The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  Eva looked at Jane and Thora and explained, “They were our troupe’s longtime leading actors. Papa didn’t have the heart to replace them in their roles, so we gave up performing Shakespeare.”

  Henrietta nodded again, eyes wistful. “They were like family to us. How I miss them.”

  Eva said, “Martine and Pierre were planning to return to France to enjoy their remaining years together among their long-missed friends and family. Martine had beautiful new gowns made in anticipation. Unfortunately, they waited too long to take their chance.”

  Henrietta frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m sorry to tell you. Martine died just before Christmas.”

  Her sister’s eyes widened. “Oh no! Poor Pierre.”

  Eva nodded. “Yes. He is devastated, as you can imagine. He was the one who insisted I take the new things Martine had made. A beginning, he said, to start my own dressmaking business, as he knew I longed to do someday.”

  “When I saw an advertisement for a dressmaking shop for let in Ivy Hill, I didn’t know if it was foolishness or fate. But seeing you now, I think it was fate that I come here.”

  Henrietta reached over and squeezed her hand.

  Eva continued. “Papa was sad to see me go, but he understood. I decided to let the shop on a trial basis. To make a go of it in three months’ time or return to the troupe. I knew if anyone connected me to our family’s troupe, it would hurt my reputation and my business, so when people here called me Madame Victorine, I did not correct them.”

  Hetty slowly shook her head, a small smile on her face. “Look at the pair of us. Both using names not our own.” She glanced from Thora to Jane. “I blame our father. He’s the one forever giving people nicknames.”

  “True,” Eva said. “By the way, he is here in Ivy Hill, the whole troupe with him.”

  “No!” Henrietta paled and rose in agitation. “I’m not ready to face him, to tell him about me, about Betsey . . .”

  “He’ll understand,” Eva soothed. “As I do.”

  “No, I can’t. Not yet!”

  “Hen, if I had not come here, would you have ever sought us out? Or were you planning to hide from us forever? To keep Betsey from us?”

  “No. I had thought I would let you know where I was after Patrick and I had been married a few years. Then, learning I had a little girl would be less upsetting.”

  A knock sounded, and Henrietta jumped.

  The door creaked open, and their father tentatively poked his auburn head inside. “Ev . . .” Seeing Jane and Thora, he cleared his throat. “Um . . . Victorine?”

  His gaze landed on the redhead beside her and his mouth fell agape. “Henrietta!”

  Her sister twisted her hands, face tight with anxiety. “Papa . . .”

  He strode in, ignoring the others, and took his youngest child in his arms. “Henny Penny, my dear girl. Thank God.”

  Little Betsey watched this exchange in confusion. A few moments later, she tugged on her mother’s frock and tried to wedge herself between them.

  Their father looked down in surprise and loosened his grip. “Hello there . . .” For a moment he said no more, just studied the child, then returned his gaze to his daughter’s face.

  Henrietta ducked her head, flushing as red as her hair.

  “No need to ask who this is,” he said, tears thickening his voice. “She is as beautiful as her mother.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa,” Henrietta whispered hoarsely.

  “My dear girl, I am just so relieved you’re all right.” He held her at arm’s length, brows bunched in question. “You are all right, are you not?”

  Hetty managed a tremulous smile. “I am now.”

  chapter

  Forty-One

  When Jane arrived at The Bell the next morning, she was surprised to see Sir Timothy, Rachel, and Mr. Victor sitting together at a table in the coffee room.

  “Jane!” Rachel waved. “Come and join us.”

  Jane walked over and greeted each person. Sir Timothy rose and pulled out a chair for her.

  Mr. Victor smiled warmly. “Good news, Mrs. Locke. I have received permission from your kind friends here to perform and display our menagerie in Ivy Hill.”

  Jane looked from him to Timothy, her brows rising. “That is good news,” she said, wondering if the showman was going to ask to use her courtyard.

  Mr. Victor continued, “Our show tent is in sad disrepair after that terrible hailstorm, but Sir Timothy has graciously invited us to set up the menagerie in the old tithe barn.” He pointed out the window to the big stone building at the corner of the High Street and Potters Lane.

