Rachel chuckled. “Well, heaven knows, I have never suffered from that.” She sobered. “Does your mother think I am pursuing you for your money . . . or Thornvale?”
“Are you pursuing me? I had not realized.” He stepped closer, eyes shining.
Rachel flushed. “I only meant . . .”
“I am teasing you. But as far as my mother . . . she is a conundrum. She was offended to learn you did not accept me straightaway. But had you, she would no doubt have accused you of that very thing.”
“It seems I cannot win where she is concerned.”
“It isn’t her approval I hope for, Miss Ashford. I cannot deny I am disappointed you have not yet accepted me, but I admire your courage, and your determination to make a go of your library.”
Earnest gratitude filled her. “Thank you.” She laid an impulsive hand on his sleeve.
He took her hand in his and kissed it. She was afraid he would not let go, or beg for an answer. Instead he released her with a smile. “Now, no shirking. Let’s get back to work.”
Chapter
eight
Mr. Kingsley returned late that day to begin installing the bookcases. Rachel met him in the library, answered his questions, and then left him to work, telling him to be sure to let her know if there was anything he needed. Then she went and joined Mercy and Matilda for dinner.
Mercy said, “It is very kind of Joseph Kingsley to offer to work in the evenings like this.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Rachel winced as something heavy dropped in the next room, and a mild epithet reached them.
Matilda bit her lip, then offered kindly, “At least we don’t have the whole contingent of Kingsley brothers working here. We’d hear worse than that, I don’t doubt.” She looked toward the library. “I thought one of his nephews assisted him?”
“Needed at home in the evenings, apparently,” Rachel said. “By the way, Mr. Kingsley assures me he will install the shelves in a manner that will not harm the walls should the venture fail and we need to remove them again. Well, he didn’t specify the reason, but that’s probably what he meant.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean that,” Mercy reassured her. “But yes, it’s good of him to think ahead and preserve the integrity of the room for . . . the distant future.”
“I still don’t feel right about not paying him,” Rachel said, “whether his niece attends here or not.”
“It is generous of him to help.” Matilda’s eyes brightened with speculation. “And I suppose being a widower, his evenings are free.”
Mercy looked at her aunt in surprise. “A widower? I did not know that.”
“Nor did I. But I have my ways.” Matilda winked.
Mrs. Timmons brought in their dinner. “It’s not my fault the Yorkshire pudding fell flat with all that banging going on.”
“That’s all right, Mrs. Timmons. I’m sure it will taste just as good.”
Mr. Kingsley himself appeared in the doorway. Sawdust sprinkled his hair and plaster dust whitened one trouser leg. He looked at Mercy, then shifted his gaze to Rachel and cleared his throat. “Sorry about the noise, ladies. I’m going to have to plane down some pieces because the floor slants a bit, as is often the case in old houses. But I shall return tomorrow, if that suits.”
“Perfectly,” Matilda answered for them all.
He nodded and awkwardly turned to go. “Well, good night, then.” He ducked slightly to avoid hitting his head on the low doorway.
“Good night,” they all said together.
Rachel noticed Mercy’s gaze trail him from the room.
The next morning, someone knocked on the lodge door, and when Jane opened it she was surprised to see James Drake. He was well dressed, as usual, his green cutaway coat bringing out the color of his eyes. Behind him stood a horse and wagon, loaded with several wooden boxes. Two workmen waited nearby.
“Good morning, Jane.”
“Hello, James. What brings you here?” She glanced at the wagon and raised one eyebrow. “Have you become a traveling peddler since I saw you last?”
He grinned. “If it were more profitable, I might.” He nodded toward the wagon. “I hope you don’t mind, but I culled some books from the old Fairmont library, stored in the attic. A selection I thought might appeal to patrons of Miss Ashford’s circulating library.”
“That is kind of you.” Jane wondered if Mr. Drake had shifted his attentions to Rachel. He was being awfully generous.
