Jane nodded. She wondered if Matilda’s joy for her beloved niece was also threaded with a hint of loss. She and Mercy had always been so close. Had shared a home, a school, everything. And now Mercy had a husband to share everything with instead.
Jane squeezed Matilda’s fingers. “I’m sorry my father didn’t feel well enough to be here. He is very fond of you, you know.”
The older woman nodded. “And I of him, the old nabob.” The tears glistening in her eyes belied the teasing tone.
Matilda brightened, saying, “Have you heard the news? Mercy and Mr. Kingsley have invited me to come and live with them. After their honeymoon, that is. Mr. Basu as well. I’m so glad for him. Helena wanted him to start wearing livery and forbade the cooking of curries! Instead, we are both to help with the new school.”
“That is wonderful!” Jane beamed, then studied her face. “Or . . . is it? It must seem strange to contemplate leaving Ivy Cottage. It has been your home for, what?”
“More than fifty years. My entire lifetime.”
“Are you sad to leave?”
Matilda looked at her, eyes twinkling. “Never been happier about a change in my life. Between you and me, I can’t wait.”
Matilda’s attention was caught by something beyond Jane. Her lips parted in surprise. “Well, knock me down with a feather.”
Jane turned to see what had caused such a reaction. There came her father, walking across the green in a summer suit of buff linen and a broad-brimmed straw hat. True, he used a walking stick, and his stride was not as long as it once was, but he looked more hale than Jane had seen him in weeks.
“Winston Fairmont!” Matilda called. “What are doing out of bed?”
He grinned like a mischievous boy. “You all conspired to keep me from enjoying this happy occasion, but I feel remarkably improved today. A second wind, as Dr. Burton said might happen. Whatever the case, I am thankful. For I did not want to miss such an important day in the life of my dear friend, Matilda Grove.”
Tears filled Matty’s eyes again, but she blinked them back.
He offered her his arm. “Perhaps we might take a turn together, Miss Matty, and taste that grand cake you told me about?”
She gave him a wobbly smile. “With all my heart.”
Matilda laced her arm through his, and the two walked slowly toward the others.
For a moment Jane stood watching them go, her heart lifting, her tears slowing. She knew better than to think this changed her father’s ultimate prognosis, but she decided she would enjoy every day God gave them together.
She felt a small hand slide into hers and looked down to find Jack Avi standing beside her, gazing up at her with his dark eyes.
“Didi, why are you sad?”
She grasped his small fingers. “These are happy tears. I am happy for my friend, and I am happy Bapu brought you here to meet me.”
“Me too. Bapu says you will be my mamma.”
Jane’s throat tightened again. She whispered, “Is that all right with you?”
He nodded and raised his hands to her. Heart squeezing, she bent and picked him up. Though five years old, he was slight for his age, and carrying him was no burden at all.
Gabriel came over and put one hand on Jack Avi’s shoulder and the other on hers. “Hello, you two.”
He looked from the boy to Jane, searching her face. “Everything all right?”
She smiled. “More than all right.”
“Did you get enough to eat?” Gabriel asked. “I know Jack Avi did. I saw him devour a second piece of cake.” He patted the boy’s tummy, then his patting turned into tickles.
Jack Avi giggled. “Yes, I’m full.”
Gabriel looked at Jane, eyebrows raised in question.
Jane looked from her new husband and future son, to her father and Matilda, and everyone gathered on Ivy Green. She nodded her complete agreement. “My heart is full indeed.”
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading The Bride of Ivy Green. I hope you enjoyed it, as well as the first two books in the TALES FROM IVY HILL series. Here are a few historical notes I’d like to share with you.
As described in this story, 1821 was indeed an outstandingly wet year in the south of England. On May 26th in Wiltshire, “Snow and hail fell over 5 inches deep.”
The lion attack in the book was also based on a true story. In 1816, a lioness escaped from Ballard’s menagerie and attacked the lead horse (Pomegranate) of the “Quicksilver” Royal Mail coach as it traveled through Wiltshire. A few passengers fled to a nearby inn, locking the door against the remaining passengers, while the Royal Mail guard attempted to shoot the animal with his blunderbuss. Some accounts say the lioness killed the large dog chasing it, and others say that all three animals survived and went on to be displayed together in the menagerie. The Salisbury and Winchester Journal described the lioness’s capture this way: “Her owner and his assistants . . . made her lie down upon a sack; and then she was lifted and carried. . . . The lioness lay as quietly as a lamb during her removal to the caravan.”
Sometimes truth really is stranger than fiction. I became intrigued by this story a few years ago, when I first began plotting the series and enjoyed weaving a fictionalized version into this novel. Details about the menagerie animals and acts were inspired by the book The Old Showmen, and the Old London Fairs by Thomas Frost, if you would like to read more on the subject.
Now for a few acknowledgments. I am thankful for the help of several people who helped me hone this book: Cari Weber (my first reader), Anna Paulson (research and revisions), Michelle Griep (feedback), Karen Schurrer and Raela Schoenherr (editing), Jennifer Shouse-Klassen (dressmaking details), Tony Signorelli of Blue Harbor (a great place to write), Cathy and Rajeev Tandon and Sumita Punia (culture of India), and each and every one of you (my wonderful readers).
