The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  Their mouths fell ajar.

  James went on to complete the introductions, giving the gentlemen’s full names.

  “I . . . I don’t know where to start!” Rupert sputtered. “Your father made no mention of a daughter.”

  Max’s gaze swept past Mercy, then fixed on the girl. “Alice, is it? How charming you are with your blond hair and green eyes . . .” His gaze shifted to James, flicking from his dark blond hair to his similar eyes. “Come and sit down, Alice.” He sent Mercy a curt nod.

  She had been dismissed. It was her cue to leave, and only a simpleton would not recognize it.

  But Alice reached her free hand toward Mercy. “Miss Grove is to eat with us.”

  “How kind you are, but I am sure your governess would prefer to take her supper in her own room.”

  Mercy could not deny it, even though offense crept over her at the man’s condescending tone.

  “Actually, I particularly invited Miss Grove to join us,” Mr. Drake said. “She is more than governess to Alice; she is a valued friend. To both of us.”

  Rupert’s brows rose. “Is she indeed?”

  James nodded. “In fact, Miss Grove operated her own girls school before agreeing to come here and continue Alice’s education. I am in her debt.”

  He’d made it sound as though Mercy had given up her school by choice, but she would not correct that misapprehension. Not to these two.

  “My, my,” Max said. “You must have made quite a tempting offer to convince her to give up her own school to become a governess.”

  Was that innuendo in his tone? It was difficult to tell. Either way, James didn’t take the bait and made do with a nod. “She was very kind to agree. The Groves are the oldest family in Ivy Hill. Miss Grove is respected by everyone who knows her, and she is a close friend of Sir Timothy and Lady Brockwell.”

  That was going it a bit brown, Mercy thought, trying not to fidget under his stilted praise.

  Max and Rupert gave her another look. Max’s attention quickly flitted away again, but Rupert’s speculative gaze scoured her face, her long neck, and collarbones. Mercy shifted. The way he looked at her made her feel exposed. Wanting. Like a bruised fruit left alone at the end of market day.

  Thankfully, at that moment waiters brought the food in, so they were all seated and the meal began.

  The gentlemen turned their attention to Alice, asking a few polite questions about her schoolwork, favorite subjects, and books. Max studiously avoided questions of her background, Mercy noticed.

  But Rupert asked, “And who is your mother, Alice? Would we know her?”

  Max dug a sharp elbow into his side.

  Rupert glowered at him. “What?”

  Unaware of the tension, Alice softly replied, “My mother’s name was Mary-Alicia Smith, but she died.”

  “Poor thing. How sad. And how kind of you, James, to take her in.”

  “It was my privilege.”

  “That reminds me . . .” Max snapped his fingers. “Remember the time JD took in that stray cat at university? His roommate threatened to toss it out the window, so James hid the cat in Rupert’s room. What a laugh to hear poor Rupert the next morning, trying to explain all those scratches and red, swollen eyes to the dean.”

  Rupert frowned. “Oh yes, very funny. How about that house party at Ham Court? JD wagered his entire fortune and almost lost it but then in the last hand won it all back. Poor Fielding. His father nearly disowned him over it.”

  James grimaced. “I did try to forgive the debt, but the man was too proud to accept.”

  “How about the time he offered his tutor a hundred pounds to write his exams for him? Too jug-bitten to take them himself.”

  James squirmed under the duo’s attention. While Mercy was relieved to have the attention off of her and Alice, she wasn’t sure these were stories about her father that Alice needed to hear.

  Dismay puckered James’s face. “Come now, you will make Alice and Miss Grove think me an unrepentant reprobate.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  His old friends certainly painted an unflattering picture of James Drake as a younger man. Or at least, certainly not as kind and generous as he seemed now.

  Alice came to his defense, saying, “I think it was kind of you to take in the stray.”

  “And thoroughly unexpected,” Max said slyly. “Then, and now.”

  James pretended not to hear his comment and patted Alice’s hand.