  The cavernous tithe barn was a relic of the fourteenth century, when Brockwell Court was an abbey. With its dirt floor and soaring timber-supported roof, it would be an ideal place to display animals and set up a stage.

  Jane nodded. “Sounds perfect.”

  Mr. Victor folded his hands across his waistcoat and leaned his head back, eyes half closed in memory. “It reminds me of the time we came to Ivy Hill years ago. We were not allowed to perform here at the inn, but another sir—Sir William Ashford—invited us to perform at his house instead. Even set up a makeshift stage at Thornvale and hosted a performance of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”

  “I remember that.” Rachel chuckled, adding, “On the condition that he be allowed to play Puck.”

  “That’s right!” Mr. Victor agreed. “And an excellent Puck he was.”

  “Sir William was my father,” Rachel said gently. “Unfortunately, he and my mother have both passed on.”

  “Oh no.” The man winced. “I am sorry to hear it. And sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mr. Victor studied Rachel’s face. “I remember your mother. She was a lovely, gracious woman. I can still picture her, a daughter by each hand, beaming up at her husband on stage . . .”

  Rachel smiled softly, eyes bright with unshed tears.

  A thoughtful silence followed, then Mr. Victor sent Sir Timothy a knowing look. “Now I begin to see why you are being so accommodating, sir. But whatever the reason, I am grateful.”

  Mr. Victor rose and rubbed his hands together. “Well, I have a great deal to prepare. We plan to open the menagerie in two days’ time.” He put on his hat and tipped its brim. “I shall hope to see you all there.”

  On Sunday, Mercy went to Ivy Cottage after church to spend time with her family.

  As they finished their meal, Matilda glanced at Mercy, then took a deep breath and said, “I would like to invite the Fairmonts to dinner, Helena. When it is convenient.”

  “Do you mean . . . Mr. Fairmont and his son?”

  “Yes.”

  Helena’s lips tightened. “Matilda, I gather you two are old friends, but I don’t think that would be completely appropriate.”

  “Surely you are not worried about my reputation—not at my age!”

  “I am thinking of the Grove family reputation as a whole.”

  Aunt Matty gaped. “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I mean, I am not sure a formal dinner with the Fairmonts would be . . . quite the thing.”

  Offense flashed through Mercy, but thankfully George spoke up.

  “My dear, if my aunt wishes to entertain friends here in Ivy Cottage, then—”

  “It is our home now, my love. And we have to consider our standing in the community as well as hers. Not everyone is as accepting as we are about Mr. Fairmont’s foreign offspring.”

  Mercy noticed the cords in her aunt’s neck tighten and laid a calming hand on hers.

  “Ah.” George considered, then with a glance at his aunt, suggested, “Perhaps we might simply invite the Fairmonts to call. Serve them tea and cake in the sitting room. No formal occasion that would require you to be there, Helena. No one can object to that.”

  “Can they not? Well. I do agree an informal call is the less-objectionable scenario.”

  George sat back in his chair, he
ad tipped back. “I, for one, look forward to chatting with Winston Fairmont. Swapping tales of our adventures abroad . . .”

  Helena gave him a brittle smile. “My dear, if your aunt wishes the Fairmonts to call on her, it would be impolite for us to intrude.”

  “Not at all,” Aunt Matty said. “You are very welcome to join us, George. And Helena too, if you like.”

  “No, no,” Helena said. “I would not dream of intruding. You enjoy your visit alone.” The young woman inclined her head as if she had just bestowed some great favor.

  Matilda sent Mercy a telling look. “Then indeed I shall, Helena. Thank you.”

  The young woman waved a magnanimous hand. “Tea is expensive, but . . . never mind. You and your guests drink all the tea you like.”

  The entire village of Ivy Hill buzzed with excited anticipation over the coming menagerie. People gathered on the street to watch the caravan wagons unload, hoping for a glimpse of an unusual animal, and exclaiming over the strange calls and sounds spilling from the tithe barn whenever its doors were opened by members of the troupe—some of them as strange and colorful as the animals themselves.

