The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  He grinned softly. “And a father, don’t forget.”

  “I don’t forget. And I am glad of it. But she . . .”

  “She what?”

  The words “She belongs here” stuck in Mercy’s throat. Sweet words with a barb that would sting.

  Instead, she smiled. Voice thick with emotion, Mercy said, “She is one blessed little girl.”

  Later that day, Mr. Hain-Drake hailed Mercy as she passed by in the corridor.

  “Come and see my office, Miss Grove.”

  Mercy entered warily, the words lion’s den going through her mind.

  Hands behind his back, he surveyed the room. “I refurbished it ten years ago now, but still I think it’s modern enough to impress the learned governess. I also keep an office in one of our warehouses near the docks, but these days I hold most of my meetings here. Francis handles the day-to-day tasks at the port.” He grimaced. “Tries to at any rate.”

  He gestured toward two large windows. “That second window was James’s suggestion. He likes a lot of light.”

  She nodded, then noticed two open doors leading to adjacent offices. She pointed to the larger one, only slightly smaller than the one they stood in. “Whose office is that?”

  He glanced at it, shifted from foot to foot, and shrugged. “Francis uses it when he’s here.”

  “And the smaller one?”

  “Leonard, my secretary. He’s off on an errand at present.”

  “James said Francis is your business partner?”

  He scowled. “More of an . . . assistant. And a poor one, truth be told. But don’t repeat that to Lucy. She doesn’t like to hear her husband so maligned.”

  “Is he not . . . skilled?”

  Mr. Hain-Drake shook his head. “He’s a good man—don’t mistake me—and eager to please. But . . .” He sighed. “No business acumen.”

  “Perhaps in time and with more experience . . . ?”

  He slanted her a bemused look. “James told me you saw the good in people, even with evidence to the contrary. I see what he means.”

  James and his father had spoken of her? Unease swept over her at the thought.

  Mercy’s focus was drawn to a portrait on the wall—James, as a younger man. His hair a shade lighter, his face leaner, his eyes a bit less cynical.

  Noticing the direction of her gaze, he gestured toward the frame. “Commissioned that years ago when James came of age.”

  She nodded. “It’s a good likeness.”

  He gestured to a smaller frame near it. “That’s one of the first buildings he designed. He was only fourteen.”

  Mercy stepped nearer to study the framed sketch, which resembled a builder’s elevation plan more than a piece of artwork. “Excellent. Perhaps he ought to have been an architect.”

  Again the man scowled. “What he ought to have been is my . . .” He let the sentence fade away, unfinished.

  Childish shouts drew their attention outside, and they both stepped to the windows to investigate. Below, James, Alice, Lou-Lou, and Henry were playing battledore and shuttlecock, while younger Harold was sitting on the lawn nearby, frolicking with the pups.

  Mr. Hain-Drake shook his head. “And now he wants to be a father.”

  “Yes. I think he will be a good one.”

  “Do you? I sometimes think we are cut from the same cloth more than he likes to admit. I was too busy building an empire to be involved with his and Lucy’s upbringing. Don’t misunderstand; they were not neglected. They grew up with every advantage, though you wouldn’t know it to see James’s bitterness toward me now. Those two had everything they could need. The most qualified nurses, governesses, and tutors, the best education money could buy . . .” He shook his head. “But when James was old enough and I wanted to interest him in the business, he refused me. I doubt he will fare any better in the frustrating business of parenting than I did. Not with his time and energies consumed by his new hotel and the one after that. I am glad the girl has you.”

  Mercy injected a cheerful note into her voice. “And I am glad Alice has him, as well as her aunt, uncle, cousins, grandmother, and grandfather. Perhaps you were not the best father—I cannot say. But you still have time to be an involved and caring grandfather.”

  “Not much time,” he murmured, staring down at the children again.

  She gave him a sidelong glance, unsure of his meaning.

  Noticing her scrutiny, he said, “They grow up so fast.”