  “Have you finished eating, Alice?” Mercy asked gently. “Perhaps you and I should head upstairs and read awhile before bed?”

  “Thank you, Miss Grove. That might be best,” James said. “I will be up later to say good night.”

  He affectionately cupped Alice’s cheek. “Up to bed with you, my dear. Before this lot turns you against me.”

  Alice shook her head, then kissed his cheek. “Never.”

  chapter

  Twenty-Eight

  Later that night, after Alice was tucked in bed, Mercy went back downstairs for a cup of tea, hoping Mr. Kingsley might have returned to the Fairmont to see her.

  There he was, sitting in the coffee room. She inhaled a deep breath, struck as she always was by his masculine good looks.

  He rose when she entered, a soft smile lifting his face. “Miss Grove, good evening.”

  “Mr. Kingsley.” She curtsied, and he bowed.

  When he straightened again to his full height, Mercy took pleasure in looking up at him. Being the tallest of her friends, and as tall as many men, she rarely felt small or dainty. But she felt more feminine in Joseph Kingsley’s presence. She liked his competent, strong hands. She liked his muscular arms and broad shoulders. His eyes. His hair. His mouth. All right, Mercy, calm down. Breathe normally.

  He hailed a passing waiter and ordered tea for them. Then he intertwined his long fingers on the table and began, “How was your day?”

  “Interesting. We are studying the history of the British empire, focusing particularly on India.”

  “I see. I confess I know little about it, though with your brother having lived in India all those years, I imagine you took a special interest in that part of the world.”

  “True. Though I don’t pretend to understand it well. It is such a different culture from ours.”

  He nodded. “My mother tried to teach us geography, but I’m afraid I was always more interested in how things worked than where they were.”

  She smiled at that. Tea arrived, and as she poured she said, “Let’s see, what else . . . Mr. Drake has friends visiting from his university days. Alice and I had dinner with them too.” Mercy wasn’t sure she should mention it or not, but she didn’t want to keep secrets from this man, and it had been an interesting part of her day.

  “Ah,” he murmured. “I never attended university.”

  She leaned forward and looked into his eyes. “Neither did I, Mr. Kingsley.”

  “But you are more educated than I am.”

  “And you are far more skilled than I am. It isn’t a contest. God has given us all distinct abilities and vocations. I thought I knew what mine was, but well, perhaps I was wrong.”

  “I’m not so sure. I believe you will teach again, one way or another. And for now, you have Alice. To teach, that is. Is it going well with her, now you’re here?”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “I remember how upset you were when I came upon you in Wishford that day. At the time, you did not mention that Mr. Drake was the, um, relative who came forward to claim Alice.”

  She lowered her head. “No. I was not sure I should say anything, for her sake.”

  “I understand.”

  The squeak of wood and voices heralded the arrival of two men in the high-backed inglenook beside their table.

  “What do you think?” Mercy recognized Rupert’s voice. “Is the girl a result of a past indiscretion, and JD’s gone and found religion in his old age?”

  “Could be. I had never heard of the girl’s mo
ther before, had you?”

  “No.”

  “And what did he mean by insisting the governess join us? Oldest family in the village indeed. I had a governess growing up. She was tolerable, as far as they go, but we certainly never invited her to join our dinner parties.”

  “Apparently she wasn’t the equal of Long-Meg Miss Grove.”

  Mercy’s ears burned. Across the table, Joseph’s entire frame tensed. She reached out and placed a staying hand over his tight fist. “Don’t,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Mr. Drake warned me his friends are indiscreet.”

  “That’s not the word I would use.”

  “Do you really think JD admires her?” Max asked from the other side, making no effort to lower his voice.

  “I hope not.” Rupert’s tone sharpened. “Surely he doesn’t mean to marry the governess! Can you imagine what the old man would say to that?”

  Mercy sucked in a breath. Noticing a pulse ticking in Joseph’s jaw, she whispered somewhat desperately, “Pay them no heed.”

