The Bride of Ivy Green

by Julie Klassen

  She shrugged. “I suppose everyone recognized me and there is an end to my dressmaking business, such as it was. If my lack of skill didn’t ruin me, my performance certainly will.”

  “I’m not so sure. Some people recognized you, but they were no doubt impressed, as I was.”

  “It was nothing. An act like mine takes little skill.”

  “Did you make your costume, and all the others?”

  “I did.”

  “Then you are skilled indeed.”

  “Making costumes and creating fine bespoke gowns are two different things, as I have learned—though I still have a great deal to learn about the latter.”

  “And you will. I believe you can accomplish anything you set your mind to, Miss Victor.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Gander. And what about you? You are clearly an excellent guard and accomplished horn player. Are you happy in your chosen profession?”

  “I have been, yes, for the most part. But meeting you—seeing you make a brave new start in life, a new profession—it makes me think about my own future. I admire you, you know.”

  She sank into his dark eyes as he spoke, pulse rate accelerating at his words. His nearness.

  On stage, her father announced that the audience was next to be treated to a heartwarming theatrical, written years ago by his eldest daughter.

  Eva cringed. “You don’t want to watch this.”

  He grinned. “Yes I do, especially if you wrote it.”

  The set was a simple one: a propped-up “cottage” wall with a working door and unglazed window. An artificial tree stump stood in front of it.

  The play began with their trained terrier, Fritz, running out the door and around the stage, tongue lolling and tail wagging. He wore a little pack strapped to his back and tiny cap on his head. People laughed and applauded to see the adorable creature, as they always did.

  Her father narrated. “Once upon a time, there was a young scamp who longed for adventure. He left his small village to seek his fortune abroad. Being poor, he learned charming manners and tricks to earn his bread.”

  Fritz rose on his back legs and danced in a circle, jumped over the stump, turned a flip, and then “bowed.” Again the audience applauded, and a trio of players acting as villagers put coins in Fritz’s pack.

  “People loved his tricks, and he earned more gold than he ever would have had he remained in his provincial village. He had no family to put claims on him, no wood to chop, or taxes to pay. ‘This is the life for me,’ he sang, as he pranced along to the next town.”

  Again Fritz took a joyful lap around the stage.

  “Years went by,” her father said. “He kept performing his tricks, but he was not as young or charming as he used to be, and the coins were harder to come by.”

  Fritz repeated his tricks but now with exaggerated slowness, even affecting a limp. People in the audience murmured “Aww . . .” or laughed again.

  “Occasionally someone still gave him a coin, but none invited him to sup with them or share a downy bed. He sometimes stood at their windows, watching those tranquil scenes of hearth and home, and began to wish he could join them.”

  Fritz leapt atop the stump near the window, propped his paws on the sill, and looked inside, whining piteously. More murmurs of sympathy arose from the crowd.

  “Then one day, as he stood weary and lonely on the corner, a kind old lady came and sat by him.”

  Henrietta, now dressed in cape and grey wig as an elderly woman, stepped out the door. She sat on the stump, fed Fritz a treat, and petted him.

  “She shared her meal and a token of affection. She asked if he ever grew lonely as she sometimes did. He swallowed his pride and admitted he did.”

  Fritz barked in reply.

  “But that night, the lure of the road called to him, the hope that perhaps in the next town, he would find the happiness that eluded him.”

  The “old woman” opened the door, gesturing him inside, but Fritz remained where he was.

  The narration continued, “Hers was a humble cottage. Its larder meager. Her life a quiet one. Nothing adventurous about it at all. He should thank her and move on. As he had done for years. As was his way.” Mr. Victor paused for dramatic effect, then added, “Instead, he took a deep breath and accepted her invitation.”

  Fritz ran and leapt into Henrietta’s arms, licking her face.

  A murmur of satisfaction swept through the crowd.

  “And there he stayed. He might not have adventure or fame, but he had a family and claims upon him, and a place to call home. Happy at last, he sang, ‘Now this is the life for me.’”

  Fritz gave a final bark, then Henrietta bowed and exited, Fritz still in her arms, and the crowd applauded.