  At the Monday gathering of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society, Jane found herself in the strange position of opening the meeting, as Mercy was still away traveling.

  The soft-spoken almshouse matron, Mrs. Mennell, did not attend often and usually said little, but today she rose and said, “I know some of you have concerns about Miss Victorine’s character, but I have decided she has a good heart. She came to the almshouse last week and asked if she could do any mending for the residents.”

  Mrs. Barton smirked. “Someone must be desperate for work.”

  “No, Bridget. She volunteered to do it free of charge.”

  “Oh.”

  Around the room, several women pursed their lips, impressed, while others whispered to one another.

  Mrs. Burlingame said, “I saw Mrs. Shabner in Wishford recently, and she told me she visited the shop and was impressed with the quality of the designs. And if it’s good enough for Mrs. Shabner, it’s good enough for me.”

  Mrs. Barton crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “I still say she tried to pull the wool over our eyes.”

  Becky said, “You know, she didn’t actually say she was French, did she? She didn’t walk up to any of us and say, ‘Bonjour, I am zee new French modiste, come and spend beaucoup money on my Parisian gowns.’ She doesn’t even have a French accent to speak of.”

  Jane nodded. “You’re right, Becky. I think it was Mrs. Shabner who first said she had an accent, but that is probably because her mother was French.”

  “Really, you two,” Mrs. Barton said. “That is taking charity too far. With a name like Madame Victorine, what else were we to think? Next you will tell me she didn’t actually say she made those fine dresses in her window.”

  “Well, she didn’t, at least not in my hearing,” Jane replied. “Though she did alter a dress for Matilda Grove, so we know she is able to sew. And I understand she is making a wedding gown for Justina Brockwell.”

  Astonished looks were exchanged at that bit of news.

  Julia Featherstone stood up. “She made this new frock for me. I asked for an ordinary printed cotton daydress. Nothing fancy. She delivered exactly what I asked for.” Julia looked down at her bodice and swished her skirt side to side. “It is very . . . ordinary . . . indeed.”

  “Humph. And how much did you pay for this very ordinary dress?” Bridget Barton asked.

  Julia told her. The sum was surprisingly low.

  Bridget raised her hands. “Apparently, you get what you pay for.”

  As the women talked, Jane was reminded of some of the unkind things her detractors had said about her when she took over as The Bell’s innkeeper. Her heart went out to the new dressmaker.

  And suddenly there she was. Victorine stood at the back of the room, her arms full of fabric. Jane’s stomach twisted. She must have slipped in after the meeting started. One look at the woman’s pale face and Jane knew she had heard at least some of what was being said about her.

  One by one, heads turned as the women became aware of her presence. Most of the women looked sheepish, but Mrs. Barton lifted a stubborn chin.

  Victorine said evenly, “If you are unhappy with your new dress, Miss Featherstone, please return it to the shop, and I will give your money back. That goes for anyone else who purchased something from me.”

  Looking guilt-stricken, Julia said, “I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I only meant it’s not fancy like the gowns in your window.”

  “I did not make those gowns.”

  “Aha! It is as we thought.”
Mrs. Barton elbowed Mrs. Klein beside her. “You were right, Kristine. She’s a fraud.”

  Mrs. Klein winced apologetically. “I didn’t say fraud. But we were understandably under the impression that your gowns were . . . if not from France, at least informed by a familiarity with that country’s fashions.”

  Around the room, heads nodded in agreement.

  Victorine said, “The model gowns I displayed were made by a French modiste, though one living and working in London. They were given to me.”

  Thoughts of stolen gowns and the woman wearing an identical dress spun through Jane’s mind. “Given?” she repeated. “By whom?” She recalled the London dressmaker the woman had mentioned, and asked, “Are you saying another dressmaker gave you these models for some reason?”

  “No. Not her. I’ve mentioned my friend and mentor, Martine Devereaux. She and her husband were planning to retire to France. She had these new gowns made in anticipation.”