  But Joseph rose, his shoulders clearing the back of the inglenook as he scowled down at the men on the other side. “Perhaps you two ought to find another topic of conversation. Or another place to have it.”

  “What . . . ? Who are you?” Rupert sputtered. “Butt out, fool.”

  “Rupert, um,” Max warned. “That’s a big foo . . . er, fellow.”

  “I am a friend of Miss Grove’s,” Joseph replied, nostrils flared.

  “Ah. Then, a thousand apologies, my friend,” Max said expansively. “Rupert here is in his cups. Pray, do not be offended. We meant no disrespect.”

  Mercy rose and hissed, “Let’s go.” She crossed the room without looking at anyone, though she felt two pairs of eyes track her exit.

  Max’s low mutter followed her out the door. “Well, there goes our invitation to return. . . .”

  Mercy continued on, stomach churning.

  Joseph caught up with her in the hall. “Are you all right?”

  “I would have preferred not to make a scene.”

  “Are you angry with me? I couldn’t sit there and do nothing while they talked about you like that.”

  “Yes, you could have. I did.”

  “You are not me, Miss Grove. I wanted to flatten them both, but at least I resisted that.”

  “You would have found yourself without a position in the morning, and perhaps I would have as well.”

  “Do you really think Mr. Drake would choose that sorry pair over you?” He tilted his head and sent her a dubious look. “Hardly.”

  Mercy stifled a futile rebuttal. He was probably right. She drew herself up. “Well, good night, Mr. Kingsley. Thank you for the pleasant evening, at least until that last bit.”

  He nodded, eyes glinting. “There was nothing in what they said. Was there?”

  “Of course not.” She turned and headed for the stairs. As Max had said, Rupert was drunk and spouting foolishness. Surely it was nothing more than that.

  When his friends left the next afternoon, James called Mercy into his office. “Come and sit a minute, will you?”

  She did so, and he took the chair near hers rather than the one behind the desk. “I wanted to apologize. My boorish friends were rude to you last night, and I am sorry I subjected you to their stories about my past behavior. I know you cannot approve.”

  “If even half of those stories were true, you have changed a great deal since then.”

  “I hope so.” He fiddled with the wax seal stamp on his desk, then said, “It reminds me of something Jane said to me recently. I mentioned I worry about being a good father for Alice, and she said, ‘Just be yourself and Alice will love you.’ But I disagreed.”

  He stared out the window. “I don’t want to be my old self anymore. I want to have a far better relationship with Alice than I have with my own father. I can’t do that by just ‘being myself.’ I want to be a better man for Alice’s sake. Better than you heard described last night.”

  Stunned to see him so vulnerable, Mercy instinctively reached toward him, but she stopped herself, clasping her hand in her lap instead. “If it helps, I did not recognize the man your friends described. To change our fallen natures by sheer force of will is incredibly difficult, though I’d say you’ve made impressive strides already. Thankfully we don’t have to rely on ourselves alone. God will help us.”

  “Mercy, what you propose seems more difficult yet. You know I am accustomed to relying on no one but myself. Even if I could stomach asking God, why would He help me? Why would He care when I have disdained Him all these years—or at best ignored Him?”

  “Because He loves you, even more than you love Alice.”

  He leaned back in his chair, fingers tented. “Well. I will consider what you say. But first, now that Max and Rupert are gone, how about a quiet dinner, just you and me?”

  Nervous tension needled her stomach. “I . . . think I have had enough dinners for a while. I will go to bed early, if you don’t mind. I am unaccountably tired.”

  Concern filled his features. “Are you all right? I hope you are not taking ill.”

  “No, I am perfectly well. Or will be, after some rest.” She rose.

  “As you wish. I hope you are not . . . displeased with me for some reason? I don’t mean to foist my company on you more than is comfortable.”

  “Of course not. And please don’t think this is because of anything I learned about your past.” Only fears for the future!

  “That’s a relief. Well, good night, Mercy. Sleep well.”

