The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  Patrick glanced over and waved a dismissive hand. “Howard Phillips. His parents own the Crown.”

  Thora lifted her chin in recognition. “Ah.”

  Jane had not seen him in some time, but having grown up near Wishford—shopping there and attending church there—she knew who he was.

  Thora frowned. “What is he looking at?”

  “Probably spying for his parents. Wondering how long until we begin stealing some of their customers.” Patrick waggled his eyebrows. “Which won’t be long now.”

  “Now, Patrick,” Hetty gently admonished. “Don’t instigate a rivalry. You know the Crown caters primarily to people traveling through Wishford. Our lodging house is for people who need a place to live long term. And we had better hope there are enough of them.”

  He stroked her cheek. “There shall be, my love. Never fear.”

  Hetty sighed. “The thrills and risks of opening a new establishment, I suppose.”

  Patrick called to their observer, “You can come over here, Howard, and get a better look!”

  “Shh . . . Patrick.” Hetty clutched his arm. “Be kind.”

  “I thought I was being kind. Neighborly, actually.”

  The young man blew a ring of smoke. “Why should I? I can see your comedy of errors from here. Never held a hammer before?”

  Patrick tensed, taking one step in his direction, but Jane quickly moved into his path, brightly changing the subject.

  “Speaking of new establishments, have you heard we have a new dressmaker in Ivy Hill?”

  With a worried look at her still-glaring husband, Hetty replied, “Only in passing. Mrs. Shabner lives in Wishford now, and she mentioned it. Something about a French modiste, but I confess I paid little heed. Is the shop doing well?”

  “I fear Victorine is struggling.” In more ways than one.

  “Victorine?” Hetty repeated, the word disturbing her expression like a stone tossed in a placid lake.

  “Yes. Might you know her?” Jane asked.

  Hetty blinked troubled blue eyes. “Know her? That’s unlikely, is it not?”

  “Is it?” Jane watched her face. Surprised by the flash of . . . fear she saw there. At the same time, she became aware of Thora studying her with a perplexed frown.

  A moment later, whatever Jane had seen in Hetty’s face retreated behind one of her pretty smiles. “Why should I know a French dressmaker? Or any dressmaker, for that matter, when all my clothes are secondhand? It only struck me as an unusual name.”

  “Would you like to come into Ivy Hill and visit the shop with me?”

  Hetty shook her head. “I couldn’t. Too much to do. Besides, new dresses are not exactly in the budget at present.”

  Patrick put his arm around her. “But as soon as our lodging house earns a profit, we shall buy new dresses for you and Betsey both, if you like.”

  His wife sent him a wry look. “At the moment, I would rather have a long nap, but thank you, my love.”

  Turning to ask Thora something about the farm, Hetty said no more on the subject of the dressmaker.

  Jane swallowed her disappointment. Apparently she had let her imagination get the best of her.

  Victorine laid out the pattern pieces on the white satin, careful not to mar its glossy surface. She arranged them one way, then another, trying to make the most economical use of the fine material.

  It was more difficult than it looked, and she began to fear she had not purchased enough fabric.

  She gathered up the pattern pieces and tried again. Would nothing go according to plan?

  The meager savings she’d started with were almost gone. Soon the profits from the shop would have to be enough to support her. But she’d sold only a few hats and gowns, discovered new material was expensive, and now her rent was almost due.

  She had thought it would be easier, that this was a role she could easily play. After all, she enjoyed sewing and had made many beautiful costumes—costumes that fastened and unfastened easily, with extra fabric allowance in case a player gained a stone over the long winter or a larger understudy had to take over the role on short notice. But the experience had not prepared her as much as she’d thought for making dresses for daily life, and especially not a fine wedding gown for an exacting customer.

  And considering her tenuous position in the village, if she couldn’t make this dress for the Brockwells, she feared she would never be asked to make another.

  If only she could get through this one challenge, keep up the act just a little while longer, before everyone realized she wasn’t qualified and that “Madame Victorine” had never made a wedding dress in her life.