  Victorine looked down at the burden in her arms and slowly shook her head. “She died in her sleep the night before they were to depart. Her husband insisted on giving me two trunks of her things, including the new gowns and hats she’d had made in London.”

  Jane said gently, “I am sorry for your loss. But don’t you think it might have been a little deceptive to pass them off as your own work?”

  “In hindsight, yes. But newspapers are full of advertisements from mantua-makers and milliners announcing their return from Paris or London ‘with a variety of fashionable fancy models.’ I did not think I was doing something so very wrong, at the time. Now I realize it was deceptive—especially after you and the Miss Groves met someone who claimed Matilda’s gown was made by her dressmaker. I was in earnest when I said I’d never met the woman. Even so, I should have told you I did not make these gowns before now, should have told all of you. But I did not, and I apologize.”

  An awkward silence fell. Some women continued to stare at her, while others avoided her gaze.

  Victorine squared her shoulders. “Well. Thank you for hearing me out.” She lifted the gowns draped over her arm. “Mrs. Mennell, do you think these could be of some use to the almshouse residents? I have two here and more in the shop. Or should I give them to the church charity guild instead?”

  Shock washed over Jane, and around the room women gasped, shared incredulous looks, or sat open-mouthed. A protest sprang to Jane’s lips, but she bit it back. She would not discourage the audacious act, not when it would allow Victorine to make a fresh start—as well as restitution.

  The almshouse matron blinked, then slowly nodded. “Either would be blessed by such a generous donation.”

  “Good.” Victorine walked forward and thrust the dresses into Mrs. Mennell’s arms, then pivoted and strode out of the room.

  After she’d left, Jane tried to steer the buzzing conversation to the next topic on the agenda, to little avail. Eventually she gave up and adjourned the meeting early, her thoughts still on the enigmatic Victorine.

  On her way back to The Bell, Jane stopped at Victorine’s. Faint light seeped through the window. She knocked softly.

  The dressmaker opened the door, eyes weary and wary. “Jane. Come in.”

  Jane stepped inside. Hoping to ease the tension in the woman’s tight expression and posture, she teased, “Coming to the meeting like that, your arms full of gowns . . . You sure know how to make an entrance.”

  That earned a small grin in reply. “Very true.”

  “You certainly enlivened our meeting.”

  “No doubt. When you knocked, I was afraid I’d find a whole troupe of angry women at my door ready to rail at me, or at least to demand their money back.”

  “No, I think they’ve said all they intend to—and more than enough, no doubt.”

  Jane looked from the linen tape measure around Victorine’s neck to the worktable covered with pattern pieces, tissue, and drawings. “You’re working late.”

  Victorine nodded. “This gown for Miss Brockwell . . . it’s more difficult than I imagined it would be.”

  Jane returned her gaze to Victorine. “Did you even work in a dress shop before coming here?”

  She shook her head. “No. Martine and I fashioned costumes of all sorts for years, but this is my first time working in a shop. And my last, at this rate. I have little savings and foolishly thought selling Martine’s gowns would buy me more time. I hoped I had learned enough over the years to succeed as a dressmaker. I am beginning to realize I was wrong.”

  “I am sorry you are struggling. I remember how that feels. When I took over as innkeeper, I was plagued by doubts and unsure what to do and how to make the place profitable.”

  Jane laid a hand on her arm. “Victorine, I was in earnest when I said to let me know if there is anything I can do to help you. That offer still stands.”

  “Thank you. That means a lot. But if I can’t pay next month’s rent, I will have to admit defeat and leave. And after tonight, that is looking rather likely.”

  Jane found herself studying Victorine’s face as she spoke. There was still something so familiar about her. She asked, “Why did you choose Ivy Hill, of all places?”

  “I saw an advertisement for a dressmaker’s shop for let and had fond memories of visiting Ivy Hill with my family as a girl.”

  “Where is your family now?”

  “Oh, here and there. As I said, my father moves around a great deal for his . . . work. And my sister and I have lost touch. She did briefly live in the area a few years ago—in Salisbury, I believe. She has since moved on, but somehow I feel closer to her here in Wiltshire, silly as that must sound.”