As if reading her mind, he said, “I know she is your friend, Jane, and for that reason alone, I am happy to oblige. However, I wanted to give you the opportunity to go through them first. Keep any or all you like. I wouldn’t want to give away anything with sentimental value.”
“Thank you. That was very thoughtful of you.”
His dimples appeared. “My, my. Today I am kind and thoughtful. You flatter me, dear Jane. Take care, or your sweet words shall go to my head.”
Jane gave him a skeptical smile. “I doubt it. How many books have you brought?”
“Two crates’ worth. I didn’t count.”
“Goodness. Do you plan to demand a share of Miss Ashford’s profits?”
“Ah, now you wound me. Thank you for checking my pride.”
The sparkle in his eyes assured Jane her words had not injured him. She doubted she could. Words and situations seemed to bounce off him like a frozen pond that she, or anyone else, rarely penetrated.
He gestured toward the crates. “May I bring them inside?”
“Oh. Of course.” She felt a little flustered at the prospect of Mr. Drake entering her private domicile but decided not to object.
“I didn’t think you’d want them cluttering up the inn,” he said and signaled to the men, who hefted the crates out of the wagon and carried them over. Mr. Drake accepted the first one at the door and placed it inside, then stepped back out to receive the second.
Jane went in, pulled the lid from the first crate, and began sorting through the books.
A moment later, James Drake returned with the second crate, set it on the table, and opened its lid as well.
“Oh, my goodness. I forgot about these.” Jane lifted out three matching books. “My father bought me this set. They were some of my favorites.”
Jane felt the long forgotten memory pass over her. The warm comfort of sitting in her father’s lap as he read to her in his low melodic voice . . .
She felt unexpected tears prick her eyes. “I loved these books as a child.”
James gazed at her warmly. “Then save them for your own children.”
She looked down, feigning interest in another book.
Her discomfort must have shown on her face, for he added, “I know you are a widow, Jane. But you are still young and might marry again.”
She might marry again one day, Jane privately allowed, but have children who lived long enough to be read to? When she had not been able to bring one to term in seven years of marriage to John?
“I hold out no such hope or plan.” With a quick smile, she added lightly, “What about you? Want a whole quiver full, do you?”
“I have . . . other priorities. Besides, I don’t think I am cut out to be a father. My own was not the best example.”
“I am sorry to hear it. Are the two of you not close?”
He shook his head. “I avoid being in range of his cutting criticism whenever I can.”
“But you are a successful man. Surely he is proud of you.”
“Ah, Jane.” He tapped her nose and gave her that charming smile that did not reach his eyes. “Not everyone thinks as highly of me as you do. It is one of your most endearing qualities.”
“Have you some serious character flaw I have yet to see?”
“Of course I have. Probably more than one. We all have our flaws. And our secrets.”
Mercy sat at the secretaire desk in the sitting room, where she wrote letters and dealt with correspondence and finances related to her school. Today, she
wrote to Lord Winspear, the parish’s senior magistrate, who lived near Wishford. As he’d requested after their short meeting about the proposed charity school, she provided more detailed plans and projected expenses—teacher’s salary, wood and coal, candles, books, paper, and other supplies. Mercy suspected he’d asked for the information to keep her too busy to trouble him for a time, but she hoped she could sway him yet.
Next, she wrote a letter to successful newcomer Mr. Drake, explaining her wish to start a school to educate more of the parish’s girls and boys, especially those unable to afford education otherwise. She invited his questions and financial support as well.
Mr. Basu appeared and gestured a visitor into the room. Mercy looked up, surprised to see Colin McFarland standing there, hat in hand.
“Good day, Mr. McFarland.”
“Miss Grove. And it’s Colin, if you don’t mind.”
“Very well, Colin. How is your mother keeping?”
“Better, thank you.”
“Has she enough work?”
“She has a fair amount of sewing these days, thanks to the women of the village, though she could always use more. But that’s not why I’ve come.”
Mercy gestured to a chair. “Please, have a seat.”
He sat, frowned at his hat, opened his mouth, and closed it again.