  Drawing a fortifying breath, she returned her attention to the pattern pieces and began pinning them to the satin.

  But her concentration was quickly interrupted when Jack Gander strode into the shop, something long tucked under his arm. Seeing him, her heart lightened, and a smile tickled the corners of her mouth. But as he crossed the shop to her, she noticed his tense jaw and flared nostrils.

  Laying the tube of canvas on the counter, he unrolled it, and her stomach dropped.

  He looked up at her, watching her carefully. “I knew I had seen your likeness before, and this proves it.”

  With his index finger, he tapped the large painted show cloth—one of the many her father had posted on the outside of their tent and caravan wagons. Seeing it stole the breath from her lungs. Had her father thrown it away after she left? It felt like a rejection. But what had she expected?

  When she said nothing, he continued, “I wasn’t able to find anything on my own, but with the offer of a few sovereigns and a plea for help, I was able to expand my search. I had several other guards and acquaintances searching for anyone who’d heard of, or seen, a beautiful black-haired performer named Victorine or something like it. And yesterday my search yielded this.”

  She cringed. The image on the advertisement was of a dark-haired woman in a spangled court dress, black and white feathers in her hair. Before her, a white horse “bowed” on one knee, wearing a black collar and cravat around his neck, and black gaiters on each leg. It was a very accurate rendering of them both. Dear old Charger . . .

  The text read, Miss Victor, the raven-haired wonder, dances a perfect minuet with a gentlemanly stallion. In smaller letters at the bottom was the troupe name: The Earl’s Menagerie and Traveling Players.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked.

  “A coachman friend of mine purchased it from one of the troupe’s drivers. It was no longer being used because the ‘raven-haired wonder’ is no longer with the troupe.”

  She swallowed, unable to meet his eyes.

  “You lied to me,” he said. “I knew I had seen your face in print.”

  She braved a look at him. His eyes were cold now, when they had once been so warm. “I did not lie. You accused me of performing for Astley’s, and I never did.”

  “Come on, you knew what I meant.”

  “I have my reasons for keeping my connection to the troupe private.”

  Jack’s brow puckered. “I realize traveling performers have poor reputations, but that is not cause enough to conceal your past. To deceive an entire village.”

  “Is it not? Who would engage me to make a fine gown, knowing that I was raised among actors and showmen, and that most of what I have sewn has been theatrical costumes? You know people regard traveling players as equal to gypsies. And actresses, little better than prostitutes.”

  He flinched at the word.

  She added, “I did not set out to deceive people, only to break with my past and start a new life, untainted by prejudice.”

  She studied his handsome, rigid face, hoping to see a flicker of his former admiration. “Please do not judge me so harshly. You have never had men leer and paw at you as though you were a common trollop.” She shook her head, feeling her eyes heat. He wouldn’t understand. Men rarely did.

  He frowned. “You had better tell me everything, or
I will feel it my duty to tell Mrs. Bell you are not who you claim to be and let her decide whether or not to tell everyone else.”

  She met his gaze, measuring his resolve. “Very well. I clearly have little choice.” She took a deep breath and began her tale.

  chapter

  Thirty-Five

  The day after her conversation with Mr. Hain-Drake, Mercy went out on the balcony and sat down to relax in one of the cushioned chairs, enjoying the breeze and the view of the surrounding countryside.

  James came out to join her, handing her a glass of lemonade.

  “Thank you.” She sipped, then said, “Your father showed me his office yesterday.”

  “Oh? Were you duly impressed?”

  “I was. But not in the way you think.”

  “Then how so? I have not been in there in years, myself.”

  “That’s just it. He is disappointed you didn’t go into business with him.”

  “Only because he wanted to control every aspect of my life, dictate my every step. But I didn’t want to be his lackey, like Francis has become. I wanted to succeed on my own terms and on my own merit—not have everything handed to me. That’s why I dropped the Hain portion of our surname—to prove I could make my own way in the world without the advantages of our connection.”

