“Yes, only girls. Why?”
“Only curious.”
Jane asked, “Thinking of your sisters, are you?”
“Yes, that’s it. Well, if you’ll excuse me.” He hurried back to the desk.
Jane quietly confided, “He struggles a bit with some of his duties, but he works hard.”
Patrick Bell stepped out of the office, a ruled page in his hand. “Colin! You undercharged Mr. Sanders again. . . . Oh. Hello, ladies.” He bowed and continued to the desk.
Jane walked Rachel out. As the two women stepped outside, Rachel teased, “My goodness, Jane. No wonder you enjoy working here. You are surrounded by handsome men every day. Far different from living in a girls school, I assure you!” She looked at Jane hopefully. “Have any of them captured your interest?”
Jane met her gaze, humor in her eyes and a shimmer of . . . wistfulness. She shook her head. “And that’s as well, as it would be unprofessional to moon around like a lovesick calf for someone I work with.”
Did that mean she wouldn’t rule out someone not working at The Bell, like James Drake? Or was she thinking of someone else?
Rachel and the Miss Groves were sewing together in the Ivy Cottage sitting room when Mr. Basu opened the door and Sir Timothy Brockwell entered, well dressed as usual, hair carefully groomed.
He bowed. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
When he straightened, his gaze rested on hers. Rachel’s foolish heart lurched in her breast.
“Sir Timothy.” Matilda beamed up at him. “What a pleasant surprise. Do be seated.”
“Thank you. I wanted to let Miss Ashford know that Lord Winspear and the village council have approved the circulating library.”
“That is excellent news.” Matilda turned to her expectantly, and Sir Timothy did as well.
Rachel swallowed. “I . . . yes, thank you.”
He said, “While I am here, I also want to invite you and your pupils to our orchard to pick apples. The trees have produced exceptionally well this year.”
“That is very generous of you, Sir Timothy,” Mercy said. “The girls would no doubt enjoy such an outing.”
Matilda grinned. “And we shall all enjoy the apples.”
“Perhaps sometime next week?” he suggested.
Mercy and Matilda nodded in agreement, and then looked at Rachel.
She hesitated. She didn’t like the idea of going to Brockwell Court to collect fruit, as though a poor cottager gleaning fields. It reminded her of the baskets of produce and game that began to appear on Thornvale’s kitchen steps after her father’s fall from grace. Cook had been grateful for the anonymous gifts, but Rachel had been reluctant to accept them.
She replied, “Em, yes. I can help supervise the girls.”
Sir Timothy smiled. “Excellent. I shall look forward to seeing you there.” They agreed to a time, and then he bowed again and took his leave.
Matilda’s gaze followed him from the room. “That was very well done of Sir Timothy.” She shifted toward Rachel, eyes sparkling. “I presume we have you to thank for the invitation. Sir Timothy has never invited us to pick apples before.”
Rachel shook her head. “No, you heard him. They have an unusually good crop this year.”
“Um-hm,” Matilda murmured, though she did not look convinced, and her eyes continued to sparkle.
After church on Sunday, Rachel walked out of St. Anne’s with Nicholas Ashford. She clasped her hands tightly, knowing she could not put off this conversation any longer. Not only had Lord Winspear and the council approved the library, but the Miss Groves had already begun relocating their personal belongings to the family sitting room and attic to free up space.
She took a deep breath and began, “I would like to remove my father’s books from Thornvale, when it is convenient.”
He turned to stare at her. “What? All of them?”
“Yes. I hope you don’t mind. I suppose empty shelves will look strange, and I’m sorry. Have you books of your own? If not, perhaps I could leave a few.”
“Where will you put them all? I said I was perfectly happy to keep them for you. I hope you didn’t feel as if you were . . . I don’t know, taking unfair advantage, or in my debt and unwilling to be.”
“No, that is not it,” Rachel assured him. She went on to explain her plan to open a circulating library in Ivy Cottage.
As she spoke, his long face lengthened even more. “I don’t understand. Or perhaps I don’t want to understand what this seems to mean.”
“It means I feel I need to try to earn my own livelihood.”
He dipped his head. “It would be my pleasure, my privilege, to provide for you.”
“I know, and I have no doubt you could do so admirably. But . . . I need more time.”
He frowned and seemed about to argue, but instead he said, “Of course. Remove them whenever you like. I will help you pack them up myself.”
“Thank you for understanding.”
“In fact, we shall make a party of it. I know Mrs. Fife and her maids will be happy to lend a hand, and I’ll ask Cook to provide refreshments while we work. How does that sound?”
She smiled at him. “Excellent. You are very kind.”
Chapter
six
Under a bright autumn sun, the ladies of Ivy Cottage walked to Brockwell Court, broad bonnets in place, and baskets in gloved hands. Rachel still felt ill at ease about the outing, but seeing the girls’ excitement, her hesitation faded away beneath the cheerful chatter and sunshine.
Soon they were strolling along the bridleway behind the manor, Matilda praising its formal gardens, and the girls ohhing and ahhing over the large topiary house. Seeing the house-shaped yew with doors cut into either end, a stab of nostalgia hit Rachel. She and Justina had often played inside when they were young.