  On opening day, Jane and Gabriel met the Talbots, Patrick, and Betsey at the inn, and they walked over to visit The Earl’s Menagerie & Traveling Players together. Hetty and her sister had left early to help their father set up but promised to join them later.

  The exterior of the tithe barn was hung with large painted show cloths advertising fabulous acts and exotic animals with the name of the troupe below.

  A hawker stood on the corner, calling out enticements to passersby. “Come be amazed by the learned pig who figures sums. Marvel at the Arabian steed dancing a perfect minuet with his lovely partner. And for the first time ever, see the famous lion that attacked the Quicksilver, and the mastiff that quelled it!”

  To one side of the double-wide doors stood Becky Morris, painting a new sign capitalizing on the recent stage attack.

  Noticing them, Becky waved and called, “Almost finished.”

  Jane walked nearer. “My goodness, Becky. I didn’t realize you could draw animals too.”

  The young woman shrugged. “I worked from a sketch Mr. Victor gave me. Is it accurate? You were there, after all.”

  Jane regarded the image more closely: A fierce-looking lioness with its jaws around the coach horse’s neck, a snarling mastiff at her heels. In the Royal Mail coach, a trio of frightened faces pressed to the window, Jane’s clearly depicted among them. On the Quicksilver’s roof, each terrified passenger clasped a carpetbag or umbrella, as if determined to fight off the beast with whatever weapons were at hand.

  Thora peered closer. “Is that meant to be you, Jane?”

  “Apparently.”

  “You look scared out of your wits.”

  “I was. Well, we’ll leave you to finish, Becky. Wonderfully done.”

  They approached the money-taker, a slender woman wearing a jeweled turban and oriental dress of blue-and-white muslin shot with silver. They paid their pennies and in return were handed copper tokens. Jane held hers in her palm, staring down at it. She remembered finding a token just like this among John’s things, engraved with the words The Earl’s Menagerie. She had given it to Gabriel as a memento, assuming the two men might have attended together, as Jane had never been to a menagerie.

  Standing near her now, Gabriel ran a gentle finger over her palm. “I still have the one you gave me.”

  She looked up at him. “Did you go to the show with John? You never said.”

  “No. I hesitated when you first asked, because I didn’t know who else John might have gone with. But now, I think he simply went alone. He really was fond of menageries and fairs of all kinds.” He took her hand, still clutching the token. “Let’s enjoy this in his memory, hmm?”

  Jane met his gaze with all the love she felt and nodded her agreement.

  Inside the tithe barn, they were welcomed by the “Earl” himself in corresponding magnificence, his waistcoat spangled, as were the voluminous trunks he wore over skinny, stockinged legs, like Shakespearean garb of old.

  He beamed at Jane. “Welcome, Mrs. Locke. Welcome, one and all.”

  She thanked him and looked around in wonder. On one end of the large structure, benches were set up around an open area and wooden stage. In the other half of the barn, pens and large cages displayed a variety of fascinating animals from foreign lands. Among them were the lioness in her cage, Pomegranate tethered nearby, and in a smaller cage, the mastiff, snarling obligingly at all who came near.

  Together Jane and her party walked through the menagerie together, reading the placards naming each creature: a hyena, an albino zebra, a coatimundi, an anteater, a spotted cavy, a collection of colorful birds, a gigantic boa constrictor, and a pair of rackoons from North America.

  As they strolled, they listened to the hyperbole of the menagerie’s hawkers: “See a pair of extraordinary and rare pelicans of the wilderness; the only two alive in the three kingdoms. Considered to be the greatest curiosity of the feathered tribe . . .”

  They paused now and again to greet a neighbor or to exchange exclamations of wonder and delight. Jane visited briefly with Joseph Kingsley, there with a niece and nephew, as well as several members of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society. Mrs. Barton stood transfixed, fascinated by an ox-like African antelope called a gnu. “Have you ever seen the like? I am glad my bossies aren’t here. They might feel quite inferior by comparison.”