  He looked off into the distance, then continued. “I started my first business when I was still at university. After graduating, I went into partnership with Max and Rupert and eventually sold my share for a considerable profit. I invested the money wisely and used the proceeds to buy my first hotel, but nothing I did pleased or impressed my father. None of my accomplishments could measure up to his.”

  He slowly shook his head. “So over the years, I came home less and less. The distance helped. My bitterness and desire to triumph over him would fade to the background—at least until a rare visit home when he would again demean my paltry endeavors. Then that resentment and desire to prove myself would flare up once more.”

  “And this visit home?”

  James shrugged. “Better than most. Having you here has tempered us both, I think.”

  “James, I know that on the surface he seems a proud and critical man. But in his office, I got a glimpse behind the mask. He realizes his deficiencies as a parent, the emptiness of his success, and the price he’s paid in losing you over it.”

  “He hasn’t exactly lost me. I am here, aren’t I?”

  “Come, you can’t deny there’s a wall between you. Your father doesn’t know how to go about tearing it down. I think he is afraid to admit he needs you.”

  “Needs me? My father? I will never believe it.”

  “Oh, James. Never say never.”

  Hearing excited chatter and footsteps pass beneath them, Mercy rose and stepped to the railing.

  “James, look!”

  He joined her there, and together they watched as Mr. Hain-Drake, fishing poles clutched in one hand and holding young Harold by the other, walked with his four grandchildren toward the fish pond.

  James shook his head in wonder. “Never say never, indeed.”

  They left Drayton Park the following day, and the journey back to the Fairmont passed without mishap. Mercy was eager to return, both to start teaching again and to see Mr. Kingsley.

  As if reading her thoughts, Alice said, “I can’t wait to see Johnny and Mr. Kingsley and tell them about the puppies, and kites, and fishing, and well . . . everything!”

  Mercy said, “I understand, but first we ought to put away our things.”

  Mr. Drake added, “Yes, and then dinner. We’re arriving later than I’d hoped and I’m starving.”

  When they entered the hall, Alice saw the sandy-haired builder kneeling before the wall, reattaching a piece of baseboard. With a giggle, she ran up to him and wrapped her hands over his eyes. “Guess who?”

  “I . . . have no idea.”

  The man stood and turned. Not Joseph, but Aaron.

  “Sorry!” Alice blushed furiously and covered her face with her hands.

  Mercy hurried to console her. “Don’t be embarrassed, Alice. I have mistaken him for his older brother twice now.”

  “Have you?” There stood Joseph, working in the office nearby. His mouth parted and chin lifted in comprehension. “Ahh . . .” He held her gaze, a knowing light in his eyes. Too knowing.

  She feigned nonchalance. “Hello, Mr. Kingsley.”

  “Miss Grove. Alice. Pleased to see you back. Good trip?”

  “Yes!” Alice blurted, and began an exuberant account.

  “You can tell Mr. Kingsley all about it later, Alice.” Mercy gently turned her toward the stairs. “Now it’s time to go up and help Iris unpack. Be sure to wash your face and hands before dinner.”

  Alice groaned but complied.

  Joseph followed them across the hall, and when Alice started up the stairs, he took Mercy’s hand and pulled her around the corner into one of the private parlours.

  “I have to ask,” he said. “That day at the window . . . Did you think it was me kissing Esther?”

  She pressed her lips together. “I . . . may have done. You no doubt think me very foolish. But remember, I saw you embrace Esther on the green before, and the two of you in that very spot having a picnic. And you and your brother resemble each other a great deal from behind.”

  “And that was why you were so upset?”

  She thought of how she must have appeared, standing there crying. She looked down—feeling embarrassed and deeply vulnerable—and let her silence be her answer.

  He stepped nearer, until his boots entered her field of vision, the masculine brown leather touching the hem of her skirt.

  She felt his hand beneath her chin, and he gently lifted her face.