Sir Timothy came down the rear steps of the manor and strode toward them. Dressed in informal trousers, striped waistcoat, and tan country coat, he looked more relaxed than Rachel usually saw him. The breeze tousled his wavy dark hair, and he smiled from one person to the next, his gaze lingering on her. Rachel’s heart squeezed and she smiled back.
“Welcome to Brockwell Court, ladies. Please follow me.” He led them down the orchard path where they gathered around the apple trees. “I see you brought your own baskets, but there are also bushel baskets here if you need them. Feel free to gather as many apples as you wish.”
Mabel’s eyes rounded. “As many as we wish?”
“Well, as many as you can carry.” Timothy winked.
Fanny asked, “May we eat one now?”
“You may indeed. All I ask is that you don’t waste them and that you save room for a picnic we’ll share in an hour or so.”
At that, the girls looked at one another with gleaming grins.
Timothy gestured toward the trees. “Go on now.”
For a moment the girls hesitated, looking at Mercy. She nodded encouragement and waved a shooing hand. The girls buzzed with excitement and dashed into the trees in twos and threes.
Little Alice ran to the nearest tree and stretched up on her tiptoes, trying in vain to reach a large apple dangling from a high branch. Before Mercy or Rachel could react, Sir Timothy asked her, “May I give you a boost?”
Eyes on her prize, Alice nodded, and he lifted her up to reach the beguiling fruit. Then he set her back down and whistled appreciatively. “Good eye. That is the most perfect apple I have seen this year.”
Alice gave him a shy, dimpled smile and carefully placed the prize in her basket.
A ladder stood propped against one of the taller apple trees, and Rachel decided to use it to reach the upper branches. She slid her small basket over her arm and began climbing the rungs, which to her dismay were worn smooth and seemed precariously loose.
“Take care, Miss Ashford,” Sir Timothy warned.
“I shall.” But at that instant her foot slipped and she flailed for balance.
Strong hands flew out to h
elp, grazing her backside before grasping her waist.
“Em . . . pardon me. Only trying to stop your fall.”
Rachel burned all over at the accidental touch. “Th-thank you. Not the best shoes for climbing ladders, apparently.”
He kept his hands on her waist as she descended the final rungs.
Turning around, she darted a look at him, then away again. Was he red in the face as well, or was that a hint of sunburn?
He looked instead at the ladder. “Perhaps I ought to take this to the barn before one of the girls tries to climb it. Don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
He stowed the ladder, then rejoined them, picking apples from a tree beside Rachel’s. Working at a steady pace, he filled a bushel far more quickly than she did.
Beyond Sir Timothy, Rachel noticed Fanny pick up a rotten apple from the ground. She looked at Mabel with a mischievous smirk and reeled back her arm. Realizing what Fanny intended, Rachel opened her mouth to call a warning, but too late. The apple flew. In a flash, Sir Timothy’s hand shot out and caught the apple with a smack before it reached its mark.
Fanny turned to him, eyes wide.
“An impressive arm,” he said. He tossed the bruised apple onto the compost heap, then shook burst fruit from his glove. “But no aiming at living creatures, please.”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Sukey ran over to Timothy, swinging her full basket. “May we feed an apple to the horses, sir?” She motioned past the orchard, where several horses grazed in the fenced paddock.
He looked from the girls to the animals. “I don’t see why not, if you give each only one.”
The girls hurried to the gate with their offerings. Timothy accompanied them, showing the girls how to hold their palms flat to avoid the horses’ teeth.
Rachel watched them from a distance, and Matilda came and stood beside her. “He is surprisingly good with them,” she observed.
Rachel nodded. “He is an experienced older brother after all.”
As if in response to Rachel’s reference to her, Justina came out to join them, wearing a striking icy blue dress. The girls gathered around the pretty young woman as though she were a princess.
Timothy walked over and stood beside Rachel, his gaze resting on his sister with almost paternal pride. Rachel looked up at him and noticed a smudge of apple pulp on his cheek. Splatter from his recent catch, she guessed.
“You have a little, em . . .” She pointed to her own cheek.
He frowned and swiped ineffectually at his face.
Seeing the girls’ attention still fixed on Justina, Rachel reached up and picked the offending speck from his skin.
He stilled, eyes holding hers.
She stepped back with a closed-lip smile, showing him the piece of fruit—her excuse to touch him—before flicking it away.
Soon afterward, footmen came outside and spread blankets on the ground beneath the shade of several lime trees. Then they brought out trays bearing ham and chicken, fresh fruit, biscuits, and glasses of lemonade. At their host’s invitation, they all sat down to enjoy the cold repast from the Brockwell Court kitchens.
Sir Timothy disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a book in hand. “I have just discovered this poet and would like to read one short poem to you, if you will oblige me.”
He sat back down and crossed his legs, reminding Rachel of the lanky youth he’d once been.
Opening the book, he said, “I can think of no better place to read it than out of doors on a beautiful autumn day.”
Rachel expected Fanny to groan or complain, but instead the girl watched Sir Timothy with a soft expression, clearly smitten with the handsome man who was treating them so kindly. Rachel could not blame her.
