Undeterred, Mercy went on, “Miss Ashford mentioned you would be stopping by sometime this week. She is outside with the older girls at present, but if you’ll give me just a few moments, I will fetch her.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, or Miss Ashford. I’ll just look at the rooms in question, if that’s all right. Take a few measurements.”
“Of course. The drawing room is across the corridor and the library adjacent to it.” She gave him another little grin. “It’s the one with books.”
“Ah.” He nodded, mouth quirked. “Clever. No wonder you’re a teacher.”
She chuckled. “Let us hope more than that qualifies me.”
He held her gaze but did not laugh in reply. Instead he cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll be as quick as I can, and let myself out.”
“Thank you, Mr. Kingsley. Take your time.”
Delivery of the Fairmont bookcases was scheduled for two days later. Knowing several workmen were coming to Ivy Cottage that morning to unload, Mercy dressed quickly and urged the girls to hurry down to breakfast. Passing her in the hall, Aunt Matty swiped the muslin cap from Mercy’s head. After the girls had eaten, Mercy made sure they were safely ensconced in the schoolroom out of the workmen’s way.
Mr. Kingsley and one of his nephews arrived first. Mercy welcomed them and offered coffee, but both declined. Shortly after, men from the Fairmont rattled up Church Street with shelves and lumber loaded on carts, Mr. Drake riding a horse alongside. Rachel came downstairs in time to greet them.
Mr. Kingsley directed the men where to stack the materials, and he and his assistant helped them unload.
Rachel smiled up at the hotel owner. “Thank you, Mr. Drake. This is very kind of you.”
“My pleasure, Miss Ashford.” He looked at Mr. Kingsley. “I suppose this means you won’t be able to work at the Fairmont for a while?”
“No. I’ll be there tomorrow. I’ll install these on my own time, in the evenings, if the ladies don’t mind.”
“Of course we don’t mind, Mr. Kingsley,” Mercy assured him and Rachel both. “As long as it’s before the girls’ bedtime, and mine.” She smiled. “I don’t believe hammering at all hours would be conducive to an early morning of learning.”
“No, indeed,” the builder agreed.
Rachel added, “And you have yet to give me a cost estimate.”
He shrugged. “I mean to donate my time, so don’t worry about it.”
“Donate your time? Mr. Kingsley, I cannot accept that. I must pay you for your services.”
“I don’t mind. It should only take a few weeks.”
“But . . . why would you do that? As much as I appreciate your generosity, this is not a charity.”
He hesitated. “I know it isn’t. My niece is a pupil here. And as her uncle, I’d like to contribute to her education in this small way. Is there any harm in that?”
Mercy shook her head, impressed by his offer.
“Gratis, eh?” Mr. Drake grinned at the man, but Mercy saw questions sparking in his eyes. “I must be paying you too well.”
Mr. Kingsley looked down, humor quirking his lips. “I’ll not be the one to admit that. Not and bring down my brothers’ wrath upon my head.”
Mercy’s gaze lingered on his tall frame and broad shoulders. Here was a man to look up to, in more ways than one. She wondered if he was married. She’d thought she’d heard all the Kingsley brothers were, though with several working in the village, as well as elsewhere across the county, she might be mistaken. Mercy had never paid much attention . . . before now.
Chapter
seven
Jane Bell left the innkeeper’s lodge, several flowers in her gloved hands. She did not go to the churchyard as often as she once did—only now and again, when loneliness swamped her. Reaching St. Anne’s, she pushed open the swinging gate and walked past listing, moss-covered headstones until she came to her husband’s grave. John had been gone some sixteen months now. She had accepted his passing and the events that led to his untimely death, but other losses brought her there today.
Jane lowered herself to sit on the back of her legs and laid the small bouquet onto the grave—a single red chrysanthemum for John and five white ones for the children she had lost. She knew John had been laid to rest in that spot but knew not where her children were buried. So this was the best she could do—the closest she could come.