  Not only was the woman’s face familiar, but now her words about her family also had a familiar ring. Jane had a dizzying sense that she’d had a conversation very much like this before. But when . . . and with whom?

  chapter

  Thirty-Four

  Jane should have been thinking about her own approaching wedding, but instead she found herself thinking again of Hetty and Patrick’s elopement. When Hetty Piper briefly worked for her at The Bell before agreeing to marry Patrick, Jane had asked about her past more than once, but Hetty brushed off questions about where she was from, saying her family had moved around a lot, and that she had not been in contact with them since Betsey was born. Hetty had admitted she missed her large extended family, whom she had not seen in a long while.

  At the time, Jane assumed Hetty wished to keep secret from them the fact that she’d had a child out of wedlock. But now she wondered if there was more to it.

  She recalled Hetty’s discomfort when they’d all sat down together to discuss wedding plans. . . .

  “What would Mr. Paley need to publish the banns?” Hetty had asked, her voice edged with worry.

  “If I remember right,” Thora said, “all that was required was writing down your full name and place of residence.”

  “Be sure to spell your name correctly,” Jane had teased. “Using the wrong name renders a marriage null and void.” Jane laughed at the little joke, but Hetty did not smile in return.

  “What a lot of bother,” she’d moaned instead. “Can we not simply elope?”

  Jane had tried to reassure Hetty that a wedding would not be all that difficult, and that she and Thora would help with everything. But in the end, the couple had eloped anyway.

  Now Jane wondered anew what had really been the cause of Hetty’s reluctance to publicly post their intention to wed.

  It had been some time since she had visited Hetty and Patrick in Wishford. She decided to go and see them again as soon as she could.

  The following morning, Jane and Thora rode to Wishford in the gig, ostensibly to view Patrick and Hetty’s progress on the lodging house. In reality, Jane knew Thora went along mostly because she missed Betsey and wanted to see her again.

  When they arrived, the little family greeted them warmly, and Betsey raised her hands, asking Thora to pick her up. Thora happily obliged.

 
Together, the five of them walked around the property, Patrick showing them the grounds, pride mixed with sheepishness. The yard was weedy and overgrown, and the house did not yet have indoor plumbing. The old privy slumped to one side and would need to be replaced. Everywhere Jane looked, she saw a great deal of work to do. Patrick had become a capable manager but had little experience with repairs or construction. Hetty had always been a hard worker, but with a toddler to keep entertained and out of trouble, it was no doubt difficult to get much done. Thora still watched Betsey on occasion, but Wishford was several miles away and Thora had her own work on Angel Farm.

  A little brown mop of a terrier ran into the yard, his tail and entire hindquarters wagging joyously upon seeing Hetty.

  Hetty bent low, and the dog bounded over to her. She stroked his long, stringy hair. “Hello, Chips.” The terrier sniffed her apron pockets. “Sorry. No treat for you right now.”

  Betsey, still in Thora’s arms, generously offered her soggy biscuit for the purpose. The terrier rose on hind legs, paws raised in supplication, and even turned in a little circle.

  Jane smiled. “Did you teach him to do that?”

  Hetty shrugged. “Isn’t hard. Dogs like these are so clever and eager to please. I had one very like it once.”

  “Is this your dog, then?” Jane asked.

  “No!” Patrick interjected with a mock glower that fooled no one.

  His wife’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Not yet.”

  The tour continued. Patrick showed them where he hoped to extend the building once they had some rental income coming in, as well as the corner plot where they’d erected a fence and planted a kitchen garden. Noticing a loose nail in the garden gate, he pulled a hammer from his pocket and tapped at the protruding nail, only to miss and have to try again.

  As they walked around the lodging house, Jane noticed a man of about five and twenty leaning idly against a tree a few houses away, watching them. He smoked a cigarillo and now and again picked tobacco from his teeth. Lank blond hair hung over his face.

  “Who is that?” Thora asked.