The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  He followed her to the door. “Thank you, Miss Grove.”

  “There is no basin, but you are welcome to use the communal bathroom.”

  “I shall. Don’t worry, I have all I need. Except . . .”

  “Except?”

  He leaned close and, when she did not pull away, pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. “Good night.”

  Mercy’s pulse pounded. She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. Should she give him a good-night kiss in return?

  When she hesitated, Joseph leaned toward her again. His eyes glimmering by candlelight, focused now on her mouth . . .

  A voice called in a shaky whisper, “Miss Grove?”

  Mercy reluctantly turned. There stood Alice at the top of the stairs.

  “I’m scared. I had a bad dream about the storm.”

  Mercy turned back to Joseph with an apologetic smile. “I had better go. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Padding down the passage, Mercy took Alice’s hand, prepared to accompany her back to her room, pray for her, and tuck her in.

  “May I sleep with you? Just this once?”

  Mercy considered. “I suppose so. It has been quite a night, hasn’t it?” She opened the door to her own room, pulled back the bedclothes for the girl, and left the candle on the side table. “I’ll join you in a minute.”

  Guessing Iris had gone to bed long ago, Mercy unbuttoned and unpinned her front-fastening frock, left on her stays, and slipped a nightdress over her head. All the while her heart still pounded and her mind whirled with the memory of Joseph Kingsley’s face leaning toward hers, focused on her mouth . . .

  Expelling a long sigh, Mercy climbed into bed beside Alice. The girl visibly relaxed.

  For several moments, Mercy lay there, her own pulse calming and her mind slowing. He had only kissed her cheek, after all. Yet, what might have happened had Alice not come upstairs? Surely she had not imagined the way he’d looked at her, the intimate register of his voice, the light in his eyes?

  Alice whispered, “Miss Rachel let Phoebe and me sleep with her once during a storm at Ivy Cottage.”

  “Did she? How kind.”

  “She told us a story about a prince and two girls who loved him.”

  From personal experience, Mercy guessed. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Mm-hm. Will you tell me a story?”

  “I am afraid I am not good at making up stories, but I could tell you a real one, if you like.”

  “Yes, please.”

  Mercy thought, then began, “I read once about a man who had a beautiful daughter. He wanted to educate her away from the distraction of suitors, so he built a tall tower on his estate for her to live in. Every level held books and maps and drawings and whatever else he could think of for a subject he wanted her to learn. She would move up a floor as she mastered each one. The tower was like a layer cake. A layer cake of learning.” Mercy chuckled at the thought. “Sounds like something Aunt Matty would bake.”

  “Sounds lonely,” Alice murmured.

  “Yes. I suppose it was.”

  “Is that what your father did? Kept you in Ivy Cottage to teach you and protect you?”

  “No. He certainly saw to my education, but I was hardly a great beauty who needed to be protected from hordes of suitors.”

  “I think you’re beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Alice. I think you are beautiful too, inside and out.”

  The girl closed her eyes and curled into Mercy’s side. For several minutes, Mercy simply relished the sight of her sweet little face by the flickering light, and her trusting, affectionate presence beside her.

  Sometime later her door creaked open and she jerked awake. She must have nodded off, candle still burning. Had Mr. Kingsley come? Surely he would not . . .

  Instead she saw the shadowy outline of James Drake’s frowning face, his expression as dark as the corridor behind him. He huffed an exhale. “Here she is. I might have known.” Ire heated his whisper. “Did you mean to scare the life out of me?”

  Surprised and chagrined, Mercy climbed from bed and grabbed her dressing gown, slipping it on as she crossed the room to him. She stepped out into the passage, gingerly closing the door behind her to avoid waking Alice. Light from his candle flickered over his unhappy countenance.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Drake. I did not stop to think.”

  “Imagine how I felt, finding her room empty? And on such a night, with so many strangers about?”

  “She came up, scared by a bad dream, and asked to sleep with me. I agreed without considering you might look in on her and worry. I was distracted by . . . the events of the evening and wasn’t thinking clearly. Next time, I will return her to her room.”