She thought of each one and calculated how old he or she would have been by now, had God spared them. Crouched there, her womb cramped and her heart ached. Oh, how she had wanted and prayed for and loved each little life. . . .
A creak of the gate hinge startled her, and she looked up. A frail, elderly woman in faded black entered the churchyard, a few forlorn Michaelmas daisies trembling in her hands. She looked mildly familiar, but it took Jane a moment to hit upon the woman’s name—Mrs. Thomas, the glazier’s wife. Jane could not recall the last time she had seen her.
Suddenly self-conscious, Jane rose and watched the woman from the corner of her eye.
Mrs. Thomas wandered through the headstones and crosses, her eyes darting this way and that, her mouth a loose gap of dismay. Had she lost a loved one? Jane had not heard of any recent burials.
Jane remained where she was, not certain she could gaze upon fresh grief at the moment and keep her own composure.
Then the small woman swayed unsteadily, looking weary and uncertain, and compassion overcame Jane’s reserve. She walked tentatively toward her. “May I help you? Are you . . . looking for someone?”
“I tried, but I can’t find her.” Mrs. Thomas’s eyes were large and pleading. “He said she’s passed on, but how can that be, my sweet wee girl?”
“What is her name? Perhaps I might help you find her?”
“You can’t find her. She’s gone.” The old woman shook her head. “She was bad took. But no, we could not help her. Too late. Too late!” The flowers shuddered in her thin, knobby hands.
The elderly sexton—flat cap atop stringy grey hair—emerged from a work shed nearby, carrying a spade. Mr. Ainsworth maintained the grounds and dug the graves and, as Jane had recently learned, made pets of the church mice.
He propped the spade against the shed and ambled toward the grief-stricken woman. “Come, missus. Here be the place for your posies.” He gestured with soiled work gloves along the west churchyard wall, to a rock the size of a quartern loaf of bread.
The slight woman followed him, and Jane held her arm to steady her as she knelt and laid the flowers on the spot, weeping as she did so. “My poor wee girl . . .”
Behind them, the vestry door opened and the Reverend Mr. Paley came striding out, brows low in concern as he glanced from Jane to the sexton to the old woman.
“There now, Mrs. Thomas. Slipped out again without your husband, did you? You know he’ll worry.” The vicar nodded to her. “Hello, Jane.” Then to the sexton. “You may return to your work, Mr. Ainsworth. I’ll take the matter in hand.”
Jane spoke up. “She was looking for someone’s grave.”
“My sweet girl,” Mrs. Thomas whimpered.
Mr. Paley laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Now, Mrs. Thomas, you’re confused.”
“Has she lost a daughter or granddaughter?” Jane whispered, wondering if this would be her in thirty years. Heaven help them both.
The vicar shook his head. “She hasn’t any family buried here. Except perhaps some distant ancestors. She lost a grown daughter years ago, but she lived and died elsewhere. As I said, she is confused—increasingly so, poor creature.”
He bent and gently took the frail woman’s arm to help her up. “Come now. Let’s get you home.”
Movement drew Mr. Paley’s attention over the churchyard gate. “There’s your husband now, Mrs. Thomas. Shall we go and meet him?”
Jane glanced over and saw the glazier striding purposely up Church Street, expression somber.
The parson escorted Mrs. Thomas to the gate, carefully matching hi
s stride to hers and helping her over the uneven ground.
Jane watched the uneasy reunion, questions and pity coursing through her.
Beside her, the sexton retrieved his spade and leaned on its handle. “Parson don’t know everything.”
She glanced at him. “Oh? Has Mrs. Thomas a loved one buried here?”
He shrugged thin shoulders. “She does if she thinks she does.”
Jane was not sure how to respond to that. Everyone said the sexton was an odd man, and Jane could not refute that. But beneath his scruffy appearance lurked a streak of kindness, she believed, at least for small, overlooked creatures.
Jane stopped by Ivy Cottage on her way home. Mercy greeted her warmly and showed her the progress on the library—mostly a lot of stacked shelving and furniture pushed to one wall.
