The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  “What sort of life do you propose for him instead?” Gabriel asked. “Pomegranate here is a former racehorse, sold as a coach horse several years ago in the hopes it would break his fiery spirit.”

  “An attempt that has clearly failed. What I propose is a life of valor and adulation equal to his spirited nature.” The man held up his hands, emphasizing the words as though they were a newspaper headline. “The proud steed who survived a lioness attack, drawing the attention of the beast to himself to save his three companions harnessed with him, rescuing them from sure death.”

  “Pomegranate might very well have died,” Jane said, “if the lion had not been distracted by a wild dog.”

  “A wild dog, you say? Better and better. Where is this cunning cur?”

  “Under the granary there.” Gabriel gestured between the blacksmith’s and wheelwright’s, to a building on mushroom-shaped straddle stones, which kept out the damp and rodents. Beneath it a pair of yellow eyes glowed.

  Mr. Victor asked, “Your dog, sir?”

  Gabriel shook his head. “A stray, as far as I know. But I have been his victim before when he attacked my own horse. The world is better off without him, in my view.”

  “Never say so! A valiant dog—a Newfoundland, I hope, or a brute mastiff—who diverted the lion’s attention to himself, saving the lead horse and the passengers in the bargain.”

  Jane smirked. “You have quite a gift for drama, sir, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “I take that as a compliment. It is my profession, after all. To discover, create, and act out dramas—both of the animal and human varieties—for all to see. Or at least for all willing to pay to see.” He grinned.

  Jane considered. “I would like the horse freed from this life. If Mr. Locke agrees, and you promise not to mistreat him . . .”

  “Never, madame! He will become another valued investment to be prized and cared for.” He looked from her to Gabriel and back again. “Assuming the price isn’t too dear.”

  Together they negotiated a reasonable sum while Gabriel tended the horse’s wound. He predicted Pomegranate would heal well but insisted they keep him in The Bell stables overnight before releasing him.

  The other men caught the dog, using fresh meat as incentive—meat laced with a mild sedative, which subdued the cur long enough to treat his claw wounds. Then they found a place for him in their caravan.

  Jane said, “I am sorry I cannot offer you a place to stay tonight, gentlemen. But I fear several of our guest have been traumatized by tonight’s scare and would not sleep well with a menagerie caravan in our courtyard.” She gestured toward a painting on the wagon of a lion’s head, mouth wide, fangs bared.

  “I understand,” said Mr. Victor. “Might we leave the wagons on the outskirts of the village for the night? It is late, and we must be on hand to collect the horse as soon as Mr. Locke deems him fit for travel.”

  “I think that would be all right. I will send word to our local magistrate—Sir Timothy Brockwell—and if he has any concerns, I am sure he will let you know. I trust you can keep the lioness from escaping again?”

  He pressed his hand to his heart. “You have my word, madame. Thank you for your kindness. We will return tomorrow to check on Pomegranate. And to . . . thank the young woman who intervened on the lioness’s behalf.”

  “Yes, how fortunate Madame Victorine was on hand.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, scratching his chin. “Madame Victorine . . . yes. How fortunate for us all.”

  Tentatively, Jane asked, “I assume she worked for you at some point, and that is why she knew how to subdue the lioness? What—”

  Jack Gander surprised her by interrupting. “Excuse me, Mrs. Locke, but perhaps we ought to let her be the one to explain?”

  “Oh. Yes. Very well.”

  Mr. Victor hesitated, looking from one to the other. He said, “Suffice it to say, we have missed her. Well.” He doffed his hat and performed a theatrical bow. “Thank you all again. And now I shall bid you good night.”

  A few moments later the men rumbled away in their caravan wagons.

  Only then, Jane noticed, did Jack Gander put away his gun.

  Later, after she made sure the passengers were soothed and settled, Jane found Gabriel in the stables, talking over the horse’s condition with the farrier. When Tom left, she and Gabriel decided they would sleep in the lodge that night, since it was already so late.

  But seeing a light burning in the dressmaker’s shop, Jane walked across the street to talk to Victorine, taking the parcel of fabric with her.