  Jane saw Sir Timothy, Rachel, and Justina strolling around with a grinning Sir Cyril and his sisters. Sir Cyril shaped his fingers into a gun like a little boy might and pretended to shoot the gnu. Justina rolled her eyes.

  Beyond the animal displays stood two enclosed booths plastered with colorful advertisements. The first offered a fortune-telling African parrot.

  “Come and learn what your future holds from the Great Ferdinand, a rare and mystical talking bird. Living and breathing. No tricks. Only a penny! Walk up!”

  One broadside displayed some of the wonderful fortunes that awaited: True love. Good news. Riches await. Travel the world. But apparently the parrot’s proclamations were sometimes less positive. George and Helena Grove exited the booth, her face pinched white, and he did not look much happier.

  Through the canvas flap, Jane heard the parrot squawk, “Bad news. Fool and his money. Bad news.”

  The second booth offered the opportunity to test one’s mettle against an “unbeatable” domino-playing dog.

  There they met James, Mercy, and Alice leaving the booth. Alice called excitedly, “The dog beat us all. Even Miss Grove!”

  After sharing grins and greetings, their party walked on.

  Strategically placed near the exit door, a glass blower wearing an astounding glass wig made teacups for threepence and tobacco pipes for a penny. Thora bought Talbot a pipe, and Hetty and Jane each a teacup.

  Eventually, a loud horn blast pronounced the beginning of the stage show. Musicians in colorful costumes appeared on the wooden platform and played festive music on horn, bassoon, drum, and cymbals. Mr. Victor joined them on a strange-looking instrument—a tenor serpent, Jane believed—and there was Hetty playing her pipe. Thora pointed her out to Betsey, but the little girl did not seem to recognize her mother, who in truth looked quite different in her costume and face paint, a pert hat covering her ginger locks.

  “Hetty Piper . . .” Jane murmured, struck anew by the significance of the name the young woman had chosen for herself.

  The Earl, as master of ceremonies, stepped forward to announce the first act. “Just as royal balls across the kingdom begin with a courtly minuet, our show now begins with a minuet unlike any you’ve seen before. Be amazed as England’s raven-haired wonder dances with her gallant partner, Charger.”

  Eva Victor strode in through a side door in a stunning costume—a white court dress spangled with paste gems and tulle, black and white feathers in her hair. She adopted an elegant pose and turned expect
antly toward the door. In pranced a magnificent Arabian stallion wearing evening attire: black collar and silk cravat around his gleaming neck, and on each leg, black gaiters sparkling with paste gems.

  The white horse paused before Eva, bent one knee, and “bowed” to her. The crowd roared with approval. The unusual couple in striking black and white began to perform the dance, a series of courtly bows, side steps, and mincing progressions toward one another and away again, while the musicians accompanied them on their instruments.

  “Marvelous . . .” Jane murmured, wondering how long it had taken to train the horse to perform the intricate movements.

  “Is that our dressmaker?” Justina Brockwell whispered in her ear.

  “It is.”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Thank heavens Mamma isn’t here. She would have a fit if she knew she had hired a show person to make my gown.”

  “No doubt.”

  The minuet ended with a final bow, beautiful black-haired woman and majestic white horse side by side. The two exited together to much applause.

  The portable stage was pushed forward by four workmen, and the show commenced with the learned pig, doing sums. The musicians played another song between acts, but Jane noticed Hetty was no longer among them. She guessed Hetty might be preparing for a different role and waited eagerly to see what came next.

  Eva returned to the costume wagon to wipe off the exaggerated lip and cheek rouge and to change back into an ordinary walking dress and pelisse. She hoped the entire village had not recognized her. Thankfully Papa had remembered not to call her by name.

  Slipping back in through the side door a short while later, she looked around for Jane but instead saw Jack Gander standing nearby, clearly waiting for her.

  “Well, that was a surprise,” he said. “I did not know you planned to perform again.”

  “Just once, for old times’ sake. To oblige Papa.”

  “The horse was magnificent, and so were you.”