  He squeezed his eyes closed and drew a deep breath. “I wouldn’t ask that. I was only worried. I let myself imagine some harm had befallen her. You needn’t turn her away. I’ll know where to look next time and will endeavor to remain calm in future.”

  “Again, I apologize.”

  He sighed. “Nothing to forgive, Mercy.” He laid a hand on her arm. “I apologize for overreacting.”

  She echoed, “Nothing to forgive.”

  His eyes made a slow scan of her features. “Do you know . . . you look lovely by candlelight. Such high color in your cheeks. I hope I didn’t embarrass you, coming up here like this.”

  “No, not at all.” There were other reasons for her high color, she knew.

  He released her. “Well, good night, Mercy.”

  “Good night.”

  Early the next morning, Mercy opened her eyes and quickly squeezed them shut again, the sunlight startling after the dark day before. From the stable yard below came the sounds of horse hooves and the crunching of wheels on gravel as chaises were brought out of the carriage house. Birds congregated outside her window, expressing their disapproval over last night’s storm in noisy chattering and chirping. Mercy gave up hope of falling back to sleep. Beside her, Alice slept on, peacefully. But uneasy from her encounters with Mr. Kingsley and Mr. Drake, and unaccustomed to sharing a bed with a wriggling child, Mercy had not slept well.

  Now she felt groggy, and a headache pinched her temples. Longing for nothing more than a bracing cup of tea, she donned a dressing gown and slipped from the room, tiptoeing barefoot along the silent passage and down the narrow servants’ stairs. Light from below seemed a promise of someone already busy in the kitchen and, hopefully, brewing a pot of tea.

  But as she descended, she realized the light was from the candle of someone rounding the landing. The top of a head came into view, then broad shoulders in shirt-sleeves and braces. He looked up, and she saw it was Mr. Kingsley coming up the stairs, a cup of something in his hand.

  He paused upon seeing her. “Good morning, Miss Grove.”

  “G-good morning, Mr. Kingsley. I . . . don’t make a habit of traipsing about the house in my nightclothes, but I didn’t think I was likely to encounter anyone on these stairs so early.”

  “I just came down for a much-needed coffee.” He offered her his cup. “I can fetch another.”

  “Thank you, but I have my heart set on tea.”

  “Then let me get out of your way.”

  He turned his shoulders and pressed to the wall so she could slip past him on the narrow staircase.

  Mercy felt self-conscious being so close to him, aware of her bare legs and her hair, which had escaped its pins during her restless night and hung over her shoulder in a single plait.

  As she neared, he grinned and whispered, “Lovely feet, by the way.”

  Heat rushed up her neck even as his boyish grin sent prickles of pleasure through her. His shoulder brushed hers as they passed, and she laid a hand on the spot as she continued to the kitchen.

  chapter

  Thirty-Nine

  The morning of their departure from Andover, Gabriel secured passage on the Royal Mail coach, and Jane was pleased to see Jack Gander on duty as its guard. The three exchanged greetings
, and Jack was effusive in his congratulations on their recent marriage.

  Sitting together inside the coach, Gabriel put his arm around Jane and drew her close to his side. “I enjoyed every minute. I hope you did too?”

  “I did.” She laid her cheek on his shoulder and snuggled against him for the journey home.

  The last stop before Ivy Hill was Salisbury. Jack kept them entertained with tunes on his horn, then blew the arrival signals as the Quicksilver rattled through the archway into the courtyard of the Red Lion for a brief stop there. He hopped down to assist a passenger alighting, while another passenger on the roof obliged him by handing down the man’s valise.

  Through the coach window, Jane saw Victorine step from the Red Lion and approach the Quicksilver, a wrapped parcel in her arms.

  Seeing her, Jack asked, “May I stow that for you, Miss Victorine?” He tipped his head to one side. “Or should I say Miss . . .” He leaned near to whisper something Jane could not hear.

  The dressmaker directed an uneasy glance toward the coach, then replied, “No, thank you. I shall keep it with me.”

  Inside the vehicle, Jane greeted her politely. “Hello, Victorine.” She added, “Jack is a flirt, to be sure, but he is harmless enough.”

  Victorine shook her head. “There is nothing harmless about that man.”