“This poem is called ‘To Autumn,’ by John Keats.” He cleared his throat and began reading in his rich baritone voice.
As Rachel listened, the words wrapped themselves around her, sensuous and laden with meaning. She looked around the orchard and gardens, everywhere seeing images evoked by the poem.
“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells—”
“What are clammy cells?” Phoebe blurted, breaking the sweet spell.
Sir Timothy paused, unruffled by the interruption. “Honeycombs overflowing with honey. The bees think summer will never end. But we know better, don’t we. Winter must come in its time.”
He read on, and Rachel saw with new eyes the beauty of autumn, which, like spring, “hast thy music too.”
As Timothy read the final lines about birds preparing to fly away for the winter, Rachel could almost feel the cold wind on her neck.
He slowly closed the book, and a thoughtful silence followed. Timothy asked the girls what they thought the poem meant, and they discussed their favorite seasons. Rachel listened, her heart warming toward the man, and toward poetry in general.
After the picnic had been cleared away, Phoebe asked Justina, “May we play hide-and-seek, Miss Brockwell? There are so many places to hide, with the trees and gardens and outbuildings. . . .”
“Of course you may.”
“For a little while, but then we should really go,” Mercy amended. “And stay out of the house, girls, and out of the stables. We don’t want to frighten the horses.”
Phoebe implored, “You will play too, won’t you, Miss Brockwell?”
Justina looked at Rachel. “I shall if Miss Ashford will join us. Come, Rachel. For old time’s sake?”
“Very well.”
Little Alice had fallen asleep, her head in her teacher’s lap, so Mercy remained where she was. And Matilda declared she was too full to move.
Sir Timothy offered his hand to Rachel to help her up. Feeling self-conscious, she placed her hand in his. He easily pulled her to her feet, holding her hand a little longer than absolutely necessary for the task.
Justina turned to her brother. “Timothy, will you be the first seeker?”
The girls looked at him in anticipation.
“Please, sir, will you?” Sukey entreated.
“I will, but I warn you that I know every hiding spot on the estate.” He grinned, dark eyes alight with challenge. “So hide thee well.”
Timothy began counting, and the girls scattered to hide. Of old habit, Justina took Rachel’s hand and pulled her toward the topiary house. Rachel ducked her head and followed her inside.
“This will probably be the first place he looks,” Rachel whispered.
“You’re right.” Justina peered about, then slipped out the other door.
Rachel thought of following her, but before she could, Timothy’s voice called out, “Ready or not, here I come!”
Rachel backed into the arms of bushy yew, hoping the branches and darkness would conceal her.
A moment later, Sir Timothy folded his tall form through the low door and gingerly straightened within the small shadowy space.
Rachel held her breath.
At first he didn’t move, his vision perhaps not yet adjusted to the dim light. Then the whites of his eyes turned in her direction. He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them.
Barely breathing, Rachel blinked up at him, trying to make out his features. Then she drew in a shallow, shaky breath. Being alone with him in the dark, out of view of the others, sparked in her a secret thrill.
He reached out as though blind and touched her shoulder. “Miss Ashford,” he whispered.
/> “Yes?” she whispered back, traitorous fingers longing to touch him again.
For a moment, his hand lingered, then he stepped back. He bent and slipped out the low door without announcing he’d found her, without saying anything at all.
Rachel stood there, heart beating hard, feeling foolish and uncertain. A moment later, she heard him call, “There you are, Justina. I see you.”
Rachel felt illogically deflated. He had found her. Again, he had found her . . . and had walked away.
In the Ivy Cottage sitting room a few days later, Mercy held little Alice on her lap while the girl quietly wept.
“Shh. There, there, my dear. You’re all right.”
Mr. Basu appeared in the open threshold and gestured a tall man inside. Mercy recognized him as one of the Kingsley brothers, the local builders.
He wore trousers and work boots. A white collar and neckerchief showed beneath his brown coat and waistcoat, and he carried a well-worn tweed hat in his hands.
Mr. Basu departed without introducing the man.
Mercy filled the gap. “Hello. Mr. Kingsley, I believe?”
“That’s right. Joseph Kingsley.” He fiddled with the hat brim. “And you’re Miss Grove.”
“Yes. I would rise to greet you properly, but I’ve got my hands full at present, and Alice is too big to carry.” She smiled at the man, hoping to put him at ease. “Anna Kingsley is your niece, I believe?”
“That’s right. My older brother’s girl.”
“She is one of our best pupils. It is a pleasure to have her here. She helps the other girls and would make a fine teacher herself one day, if she likes.”
“Not surprising. Her father is the only bright one among us.”
She gave him an indulgent grin. “I am sure that is not true. Well, you’ve come about the bookcases, I imagine?”
He nodded, looking at the sniffling child and back again. “I have come at a bad time.”
“That’s all right. Alice here has taken a tumble and scraped her knee. One of the girls laughed at her, which, I believe, hurt even worse. She’ll be all right by and by. Won’t you, Alice.”
The girl rubbed her runny nose and shook her head in adamant denial.
The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 6