“Mr. Kingsley warned us it would look worse before it looks better, and apparently he was not exaggerating.” Mercy grinned. “By the way, Rachel is not here, if you were hoping to see her. She has gone to Thornvale to pack up her father’s books.”
“That’s all right. I had a question for you, actually. Are you well acquainted with Mrs. Thomas?”
Mercy looked up in surprise. “Mrs. Thomas? A little. Aunt Matty knows her better. Why do you ask?”
“I saw her in the churchyard just now, looking for someone’s grave. She seemed rather upset and confused, though Mr. Paley told me she has no close relatives buried there.”
Mercy slowly shook her head. “Aunt Matty says Mrs. Thomas has been declining for some time—in body and mind. She is increasingly housebound, poor dear. I am surprised her husband let her venture out alone.”
“I take it she left without his knowledge. He hurried over to escort her home.”
“I see.”
Jane added, “Mr. Paley did say the Thomases lost a grown daughter years ago, but that she is apparently buried elsewhere.”
“Yes, their daughter and son-in-law both died a long time ago. They lived in Portsmouth, I believe. The couple had one child, but she . . . lived elsewhere as well.”
“How sad. I wonder if Mrs. Thomas was looking for her daughter. She muttered something about trying to find her ‘wee girl.’”
Mercy nodded, expression distracted. “It’s possible. Or perhaps she was looking for someone else.”
“Like who?”
Mercy opened her mouth but seemed to think the better of what she’d been about to say. Instead she sighed. “Poor old dear must be confused indeed.”
It wasn’t like Mercy to be secretive. Jane had a feeling there was more to the story than what she’d said.
Mercy changed the subject. “And what took you to the churchyard this morning, if you don’t mind my asking? Some special anniversary or . . . ?”
“No, nothing like that.”
Mercy tilted her head to one side. “Are you all right, Jane?”
“Hm? Oh yes. Just a little melancholy.”
Mercy regarded her thoughtfully. “Come and sit down and tell me what’s going on.”
Jane hesitated. She had never told Mercy about the children she had lost, but decided it was time, past time, to confide in her dear old friend.
As arranged, Rachel went to Thornvale to begin packing her late father’s books. Nicholas had assured her they had plenty of crates and boxes on hand, left from their recent move to Thornvale. All she needed to bring was herself, and perhaps some idea of where she wanted to start and how she wanted to organize the collection.
A young footman she did not recognize answered her knock and opened the door for her. In the middle of the hall stood a new round table topped with a large arrangement of silk flowers, but otherwise, things looked much as she remembered them.
The footman said, “Mr. Ashford is in the library, if you would like to follow me.”
“I know the way, thank you. Just . . . give me a moment.”
“Very good, miss.” He bowed and left her.
As Rachel stood there, memories of the day she had left Thornvale washed over her. She could still recall her churning emotions, and how she had stiffened her spine in resolve and carried her valise into the library, determined to show Mr. Ashford she planned to leave immediately, hoping to avoid a reprimand after the uncomfortable dinner party the night before.
She remembered stepping silently into the room, and seeing Mr. Ashford standing before one of the windows, hands folded behind his back, spinning his thumbs in impatience—or so she’d thought, never guessing how nervous he was, or the astounding offer he planned to make her.
Now as Rachel entered, he turned with an eager smile on his boyish face. “There you are. Right on time.”
She smiled in return. “Thank you again for offering to help.” She looked at the stacked boxes and large crates with their waiting, yawning mouths. “You are certainly prepared.”
Her former housekeeper, Mrs. Fife, came in, directing a second footman to set one more wooden box in the corner. “This is the last of them, Mr. Ashford. I hope these are enough.”
“We can always make more trips, as needed.” Nicholas smiled at the woman. “Thank you, Mrs. Fife.”
Rachel turned to her as well. “Hello, Mrs. Fife. How are you keeping?”
“Miss Ashford. A pleasure to see you again. I am well, though we miss you, of course.”
“And I you.” Mrs. Fife had treated her with maternal warmth after her mother’s passing, and Rachel was surprised to realize how much she had missed the woman.