  Jane introduced Gabriel, then asked, “Doing some shopping here in Salisbury, I see.”

  Victorine looked down at the long parcel on her lap. “Yes, I had to purchase more material from the linen draper. I did not buy enough the first time.” She peeled back a layer of tissue for Jane to see. “Miss Brockwell chose this from a sample in a magazine. I was relieved they had enough left.”

  Jane looked at the layers of ivory satin and fine netting. She glanced up and noticed the dressmaker appeared more anxious than triumphant about her purchase.

  “It is very dear,” Victorine quietly confided. “And difficult to work with, I’ve found.”

  Jane reached out a finger to stroke the shimmering fabric but stopped just short of touching it. “It is beautiful.”

  In the courtyard, Jack Gander blew another signal. Soon the Quicksilver lurched into motion, rumbling out of Salisbury and past Wilton on its way to Ivy Hill. Through the left-hand coach window, Jane saw the sun beginning to set over Grovely Wood and through the right, the distant spire of the church in Wishford.

  They passed Fairmont House and began the climb up Ivy Hill. Out the window, Jane glimpsed a blur of fur as some animal ran past. A large animal. A deer, perhaps?

  Over the pounding hooves, she heard the horses whinny in distress, a dog bark, and a strange growl.

  Alarm snaked through Jane. Was it that wild dog again? Was he chasing the coach horses, as he had chased Gabriel’s?

  Jane pressed her nose to the glass, trying to see. “An animal ran past. What a strange growl it has!”

  “What’s happening?” Gabriel leaned close for a better view, his dark brows pulled low. “Is that the same dashed dog who chased Spirit?”

  Jane squinted against the dim light. “There are two animals out there. One is a dog. But what is the other one . . . a calf? It is running awfully fast to keep up with four horses.”

  Victorine looked out as well, her eyes widening. “That’s no calf. That’s a lion.”

  “A lion? You must be joking.”

  Victorine shook her head. “A lioness, to be exact. And I assure you I am not joking.”

  “A lioness . . . in England?” Jane’s heart pounded. Foolishly, she thought of Thora, whom Hetty called the lioness. But a living, breathing lion running free in Wiltshire, chasing the horses pulling their coach? It seemed unreal.

  Outside, the snarling dog ran after the lion, snapping at its legs.

  Victorine muttered something in French. “That stupid dog is chasing her, antagonizing her.”

  The mail coach crested the rise on the outskirts of Ivy Hill and would soon reach the inn.

  Jane panicked. “We’re leading a lion right to The Bell! What about the ostlers? The guests? They could be killed.”

  Gabriel pounded on the ceiling with his stick. “Stop! Stop the coach.”

  Jane craned her neck to see. The horses strained and jigged in their traces. Again, the dog snapped at the fawn-colored creature. The muscular lion lunged, fangs bared, plunging its teeth into the lead horse’s neck. The horse screamed, Jane screamed, and the Quicksilver finally lurched to a shuddering stop in the High Street, just outside the inn’s coach archway.

  A shot rang out. Jack Gander with his regulation blunderbuss, no doubt. Royal Mail guards were heavily armed to ensure the safety of the mail and their passengers.

  In the melee, the frantic outside passengers leapt down, running into the inn and slamming the door behind them. An older, slower passenger reached the door last and found it barred. He pounded on it in desperation.

  Jane opened the window a few inches. “Jack!” she shouted, pointing toward the passenger. “Help that man!”

  She knew Jack carried a brace of pistols in addition to the blunderbuss and would not hesitate to use them. She prayed he would not end up shooting the horses, or a fleeing passenger in the confusion. Lord, help us!

  Gabriel reached for the coach door, but Victorine shoved his hand aside. “No. Stay inside.” She grasped the door latch.

  “What are you doing?” Gabriel protested. “Don’t open that door. I’ll go.”

  “Close it after me. Stay inside.”

  Jane cried, “Victorine, don’t! Are you mad?”

  “If that fool shoots her I shall be more than mad.”

  She leapt out nimbly, parcel abandoned, and slammed the coach door behind her.