Thank you for spending time with me in Ivy Hill, a fictional village that has become very special to me. It is loosely based on the National Trust village of Lacock in Wiltshire, which I’ve had the privilege of visiting three times now. If you find yourself missing Ivy Hill, you can always visit Lacock yourself—either in person if you like to travel, or via television, since Lacock has been used as a filming location for scenes in Pride & Prejudice (1995), Cranford (2007), Emma (1996), and several other productions. You can also visit talesfromivyhill.com to see photos of the series setting, as well as a helpful character list and full-color village map. Please also visit me online via social media or email. I’d love to stay in touch!
Discussion Questions
In the early nineteenth century, marriage was often considered a duty for young women. However, many of Jane Austen’s heroines reject marriage proposals from men society would consider a good match, choosing instead to marry for love. How have views of marriage changed since then? Do you agree with the relationship decisions of Ivy Hill’s women?
Victorine is not entirely honest when she first comes to Ivy Hill. Characters like Jane and Mrs. Shabner gradually change their opinions of her as more information is revealed throughout the story. How did the slow reveal influence your opinion of Ivy Hill’s new dressmaker?
Jane struggles to forgive her father. Have you or someone you know ever dealt with a similar situation? What are the risks or rewards of forgiving someone who has caused you pain?
Do you agree with the saying “Just be yourself”? James Drake wants to become a good parent to Alice, even as he struggles to reconcile with his own father. He says, “I can’t do that by just ‘being myself.’ I want to be a better man for Alice’s sake.” Mercy reminds him that we don’t have to rely on ourselves alone—God will help us. Have you seen someone change their life, with or without God’s help?
Through the series, characters like Mercy and Jane follow circuitous paths toward happiness, struggling through personal loss, professional troubles, and uncertainties about the future. Can you relate? How so?
What was your reaction to George and Helena’s
claiming of Ivy Cottage? How would you have responded in Mercy’s situation? Have you ever had to share a home with extended family members? If so, was the experience wonderful or stressful?
In this novel, Ivy Hill residents react differently (some positively, some negatively) to characters from India. Do we see similar variations today in how people treat those from other cultures?
As the TALES FROM IVY HILL series closes, did any or all of your predictions come true? What about the ending surprised you? Would you like to see more written about any character(s)?
chapter
One
March 1815
Devonshire, England
Infuriating artists . . . Captain Stephen Marshall Overtree grumbled to himself as he walked along the harbor of the unfamiliar town, looking into each shop window.
He glanced down at the crumpled paper in his hand, and read again his brother’s hastily scrawled note.
. . . I will let a cottage as last year, though I don’t know which yet. If the need arises, you may write to me in care of Mr. Claude Dupont, Lynmouth, Devon. But no doubt you will manage capably without me, Marsh. As always.
Stephen stuffed the note back into his pocket and continued surveying the establishments he passed—public house, harbormaster’s office, tobacconist, and cider seller. Then a stylish placard caught his eye:
CLAUDE DUPONT
Painter, Royal Academy of Arts
~
Portraits by commission, also local landscapes.
Instruction and supplies for the visiting artist.
Inquire within.
Stephen tried the door latch, but it wouldn’t budge. He cupped a hand to the glass and peered inside. The dim interior held easels, framed landscapes, and shelves of supplies, but not a single person.
He bit back an epithet. How could he inquire within if the dashed door was locked? It was not yet five in the afternoon. What sort of hours did the man keep? Stephen muttered another unflattering comment about artists.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a frowsy woman step from the public house, dumping a bucket of water. He called, “I am looking for Wesley Overtree. Have you seen him?”
“That handsome Adonis, you mean? No, sir.” She winked. “Not today at any rate.”
“Know where he’s staying?”
“One of the hillside cottages, I believe, but I couldn’t tell you which one.”
“Well then, what of Mr. Dupont?” Stephen gestured toward the locked door.
“Mr. Dupont is away, sir. But I saw his daughter pass by not fifteen minutes ago. Walking out to the Valley of Rocks, I’d wager, as she does nearly every day about this time.” She pointed to the esplanade, where a path led up the hillside before disappearing from view. “Just follow that path as far as it goes. Can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
For a moment Stephen remained where he was, looking up the hill—thatched cottages and a few grander houses clung to the wooded slope, while Lynmouth’s twin town of Lynton perched above. Perhaps he ought to have remained in the coach for the half-mile climb to Lynton. He sighed. It was too late now.
He walked along the seaside esplanade, then started inland up the path. He was glad now he’d brought his walking stick—a thin sword cleverly concealed inside. One never knew when one might meet highwaymen while traveling, and he preferred to be armed at all times. His military training was well ingrained.
The steep path soon had him breathing hard. He’d thought he was in better condition than that. The month of soft living, away from drilling his regiment, had already taken its toll. He would have a few choice words for Wesley when he found him. Stephen should be with his regiment, not at home doing Wes’s duty for him, and not here.