  When she knocked, Victorine’s face appeared at the window, and Jane read disappointment in her expression.

  She opened the door. “Hello, Jane.”

  Jane stepped inside and handed her the parcel. “Victorine, you saved us tonight. How can I thank you?”

  “Nonsense. I only saved that poor animal from being shot by an overeager guard. You were never in any real danger.”

  “I don’t know that I believe that. And the other passengers certainly did not. In any case, thank you. How did you know what to do?”

  Victorine shut the door behind Jane and set the fabric on the counter. “I used to make costumes for the troupe. I’ve known that lioness for years.”

  “Is that man your father?”

  “He told you?”

  “No. But his surname is Victor. I’m guessing your name is not really Victorine?”

  She shook her head. “A family nickname.”

  “And you said you haven’t been to France in years, yet you spoke to that lion in French.”

  She shrugged. “Sheba was trained by a Frenchman.”

  “I see.”

  Victorine sighed. “Jane, it’s late and I’m tired. But return another time and I shall tell you everything, if you truly want to know.”

  “I do, indeed.”

  A knock sounded behind Jane, and the menagerie owner poked his head inside. “May I come in?”

  “Yes, Papa. Please do.”

  Jane said to him, “I thought you planned to wait and visit in the morning, or I would not have intruded.”

  “I could not wait any longer.” He crossed the room and took his daughter’s hand. “Hard enough when your sister left, but to have both of my girls gone . . . ?” He shook his head. “How I have missed you, my dear. Are you well?”

  “I am, Papa. Mostly.” She turned to Jane and repeated, “Thank you for delivering the fabric, Jane. Will you please return another time?”

  As much as she wished to remain and hear the truth, Jane stepped to the door. “Yes, of course. Forgive me. Good night.”

  chapter

  Forty

  The next day, Victorine flipped the Closed sign to Open, then stepped out of her shop to set up one dress form, displaying a light, summery gown of printed muslin. She had made it herself from pattern pieces she’d found in Mrs. Shabner’s workroom. It was a simple style, and the hem was not perfectly straight, but it was an improvement over the gown she’d made for Julia Featherstone and she was proud of it. She had priced it low, hoping for a sale, hoping it would find a new home more easily than the finer gowns she’d displayed before, which were apparently too formal and expensive for most of the women of Ivy Hill.

  Outside the lace-makers’ shop a few doors down, she noticed three women clustered at the window. Broad bonnets hid their faces, but she recognized a familiar lavender gown and knew Jane Locke was among them. She hoped she had not seemed rude to her new neighbor the night before. Another woman held the hand of the little girl she had met at the inn. Thora Talbot’s granddaughter.

  Returning her focus to the display, Victorine smoothed the material over the dress form. As she did, a childish squeal and padding of little feet caught her ear. She looked down in time to see the little ginger-haired sprite running joyously toward her, giggling at her mischievous escape.

  She bent low to catch the child, so much like Henrietta that it hurt to look at her—yet she cou
ld not look away.

  “Whoa there. Where are you going in such a hurry, Miss Ginger?”

  “I Betsey.”

  “That’s right—Betsey.” The name prompted a nostalgic ache inside her. Her mother’s name was Elisabeth, but everyone had called her Betsey, for short. Just as they had shortened her own given name to—

  “Eva?”

  Her heart banged in her chest, and she rose unsteadily, mouth falling open at the vision before her. The image of the little ginger-haired girl grown up. Her sister.

  “Henrietta . . . Thank God. I thought I’d never see you again.”

  She closed the distance between them, threw her arms around her sister, and held her close.

  Mrs. Talbot’s voice interrupted the sweet moment. “I take it you two have never met?”

  They pulled apart, and her sister gave an awkward little laugh.

  Thora skewered her with a pointed look. “Henrietta?”

  Her sister lowered her eyes, laying a hand on her daughter’s curls as if for comfort. “Yes, that is my given name.” She smiled at Eva and explained, “I have been going by Hetty since I . . . saw you last.”

  Jane looked at her. “And your name is Eva?”

  “Yes.”

  “I knew you reminded me of someone.”