  Gabriel muttered, “That woman is crazy.”

  “Stop!” Victorine ran forward, hands raised. “Don’t shoot her, I beg of you.”

  “Get back inside!” Jack yelled.

  “No. Don’t shoot, or you may hit me. If you must shoot something, shoot that stupid dog.”

  With that Victorine whirled and stalked toward the lioness, whose teeth were still embedded in the panicked horse’s neck.

  “Sheba—Arrête!” she called. “Maintenant! Arrête-toi!”

  Victorine’s stern, commanding voice seemed to slowly penetrate the beast’s awareness. The lioness released the horse and turned to look at her. Would it now attack Victorine instead? Jane held her breath.

  “I can’t just sit here . . .” Gabriel reached for the latch, but Jane threw herself in front of him.

  “Oh no. You’ve barely recovered from one animal attack. I will not lose you now.”

  He hesitated, and together they stared out the window again. Jane gaped in disbelief at the sight of the lioness sitting submissively on her haunches before Victorine. How in the world . . . ? But then the wild dog jumped at the lion again, teeth barred and snarling. The lioness turned, smacking it to the ground with a lightning-fast slap of her claws. The dog whimpered and slunk away, hiding beneath the old granary.

  Then the lioness laid at Victorine’s feet, docile as a lamb.

  Jane turned to Gabriel, who looked as amazed as Jane felt.

  Jack Gander gingerly approached the subdued lion, blunderbuss poised.

  Again, Victorine held up a staying hand. “Don’t come any closer. She is calm now and will do no more harm if left in peace. The horse will live, I think. If that dog had not bitten her, I don’t think she would have attacked the horses.”

  A wagon rumbled up the hill and halted on the other side of the street.

  “Stay back!” Jack yelled, but the driver paid no heed. He and two other men—all strangers—jumped down. Behind the first wagon, another appeared, this one with a large cage on the back. Three more men climbed down from that one.

  The oldest man walked forward first, a large burlap sack in his hands. He wore dark clothes and theatrical cape, his auburn hair threaded with silver.

  Noticing Victorine, he paused. “Thank God you were here, my d
ear.”

  With an uneasy glance at the gathering onlookers, she said crisply, “Yes. Well. You may take it from here. My shop is just across the street there, if you would . . . like to call.”

  “Very well,” the man replied. “I shall see you later.”

  In the coach, Jane picked up Victorine’s parcel and waved out the window, trying to catch her eye, but she retreated, disappearing behind the growing crowd.

  The man who had spoken to Victorine laid the sack on the ground near the lioness, and with a single command, the animal lay down upon it. The men then tied her four legs and passed a cord round her mouth. Once she was trussed up safely, the six men grabbed hold of the burlap, lifted on three, and with grunts and grimaces of strain, carried her toward the caravan wagon. The lioness did not resist but rather, once untied, entered the caged den eagerly, clearly relieved to be back in familiar territory, away from snarling dogs, gunshots, and pounding hooves.

  Gabriel stepped out and helped Jane down. Her legs were trembling.

  The caped man returned to Jack. “Thank you, good sir, for not shooting our lioness. She is worth a great deal, and her loss would cripple our menagerie. I am sorry indeed about the injured horse and will happily pay for its care. In fact, I offer to buy it outright.”

  “I don’t own the horse, man.” Jack pointed to Jane. “Mrs. Locke is the innkeeper here and happens to own this particular team.”

  The man bowed. “Mrs. Locke, allow me to introduce myself. I am J. Earl Victor, owner of The Earl’s Menagerie and Traveling Players.”

  Jane glanced over and saw the same words painted on his wagon. The name seemed familiar, though she did not recall any menagerie stopping at Ivy Hill before.

  Mr. Victor squinted in thought. “I believe Frank Bell was the innkeeper here last I visited.”

  Jane nodded. “My former father-in-law. He’s been gone many years.”

  “Ah. Well.” Mr. Victor spread his hands in supplication. “What will you take for this fine horse, far too noble and spirited to live out his days as a downtrodden coach horse.”

  Jane glanced at Gabriel. It seemed like something he might have said. But would conditions in a menagerie be any better?