  Eva leaned near Jack and said sheepishly, “Not exactly Shakespeare.”

  “Maybe not, but it was sweet. I liked it.” He reached out and ran a finger along her cheek. She sucked in a startled breath. Then he showed her a lingering smear of face paint.

  “Oh. Thank you.” Feeling awkward, she said, “We used to use a trained monkey in the role. But he developed some, er, embarrassing habits.”

  Onstage, the show continued with a performance by the French lion keeper.

  Eva glanced over at Jack, disconcerted to find him looking at her and not the stage. She said, “You’re supposed to be watching the show.”

  “I’d rather watch you.”

  He looked at her closely. Too closely. His steady gaze made her uneasy. He leaned near and asked, “Is that what you—”

  An eruption of applause drowned out his words. With a look of mild exasperation, he took her hand and gently led her out the side door. The crowd and music faded as the door closed behind them.

  He said, “I was asking if that was what you longed for when you wrote that play—to settle down in one place? To have somewhere to call home?”

  She shrugged and looked away. “To live in one place longer than a few months? It seemed an unattainable dream when I was young. To know everyone in town and be greeted by name. To have neighbors who cared for us, and friends beyond the members of our troupe . . .”

  “I can understand that. I am weary of living constantly on the road as well.”

  “Are you?” she asked in surprise.

  He nodded.

  “What will you do?”

  “I’m not sure. Yet.”

  Together they strolled between the caravan wagons, past performers hurrying in and out, and workmen moving props. Night had fallen, but moonlight and flickering torches mottled the darkness. Several troupe members waved to her or called greetings as they passed.

  An older woman engulfed Eva in a hug. “Hello, love. So good to see you performing again. Your father must be over the moon. Will you be coming with us when we move on?”

  The woman surveyed Jack head to foot and waggled her eyebrows. “Or has something here tempted you to stay?”

  “I have made no plans beyond tomorrow, Maria. But good to see you again.” She pressed the woman’s arm and walked on.

  Jack lowered his voice. “What will you do now? Have you decided?”

  “Finish Miss Brockwell’s gown if it kills me. After that, I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know what my future holds either. But I’m glad our paths crossed.”

  She glanced at him shyly. “Me too.”

  He leaned close and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. “I can relate to that poor mongrel. I admit I sometimes get lonely, searching for elusive happiness up and down the line.”

  He laid a hand on his heart and recited, “‘He sometimes stood at their windows, watching those tranquil scenes of hearth and home, and began to wish he could join them. . . .’”

  “Jack, don’t.” Eva writhed in embarrassment to hear him repeat her clumsy words.

  He continued, “But he kept moving to the next town, singing, ‘This is the life for—’”

  She rose on tiptoe and silenced him with a kiss.

  His arms ins
tantly went around her. Pulling back just far enough to look into her eyes, he grinned and said, “I thought that might work,” and kissed her again.

  chapter

  Forty-Two

  Matilda scheduled the Fairmonts’ visit for Sunday afternoon so Mercy could be there without taking time away from teaching Alice.

  Mercy arrived shortly before their guests and helped her aunt tidy the house—and her hair—for the occasion. George and Helena were just leaving when the Fairmonts walked through the gate. A dark woman in flowing tunic and long scarf followed behind father and son. Helena stared at the nurse, her pretty face puckered in distaste.

  “George, my boy,” Winston Fairmont greeted. “Good to see you again.”

  “You too, sir.”

  He eyed George’s hat and stick. “Are you not joining us?”

  George glanced at his wife. “Unfortunately, we are just on our way out.”

  “Prior engagement,” Helena sweetly lied.

  “Pity. I would enjoy swapping tales with you of our experiences abroad.”

  “I would enjoy that too, sir. Another time, perhaps. You do know my father always credits you with my desire to go to India.”

  “Blames me, I think you mean,” Winston said shrewdly.

  George smiled his boyish smile and shrugged. “He simply never understood its appeal, not being the adventurer you and I are.” George tipped his head back. “Ah . . . Just thinking about India, I can almost smell the exotic spices. The curries . . .” He closed his eyes as though to savor them.