  He looked directly into her eyes, his voice rumbling low in his chest. “Mercy Grove, there is only one woman I am longing to kiss.”

  Mercy’s heart banged against her breastbone, in painfully sweet anticipation. Did he mean . . . ? She looked deep into his eyes and felt herself sink into them. She never wanted to leave. Oh, to wake up to those warm brown eyes every day of her life . . .

  He leaned near, his gaze locked with hers, then shifting to her mouth. He lowered his head, and her lashes fluttered closed.

  A door banged open in the hall, and Mr. Drake’s voice called for the porter.

  Mr. Kingsley abruptly stepped back, and Mercy barely resisted the urge to reach out and draw him near again. The porter hurried past the open parlour door to answer Mr. Drake’s summons. A moment later, the boot boy followed him, waving to Mercy as he passed.

  Mr. Kingsley cleared his throat. “Well. I had better get back to work, Miss Grove. But may we . . . talk, later?”

  “Yes.” She nodded and managed a tremulous smile, then hurried up to her room. She climbed one pair of stairs after another, heart beating hard, her breath coming in shallow draws that had little to do with the exertion of the climb.

  Mercy hoped to see Joseph again later that day, but after unpacking, gathering clothes for the laundry, and dining with Alice and Mr. Drake, she was disheartened to learn he had gone home for the evening. Nor did she see him the next day, except in passing, as she was occupied with getting Alice started on her schoolwork again, and in the evening she helped Mr. Drake catch up on the correspondence that had accumulated during his absence.

  Mercy was happy to help but inwardly sighed. For she doubted she would have time to talk to Mr. Kingsley the following day either, as she would be busy decorating The Bell for Jane’s wedding. She wondered if Mr. Kingsley would attend but had no opportunity to ask him. She certainly hoped he would.

  Jane and Gabriel’s wedding was fast approaching, and the arrangements were, for the most part, settled. With the wet year they were having, Jane had decided against attempting a courtyard setting for the wedding breakfast, and instead planned to have it inside the dining parlour and coffee room. Mercy and several women from the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society had volunteered to he
lp decorate The Bell for the occasion, while Rachel and her lady’s maid, Jemima, would help Jane dress and arrange her hair. Stalwart Mrs. Rooke had planned a fine meal, including a cake ordered from Craddock’s bakery.

  Even though Jane had been the one to insist on not waiting to marry, now that the day was nearly upon them, the reality of the changes to come began to press on her heart.

  As much as she loved Gabriel and wanted to spend the rest of her life with him, she was still nervous about the wedding night and all those nights to come . . . and the likely consequences.

  One evening, as they sat together after dinner, Gabriel took her hand and said, “Jane, I know you are worried about losing more children. And so am I. But let’s give our marriage, and our marriage bed, to God. Whatever happens, we will get through it together.” He bowed his head and prayed aloud, and Jane took comfort in listening to her future husband talk to the Almighty on their behalf in his rich baritone voice. Even so, Jane added a silent plea of her own: Help me bear more losses, if losses come.

  Two days before the wedding, the Talbots invited Jane and Gabriel to have dinner with them at their house. Over the meal, they discussed each other’s farms, and the upcoming nuptials.

  “Gabriel’s parents and uncle arrive tomorrow,” Jane said. “We’ve decided to put them at The Bell instead of the farm for their visit—in the best rooms, of course.”

  Thora nodded, then asked, “Is your father still lodging in Wilton?”

  “Yes. I’ve invited him to stay at The Bell more than once, but so far he hasn’t accepted. He seems to prefer Wilton for some reason.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve heard; does he plan to stay in the area?”

  “I hope so, but he has not said.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Gordon, or Mr. Arnold in Wishford, would be happy to find him a house to let or buy—though probably nothing as grand as he’s used to.”

  “I believe he lived fairly simply in India,” Jane replied. “I mentioned the possibility of finding more permanent lodgings, but he didn’t seem interested, so I didn’t press him.”

  Talbot said, “Well, at least Wilton is much closer than India.”