  Henrietta gaped at Jane in surprise. “Is this why you insisted I come to Ivy Hill today?”

  Jane nodded. “I noticed a resemblance between you two, as well as similar stories of a much-missed family who moved around a great deal.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “I don’t,” Thora said, face puckered.

  Henrietta turned to her. “Thora and Jane, I’d like you to meet my sister, Evangeline Victor. Eva, this is Jane Locke and my mother-in-law, Mrs. Talbot.”

  “Yes, we’ve met.” Eva bent and picked up the toddler. “And this must be your little girl.”

  “Yes, Betsey Evangeline. Named after my mother and beloved sister, who I’ve missed so much.” Tears filled her eyes, and Eva felt hers burn in reply.

  With a sheepish glance at the innkeeper, Henrietta explained, “Jane recently asked me if I knew a Victorine, and it crossed my mind that it might be you. But I was afraid.”

  Eva felt her brow furrow. “Afraid? Why?”

  “Afraid to be disappointed if it wasn’t. Afraid of what you would think of me if it was.”

  Noticing Mrs. Prater hovering in her shop doorway across the street, Eva said, “Come inside so we can talk in private.”

  “Do you mind if Thora and Jane come too?” Henrietta asked. “I’ve owed them the truth for a long time now.”

  “If you like.”

  Inside the shop, Eva set Betsey on the floor and gave her a basket of colorful fabric scraps to play with. The little girl proceeded to happily yank out the remnants one by one.

  Eva invited Jane and Thora to sit on the sofa while she brought out chairs from the workroom for her and her sister.

  She began, “Henrietta, I have been worried about you since you left Weymouth. Papa believed you when you insisted nothing had happened and you were all right, just determined to leave the traveling life. But I never fully did. Especially when you didn’t write again or let us know where you were living.”

  Hetty clasped her hands, staring down at the floor. “Something did happen. But I didn’t want you to find out. How many times had you and Papa warned me never to trust strangers, especially men who came to the show. But Argus Hurst was different—or so I thought. The son of a respected officer. Handsome, charming, gentlemanlike—until he got me alone, that is. Then how quickly his demeanor changed.”

  She shuddered. “He was far stronger than I, and pitiless in the bargain. A vile, cruel man.” Tears welled in her eyes, her expression riddled with regret.

  Seeing it, Eva’s heart twisted.

  “I was such a fool,” Henrietta said. “I had flirted with him shamelessly, so when it happened, I blamed myself.”

  Betsey came over and stared at her teary-eyed mother in confusion. Hetty managed a wobbly smile for the girl and lovingly cupped her cheek. “Mamma is all right, dear one. Don’t worry.”

  “Oh, Hen.” Eva groaned. “It was foolish to flirt with the man, but it was not your fault. It was his. You should have told me.”

  Henrietta shook her head. “I couldn’t. Argus said if I told anyone, he would come for you next. And I knew if Papa found out, he would probably have killed him, and end up hanged. I had to pretend nothing happened, but I knew if I stayed any longer, I wouldn’t be able to keep up the act. I would throw myself in your arms and confess everything. I had to make you and Papa believe that I had taken a new position, determined to give up life on the road. I told myself I was a skilled actress, and it was time to give the performance of my life.”

  Eva reached out and took her hand. “I knew you were upset and not yourself. But I didn’t guess . . . this. Oh, Hen, I am sorry I didn’t protect you.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  For Jane and Thora’s benefit, Eva explained, “Henrietta told us her new employer lived in Blandford. We put her on the coach ourselves.” She turned back to her sister. “You promised to write as soon as you were settled, but you didn’t.”

  “I’m sorry. I knew Papa would not let me go without some plausible reason. But the truth was, I didn’t know where I was going. I just wanted to get away. The stage brought me to the coaching inn here in Ivy Hill. I meant to go farther, but I saw a Help Wanted notice and took a post at The Bell. I gave my name as Hetty Piper. It was all I could think of in my muddled state. I didn’t want Argus to be able to find me.”

  “But we couldn’t find you either. I wrote to you at the direction you’d given us, but my letters were returned undeliverable. We even visited Blandford, but no one there had ever heard of you.”

