped forward in unflattering lines.

  Miss Bingley glanced at it and instantly looked crestfallen.

  Nicholas rose to her defense. “You’re blind, man. Miss Bingley is much prettier than that!”

  Sir Cyril looked sincerely chastised. “I apologize, Miss Bingley. Pray do not be offended. I am no artist, clearly. You don’t look that bad in real life. . . . That is not what I meant. You don’t look bad at all. Dash it, I am making a muddle of this. Perhaps we ought to have sewn cushions instead—I could not have performed more woefully.”

  Arabella laid a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “Not every activity needs to show off your skills, Cyril.”

  He gestured toward the failed silhouette. “And more’s the pity.”

  He went on, “Truly, Miss Bingley, I am sorry. Here, you draw me next. Give me a hook nose and crone chin. I deserve it.”

  Miss Bingley managed a smile. “Very well, Sir Cyril.”

  A fresh sheet of paper was hung, and Sir Cyril sat before it, even aping a funny face to encourage her worst depiction. Instead, the image Miss Bingley traced was of a handsome, dignified gentleman.

  Regarding it, he shook his head. “You are too kind. This cannot be how you see me. Not after my crude attempt.”

  She shrugged. “It is how I see you.”

  And Sir Cyril looked at Miss Bingley, really looked at her, as if for the first time, his gaze holding hers and not shying away.

  chapter

  Twenty-Five

  The next day dawned sunny and mild, so the whole party went out for a long country walk.

  Horace Bingley leapt the stile between two fields and challenged Sir Cyril to a foot race. The two dashed ahead across the meadow, but Timothy and Nicholas remained behind and helped the ladies over the stile.

  Justina tripped and fell, and Nicholas quickly took her arm and helped her up. “Are you all right? You are not injured, I hope?”

  “Only my pride.”

  “It was nothing, Miss Brockwell. Don’t give it another thought. No one noticed.”

  “You did.”

  “I am all too aware of your every movement, I fear.”

  She looked up at him at that, and he looked down.

  “It is still so embarrassing!” she lamented, reddening.

  “You think a mere stumble over rough ground embarrassing? That is nothing. I once knocked an entire glass of port onto a lady’s white silk gown. My mother did not speak to me for a fortnight.”

  Justina chuckled.

  “And at school, instead of Nicholas Ashford, the other lads called me No-class Ashford or Clumsiness Ashford. They also abused my surname . . . but I cannot repeat that to a lady.”

  “You are making all that up to cheer me.”

  He gave her a self-deprecating grin. “If only I were. Although if I cheered you, then my mortification is nothing.”

  “How kind you are, Mr. Ashford.”

  He offered her his arm over the furrowed ground, “Just in case,” and she took it.

  Sir Timothy stopped to talk to a neighbor who was surveying an adjacent field with his dog. While the two men talked, Penelope bent low to pet the dog, heedless of its mud-splattered fur. Rachel walked ahead, thinking to catch up with the other women. As she neared them, she overheard Arabella and Miss Bingley’s conversation.

  “Look at the pair of them,” Arabella said, nodding toward the two racers ahead, bent over huffing and puffing. “Mr. Ashford is twice the gentleman our brothers are.” She sighed. “But there is no use in admiring him. Not when he looks at Miss Brockwell like he does.”

  Miss Bingley looked from the men to Nicholas and Justina, walking arm-in-arm, and back again. Rachel saw her expression transform from disappointment to decision.

  “I don’t know, Arabella. I think your brother has several excellent qualities.”

  “Has he indeed?” Arabella’s eyes shone with knowing light. “How shrewd of you to just now notice.”

  And for the rest of the day, Miss Bingley stayed close to Sir Cyril Awdry. She was the first to laugh at his jokes and agreed with whatever he said.

  Rachel wondered how Justina would feel about her good friend turning her attentions to the man many people expected her to marry. She thought of herself and Jane at that age, both in love with Timothy. She thanked God yet again that those uncertain, turbulent days were behind them.

  The next day was spent in lawn bowls and preparing for a formal
dinner followed by the promised music and dancing. The ladies donned their best gowns for the occasion, and Jemima, Rachel and Justina’s lady’s maid, was kept busy curling and coiffing their hair. Even Penelope’s hair was subjected to hot irons, though Rachel wished she could provide a more flattering gown for the tall woman to wear.

  Her mother-in-law had surprised her by remaining in the background during the party, letting the younger people spend time together and Timothy and Rachel serve as chaperones without her interference. At Rachel’s insistence, Lady Barbara did join them for the final dinner but then bid them good night, not staying for the dancing. Rachel did see her speak briefly to Sir Cyril, asking after his mother, but was thankful not to overhear any prodding. Nor did she take Justina aside to persuade her to encourage Sir Cyril’s attention. Perhaps she had finally resigned herself to leaving the outcome in God’s hands. Whatever the case, Rachel was pleased with the way things had gone and congratulated herself on a successful house party.

  Later, after the dancing ended and the musicians were packing up, Rachel and Timothy bid everyone good night and started upstairs. They had just reached the first-floor landing when Rachel heard voices in the hall below. She looked over the banister and was startled to see Justina and Sir Cyril speaking together.

  “. . . came here with the express purpose of asking for your hand, Miss Brockwell. I know it has long been assumed by our families. I have already made my intentions toward you clear, and I am a man who does not shirk his duty.”

  He ducked his head and continued, “But I am not such a dullard not to realize you’ve been reluctant. Your brother believes it is because of your age. Lady Barbara assures me you will accept me in time. In fact, she suggested I take advantage of the social occasion to declare myself before everyone.” He chuckled uncomfortably. “But I could not put either of us in such an awkward situation. Nor was I confident enough to risk humiliation. This is one contest in which I have little skill.”

  His gaze flickered to Justina’s face, then away again. “So here we are. I shall not argue with whatever answer you give. It is your decision. What shall we tell our families, Miss Brockwell? Will you marry me, or will you not?”