The housekeeper patted her arm. At the gesture, Rachel felt a poignant little ache in her breast.
“Thankfully, we are all fond of our new master.” Mrs. Fife did not, Rachel noticed, mention their new mistress.
At that, both women turned to look at Nicholas.
He gestured toward the waiting bookcases. “Shall we begin?”
Mrs. Fife and the footman worked together on one side of the room, while she and Nicholas started in on the other. Together, they packed up the heavy books, shelf by shelf.
An hour or so later, one of the maids brought in a tray of tea things and cake. The housekeeper and other servants excused themselves to take their refreshments belowstairs.
“You are welcome to join us here,” Nicholas offered.
“Thank you, sir. But we’ll be more comfortable in the servants’ hall. And you two might like a chance to talk alone.” Her eyes glinted with speculation as she looked from him to Rachel, and at that moment, Rachel was reminded of Matilda Grove.
After she left, Nicholas slanted Rachel a grin. “Wise woman.”
The two sat down to take tea together, talking over her plans for the circulating library. Nicholas admitting he sometimes missed his days in an office, managing a business. Rachel decided it was as pleasant to talk with the amiable young man as it was to work side by side with him. If she married him, would their days be like this? How could they be anything but happy there in beautiful Thornvale?
After their respite, they resumed their packing. Nicholas stepped out to find a second step stool to reach the higher shelves, promising to return shortly. A few moments later, Rachel heard footsteps and turned, expecting to see him, the words “That was quick” on her lips.
Instead, Mrs. Ashford entered, looking officious in a tall hat and military-styled redingote with a row of frogging clasps.
Rachel took a steadying breath and greeted her politely.
Mrs. Ashford said, “I thought I would look in and see the dismantling of Thornvale’s library.”
Guilt and indignation punched the air from Rachel’s lungs. “I trust you remember, Mrs. Ashford, that my father left his books to me.”
“Yes. In fact I recently verified the terms of his will. Though I doubt this was what he had in mind.” She gestured toward the crates. “Do you think he would approve of this? Of his daughter doing what you propose?”
Rachel lifted her chin, hoping the woman would not see it tremble. “I think he would be glad to know I have taken an interest in book
s at last.”
“Perhaps. But I’m sure he never imagined you would use your inheritance to enter trade.”
Mortification seared Rachel’s cheeks.
She was spared having to reply by Nicholas Ashford returning, carrying a step stool. He looked from Rachel to his parent and frowned. Had he overheard her last words? “Come to help, Mother?” he asked, a note of irony in his voice.
“No. I am on my way out, along with Thornvale’s library, I see.”
“Sir William’s library. It was never ours. And now it belongs to Miss Ashford.”
The woman laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. “I am sure he never meant for her to turn it into a business for profit.”
“Mother, don’t forget that business profits supported us before I inherited Thornvale, and they support us now.”
“I don’t forget.”
“I think you’d like to.”
“Well, I have seen what I came for. Good day, Miss Ashford.”
Rachel nodded. “Mrs. Ashford.”
At the door, she turned back. “Don’t toil too late, Nicholas. Remember we have been invited to dine with the Bingleys this evening.”
“I remember.”
The woman swept from the room, and Nicholas stood there, apology written across his young, appealing face.
“I am sorry. Was she even worse before I returned?”
“Let’s just say I am glad you came back when you did.”
“That is something, I suppose.” Nicholas grinned, but then the expression faded. “My mother likes to pretend that we are some genteel family—ladies and gentlemen who have never had to work in their lives. But that is inaccurate and unfair. Just as she was unfair in her assessment of your new venture.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes.”
“Why does she dislike me so?”
“I don’t think it’s so much that she dislikes you, as that she had her heart set on my marrying a . . . different sort of woman.”
“What sort? An heiress, I suppose? Or at least someone with an impressive dowry? Which I don’t have, by the way.”
He shrugged. “Personally, I think it would be disheartening to be pursued for one’s wealth alone.”
The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 7