  She nodded and walked away, thoughts in a whirl. The previous night’s conversation spun through her mind once more, and conflicting emotions bubbled in her stomach. Surely James did not admire her in that way. Most likely he had praised her to his friends only out of protectiveness or kindness. But if not . . . ? Mercy was not sure she was ready to find out.

  chapter

  Twenty-Nine

  Victorine sat in her workroom, material spread about her, trying not to cry. She was learning that it was one thing to make a gown that looked good from a distance—one made to sparkle and give the illusion of grandeur and elegance—and something entirely different to create a gown that could pass the test of close inspection.

  She had once designed and sewn her own court dress after studying fashion prints and newspaper descriptions of ladies at court. She also had experience in creating costumes quickly from secondhand material and making over dresses from the previous year. But to cut and sew something brand-new, with tiny, even stitches perfect enough to withstand the scrutiny of the dowager Lady Brockwell, her quizzing glass held close to each dart and seam . . . ? Impossible.

  Victorine pressed a hand to each temple and moaned. “Oh, why did I ever say I could do this?”

  She was tempted to tell Lady Barbara that such fine work was best taken elsewhere, and the sooner the better, so the woman could find someone else to make her daughter’s dress in time for the wedding. Victorine knew the longer she waited, the worse it would be. If only she could give the advance back and apologize.

  But she couldn’t. She had already spent the money at the linen drapers in Salisbury—such fine material, along with all the trimmings, was very expensive, she’d learned.

  There was no way out. She had to do this. Somehow.

  The shop door opened, and Victorine turned to greet a customer. She instantly tensed. There in the doorway stood Ivy Hill’s former mantua-maker and milliner—and her present landlady. She had not seen her since signing the lease, and even then the property agent had done most of the talking. The elderly woman wore a frock of yellow-and-blue stripes, and a feathered cap. Fashionable, yes, though perhaps more suited to a younger female.

  “Good day, Mrs. Shabner.”

  The woman dipped her head in acknowledgment. “I wanted to ask how you are getting on here. And see the changes you’ve made to the shop.”

  “You are very welcome,” Victorine said, forcing a smile.

>   The woman strolled slowly around the room, pausing to look at the display of bonnets and hats. “You have changed very little.” She gestured toward the front window. “May I look at your gowns on display?”

  “Of course.” She stood awkwardly as the woman studied each one, lifting a sleeve here, pulling back a lining there, inspecting a seam.

  “Excellent material and stitching.”

  Victorine replied stiffly, “Thank you.”

  “French designs?”

  “Yes, I . . . am fond of French fashions.”

  “Yet you do not wear them.” Mrs. Shabner gestured toward the frock she wore. Her oldest. Why had she worn it today of all days?

  “I planned to do some cleaning today, so I dressed accordingly.”

  The woman shifted her gaze to the new gown hanging on a dress form.

  Feeling a bit defensive, Victorine said, “Miss Featherstone specifically requested a very simple, inexpensive daydress. It is not finished yet.”

  “Hmm. Where did you say you spent your apprenticeship?”

  Victorine clasped her hands together. “I didn’t say. But Madame Devereaux taught me a great deal. And my mother before her.”

  Mrs. Shabner frowned. “When we met with Mr. Gordon, I thought you had a French accent, but now I don’t really hear it.”

  This again. Victorine said, “My mother was French, so perhaps I sound somewhat like her.”

  Mrs. Shabner narrowed her eyes. “The name of your shop leads one to believe you are a French modiste. Was that your intention, Madame Victorine?”

  Her father had often called her Victorine, though it was not her real name. He had a nickname or two for everyone and fondly referred to his wife and daughters as Mes trois beautés or Mesdames Victorine in flawed French—he never learned to speak it properly.

  She and her mother had dreamed of opening a dress shop together one day, planning to call it Mesdames Victorine—a nod to his pet name. Instead, her mother took ill with the influenza one winter and died quite young, leaving a gaping hole in their family.

  But to Mrs. Shabner, Victorine said only, “I thought the name suited, at the time. Do you object?”