  Winston Fairmont raised his nose. “I can as well,” he said obligingly. Then he introduced his son and nurse.

  George nodded vaguely to the woman but warmly greeted Jack Avi. He said to Winston, “Handsome lad. Clearly India was more profitable for you than it was for me.”

  Mr. Fairmont’s hand rested fondly on his son’s head. “My time there certainly brought its heartaches but also its treasures.”

  “The latter eluded me, I’m afraid,” George replied. “So I am happy for a fresh start here at home. Much as you are, I imagine.”

  “Oh, my days of fresh starts are behind me, I think, but you are a young man yet, George, and have every opportunity to make the most of the coming years. I hope you won’t take that blessing for granted.”

  “I shan’t, sir.”

  “Well, another time, then, as you say.”

  George nodded. “Enjoy your visit. Good day.”

  The couple walked down the steps, but before the door closed behind them, Mercy heard Helena hiss, “Why on earth did he bring that woman here . . . ?”

  Mr. Fairmont turned to Mercy and Matilda, wincing apologetically. “I did not plan to bring Priya. But they were cleaning our rooms at the hotel, and I didn’t want to leave her sitting alone outside.”

  “No, of course not. No trouble at all. You are all very welcome.”

  “Priya doesn’t expect to be included. How uncomfortable that would make her. But if she may sit quietly somewhere with her sewing, she will be content.”

  Mercy pointed toward a chair in the hall. “She may sit here, if she likes. But are you quite certain? We are happy to have her join us.”

  Mr. Fairmont gestured for the woman to be seated, and she did so with apparent relief. As Matilda led the way across the hall, he explained, “I know it may seem unfeeling to you, Miss Grove. But believe me, she will be happier on her own. She doesn’t speak English and abhors attention, which she is receiving far too much of since arriving in England. She has learned some of the language Rani, Jack Avi, and I spoke in India, but it is not her first language, and I am but a poor translator, I’m afraid.”

  Mercy slowly shook her head. “How lonely she must be. Can she be happy, I wonder?”

  “If you knew her background, how she had once been treated . . . My wife saved her from the streets, trained her as her maid and, later, nurse to our son. Yes, Priya is happier now. Or at least content.”

  Matilda paused at the sitting room door and said, “The more I hear about your dear wife, Win Fairmont, the more I like and admire her.”

  He smiled wistfully. “Thank you. I quite agree.”

  Aunt Matty rubbed her hands together, face alight. “I know you came expecting tea, but I hope you are hungry.”

  “Oh?” he asked. “Am I to be treated to one of your famous cakes?”

  Jack Avi piped up, “Biscuits and sponge?”

  She shook her head. “Not this time.”

  Winston Fairmont sent her a sidelong glance. “Matilda Grove, what are you cooking up now?”

  Mercy wondered as well.

  “Me?” Matilda batted innocent eyes. “Not a thing!” She gestured toward the rear door. “Come out into the back garden.”

  They followed Matilda outside, where a makeshift table awaited.

  “Please, be seated.”

  Mercy looked at her aunt, brows raised. Her aunt gave her a mischievous grin in reply. Helena had forbidden a formal dinner for the Fairmonts in Ivy Cottage. Though, come to think of it, they were not in Ivy Cottage at present, nor was there anything formal about the setting.

  After the four of them sat down, Mr. Basu came out with a large platter bearing a beautifully braised fish with a savory mustard oil sauce. Next came bowls of curried vegetables, lentils and rice, and a basket of some type of fried bread.

  Mr. Fairmont’s eyes widened. “Do my eyes deceive me, or is that luchi?”

  Mr. Basu nodded and bowed, a spark of delight in his eyes.

  “That’s what I was smelling,” Winston Fairmont murmured. “Chili pepper, yes? I knew it.”

  Aunt Matty said, “I thought you might be missing Indian food, though Mr. Basu tells me there are many styles of cooking in that country and he fears this Bengali meal may be too spicy for your liking.”

  “Spicy food? How I’ve missed it. That is one thing we don’t have here in England.”