He ascended through the trees, then out into the open as the rocky path curved westward, following the cliff side, high above the Bristol Channel—deep blue and grey. The steep downward slope bristled with withered grass, scrubby gorse, and the occasional twisted sapling. Little to stop a fall. If a man were to slip, he would instantly tumble four or five hundred feet into the cold sea below. His stomach lurched at the thought.
His old nurse’s recent pronouncement echoed through his mind. “You won’t live to see your inheritance. . . .” He could still feel the wiry grip of her hand, and see the somber light in her eyes.
With a shiver, Stephen backed from the edge and strode on.
The cry of a seabird drew his gaze upward. Gulls soared, borne aloft by strident wind. Black-and-white razorbills and grey-tipped kittiwakes nested among the rock outcroppings.
He walked for ten or fifteen minutes but saw no sign of the young woman ahead of him. He hoped he hadn’t missed a turn somewhere. As he continued on, the temperature seemed to drop. Although spring came earlier on the southwest coast, the wind bit with icy teeth, blowing across the channel from the north, still held in the grip of winter.
He tugged his hat brim lower and turned up the collar of his greatcoat. In less than two weeks he would again exchange civilian clothes for his uniform, return to duty, and make his grandfather proud. But first he had to find Wesley and send him home. With Humphries retiring, someone needed to help Papa oversee the estate. Their father was not in good health and needed a capable spokesman to keep the tenants happy and the estate workers on task. As a captain in the British Army, the role had come easily to Stephen. But his leave would soon be at an end, Napoleon exiled or not.
The role of managing the estate should have fallen to his older brother. But Wesley had again gone south for the winter, in spite of their mother’s pleas. His art came first, he always insisted. And he preferred to leave practical, mundane affairs to others.
Rounding a bend, Stephen saw a craggy headland—rocks piled atop one another like castle battlements—with a sheer drop to the lashing currents below. He looked down to assure his footing, but a flash of color caught his eye and drew his gaze upward again.
He sucked in a breath. A figure in billowing skirts, wind-tossed cape, and deep straw bonnet stood atop that high precipice. Wedged between a rock on one side, and the cliff on the other, her half boot extended over the edge. What was the fool woman doing?
She fell to her knees and stretched out a gloved hand . . . trying to reach something, or about to go over? Did she mean to harm herself?
Pulse lurching, Stephen rushed forward. “Stop! Don’t!”
She did not seem to hear him over the wind. Leaping atop the summit, he saw she was trying to reach a paper entangled in the prickly gorse.
“Stay back. I’ll retrieve it for you.”
“No,” she cried. “Don’t!”
Taking her objection as concern for his safety, he extended his walking stick to reach the paper and drag it back up the slope. Bending low, he snagged a corner of the thick rectangle—a painting. His breath caught.
He turned to stare at the tear-stained face within the deep bonnet. He looked back down at the painting, stunned to discover the image was of the very woman before him—a woman he recognized, for he had carried her portrait in his pocket during a year of drilling and fighting, and had looked at it by the light of too many campfires.
A gust of wind jerked the bonnet from her head, the ribbon ties catching against her throat, and its brim dangling against her back. Wavy strands of blond hair lifted in the wind, whipping around her thin, angular face. Sad, blue-grey eyes squinted against a dying shaft of sunlight.
“It’s . . . you,” he sputtered.
“Excuse me?” She frowned at him. “Have we met?”
He cleared his throat and drew himself up. “No. That is . . . the portrait—it’s your likeness.” He lifted it, also recognizing the style—clearly his brother’s work.
Instead of thanks, her face crumpled. “Why did you do that? I was trying to toss it to the four winds. Make it disappear.”
“Why?”
“Give it back,” she demanded, holding out her hand.
“Only if you promise not to destroy it
.”
Her lips tightened. “Who are you?”
“Captain Stephen Overtree.” He handed over the paper. “And you must be Miss Dupont. You know my brother, I believe.”
She stared at him, then averted her gaze.
“That is, he let a cottage from your family. I stopped at the studio but found the place locked. Can you tell me where to look for him?”
“I should not bother if I were you,” she said. “He is gone. Sailed for Italy in search of his perfect muse. His Dulcinea or Mona Lisa . . .” She blinked away fresh tears, and turned the painting over, revealing a few scrawled lines in his brother’s hand.
He read:
My dear Miss Dupont,
That visiting Italian couple we met invited me to travel with them to their homeland. To share their villa and paint to my heart’s content. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and I could not resist. You know how I love Italy! We sail within the hour.
I know I should have said good-bye in person. I tried to find you, but could not. Thankfully, as a fellow artist you understand me and realize I must follow my muse and pursue my passion. Must grasp this opportunity before it leaves with the tide.
We shared a beautiful season, you and I. And I shall always remember you fondly.
Arrivederci,
W. D. O.
TalesFromIvyHill.com
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Table of Contents
Cover
Books by Julie Klassen
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Ivy Hill Map
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
The Bride of Ivy Green Page 41