  “I did write to you, eventually. Did you not receive my letter?”

  “Yes, it had been misdirected at first but eventually reached us, postmarked from Salisbury. You wrote that you were moving on to a new place but didn’t say where. We were relieved to read your cheerful words, but I was still worried, especially when we returned to our winter quarters and you did not contact us again. Papa was placated by your note. When I asked why you would not let us know where you were living or invite us to visit, he said, ‘You read her letter; she wants to live her own life.’ But I was not convinced.”

  “I wrote that letter just before I left Ivy Hill and posted it at a stop along the route. I didn’t last long at The Bell.”

  “Why?”

  Thora spoke up. “Because the lioness gave her the sack, that’s why. Hetty, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. . . .”

  Henrietta squeezed her hand. “I know. I don’t blame you.”

  She returned her gaze to Eva. “Only when I was leaving did I feel it safe to write to you. I didn’t want the postmark to give away my location, because by then I knew I was with child. And I was ashamed all over again.” Her voice grew hoarse. “I didn’t want you to find me and learn the truth.”

  “Oh, Hen. You know I love you, no matter what.”

  Again Henrietta’s eyes shimmered with tears, and Eva swallowed the lump in her throat.

  Hoping to lighten the mood, Eva rose, picked up Betsey, and sat down with the girl on her lap. “Do you remember that we performed here in Ivy Hill once, many years ago? You would have been very young at the time, but I remember it.”

  “Did we?” Hetty asked. “Perhaps that’s why I was drawn to the place. That and the kindness I saw in Mr. Talbot’s face when he offered me the post.”

  Eva nodded. “We visited Salisbury after receiving your letter, hoping to find someone who knew you and could tell us where you’d gone. But we could find no trace of a Henrietta Victor there. Now I understand why.”

  “I am sorry to have put you to so much trouble.”

  “I am just so glad to have found you at last—and here of all places.”

  Hetty went on. “I ended up in Epsom,
expecting never to come back to The Bell. But when I did, I had already given my name as Hetty Piper, so it was too late to change it.” She turned to Jane. “I’m sorry, Jane. Thora. But that’s why Patrick and I decided not to post banns and marry in the church here. I would have had to use my real name, which would have raised a lot of questions. If I’d married Patrick under my assumed name, the marriage would not have been legal. I confessed everything to Patrick, and he agreed eloping would be the best course, though we were sorry to disappoint you, Thora.”

  “Ah. I understand now . . . Henrietta.”

  “Hetty is fine.” She smiled awkwardly. “Or Hen, if you like. My family often calls me Hen, and you’re family now, if you’ll still have me.”

  Thora took her hand. “Of course I will. We will. You and Betsey are part of us and always shall be.”

  Henrietta looked back at Eva, wiping away a fresh onslaught of tears. “My goodness. That is quite enough from me. Your turn, Eva.” She managed a lopsided grin. “Or should I say, ‘Madame Victorine.’”

  Eva grimaced. “I think a bracing pot of tea is in order first.”

  They paused as she boiled water in her tiny kitchen and brought out a tray of steaming tea and a few crumbly biscuits. “I am sorry I don’t have more to offer.”

  As Betsey ate the biscuits and the women sipped their tea, Eva looked to her sister and began. “I don’t know if you were old enough to remember, but Mamma and I used to talk of opening a dressmaking shop one day. After one disappointing season, Papa considered selling out to an interested buyer—to settle down, as Mamma had long hoped. So for several weeks, she and I sketched dress designs, hats, advertisements . . .

  “We planned to call our shop Mesdames Victorine, one of Papa’s nicknames for us. But the offer fell through, so instead, he bought more animals and we began traveling as a menagerie as well as players. That was the winter Mamma took ill and died of the influenza. Papa buried his grief by keeping busy, adding more shows and more acts. But nothing was the same without Mamma.”

  Henrietta nodded her agreement.

  “After you left, Hen, I longed to settle down too, but I didn’t want to leave Papa. He had already lost Mamma and you. But then Martine and Pierre announced their retirement.”