  They began to eat, Matilda timidly, and Winston and Jack Avi with relish.

  Mercy put an experimental morsel in her mouth. It tasted savory and exotic but soon transformed into fire on her tongue. She waved a hand over her lips and reached for her water glass.

  “Mmm . . .” Winston Fairmont closed his eyes to savor a bite. “This is absolutely delicious. What do you think, Matty?”

  “Um-hm. . . .” She nodded, tears streaming from her eyes.

  Jack Avi said, “This is good. Ayah would love it.”

  “Yes, we must fill a plate for Priya,” Mr. Fairmont said. “She can’t miss this meal, not having suffered through English food this long.”

  Mr. Basu bent and spoke quietly in her aunt’s ear.

  Matilda smiled at him and then said, “Mr. Basu has invited Priya to join him in the kitchen, where she is even now enjoying this . . . unforgettable meal.”

  Mr. Fairmont beamed. “Excellent. Thank you, Mr. Basu. Very thoughtful. A skilled cook and a gentleman. I approve.”

  Later, Mr. Basu brought out sweet dishes, a folded pastry sealed with cloves, a pudding sprinkled with nutmeats, and a bowl of spongy balls floating in sweet syrup, garnished with saffron.

  Mr. Basu pointed out each by name. “Lobongo latika, payesh, chena rasgulla.” It was one of the rare occasions Mercy had heard him speak without being asked a direct question.

  Finally, he brought out tea.

  Matilda grinned and whispered to Mercy. “I said we were having tea, and we are, see? As far as the rest, no one needs to be any the wiser.”

  After relishing the meal and good conversation, Mr. Fairmont thanked the Miss Groves and Mr. Basu effusively for the invitation and the meal. When they took their leave sometime later, Mercy noticed Mr. Basu hand Priya a covered dish and then bow to her. She bowed in turn and murmured a few melodic words in reply.

  As Priya walked away, Mercy whispered to him, “Do you and she speak the same language?”

  Mr. Basu nodded, a rare smile lifting his mouth.

  “Oh good!” Aunt Matty said. “How p
leasant that you understand one another.”

  “I agree.” Mr. Fairmont’s fond gaze returned to Matilda. “An understanding friend is a great blessing.”

  Rachel had kept a close eye on Justina in recent weeks, sensitive to her moods and concerned to see her so melancholy. Her young sister-in-law had yet to set a wedding date, but nor did she express any misgivings or second thoughts about her engagement to Sir Cyril.

  In church that Sunday, Rachel saw Nicholas Ashford, but he did not come over to talk to her or Justina. After the service, Rachel whispered, “Justina, there’s Nicholas. Shall we go over and say hello?”

  For a moment, Justina’s eyes brightened, but then the spark faded. “There is no point in my going over. But you may greet him, of course.”

  Rachel caught his gaze across the nave and smiled at him. His lips rose in reply, but his eyes remained sad. Rachel could not blame him. She was sad too and regretted raising his hopes with the house party, only to see him disappointed in love once again.

  chapter

  Forty-Three

  On Monday, the Brockwell women returned to Victorine’s for a second fitting. From Jane, Rachel had learned the woman’s name was actually Eva Victor, but she decided it was not the best time to announce that fact to her mother-in-law.

  Justina stood before the long mirror in her shift and stays, while the dressmaker brought forth the satin underdress. Rachel again noticed the absence of her sister-in-law’s usual cheer and smiled encouragingly. Justina met her gaze in the mirror, expression weary. The dressmaker had yet to add the layer of netting or fine embroidery or cut out Vandyked oversleeves. She said she first wanted to be sure the basic gown fit well.

  Rachel held her breath as the satin slid over Justina’s head and fluttered around her ankles in a pool of ivory. Miss Victor raised the gown over the young woman’s slim hips and guided her arms through the sleeves.

  Rachel could see in an instant that the gown was too large for Justina’s slender figure, and far too long in the bargain. It hung on her like billowing window curtains.

  Miss Victor’s face crumpled. “I am sorry. I don’t know how it happened. I will need to take this in, here and here. And shorten the hem, and—”