She prompted gently, “Is everything all right at the inn?”
He winced and finally began, “Miss Grove, I know you put in a good word for me with Mrs. Bell and helped me get the job there. And I am grateful, don’t mistake me.”
“What is the matter, Colin?”
“May I tell you something in confidence?”
Mercy hesitated. “Yes, unless saying nothing would harm Jane Bell. She is my friend, and I would do nothing to hurt her.” Mercy’s conscience nipped at her. She was already keeping one secret from Jane, though at least that one did not affect her personally.
“Of course not,” Colin replied. “I hope it will help her.”
“Help her? Is something the matter with Jane?”
“Only that her clerk is incompetent.”
“Don’t say that. Surely that is not true.”
“I can do some of the job well. The portering. Dealing with patrons and coachmen. But it’s the office work I stumble over.”
“Colin, we discussed the types of duties you would be required to perform before you even applied. You told me you could do the work.”
“I may have . . . stretched a bit, ma’am.” He hurried to add, “I didn’t lie. I can read, and I write a fair hand. I doubt a teacher like you would think so, but I get by.”
“Then what is wrong, Colin?”
“I am. Far too often.” He twisted his hat brim. “It’s the ledgers and bills and fares. I can’t get my head around all those figures. I’ve made mistakes in customer’s tallies and fare prices, and in subtracting payments from accounts. I try to make myself scarce, or busy, when there’s arithmetic to be done. I’ve taken to asking others to sum the inn tally forms for me as I hurry off on some errand or other. Yesterday a coachman offered five passengers a fifteen percent fare reduction due to a repair delay, and I didn’t know how to figure it. No one else was around to ask. I stood there, mortified, staring at the numbers and wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. I could hear two of the ladies whispering behind their hands, and one young buck smirked, so superior. I couldn’t concentrate! Finally, Bobbin—that’s the barman—came out of the taproom and helped me. He’s figured out my secret, and it won’t be much longer until everyone else does and I’ll be out on my ear.”
Colin slowly shook his head. “That settled it for me. I have to learn. I know this is a girls school, but I was hoping you might teach me. I could pay you something. Not much, I’m afraid—my mother depends on my wages—but a little. Or maybe I could do some work for you here—whatever needs doing—in return for lessons. I have an hour respite during the afternoon lull, and two hours on Sundays.”
Mercy exhaled, glad his problem was something fixable. She intertwined her long fingers and considered what was best to be done. “You were once an apprentice in the building trade, were you not?”
He nodded. “A stonemason’s apprentice. But I did not finish my term after my father . . . after his health problems.”
Mercy knew his father’s problems stemmed from drink but did not say so. “Have you any carpentry experience?”
“Some, yes. I’m forever patching up my parents’ house or repairing a broken chair or banister or something. Why?”
“We are having bookcases installed in the drawing room and several added to our existing library. Miss Ashford plans to open a circulating library here.”
“I heard something about that. Who is doing the work?”
“Mr. Kingsley.”
“Neil Kingsley?” Wariness shone in Colin’s eyes.
“Joseph,” she clarified. “Why?”
“My father asked Neil Kingsley for a job once, but he turned him down flat.” Colin raised his hands. “Not that I blame him. This was a few years ago, when Pa was . . . ill . . . every day. He’s got better. Somewhat.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“But if Joseph Kingsley doesn’t mind my help, I will do my best to be useful.”
She nodded. “I will talk to him about it.” Mercy paused, thinking. “How would you feel about someone else teaching you? It isn’t that I would mind doing so, but I am spending more time than usual away from Ivy Cottage at present, trying to raise support for a charity school.”
“By someone else teaching me, do you mean your aunt?”
“No, Aunt Matty is not all that quick with numbers herself. Miss Ashford might, but she is busy organizing her library. However, one of our pupils, our eldest, is excellent in all her studies, including arithmetic. She already tutors the younger girls and shows natural teaching ability. But she is younger than you are. Would that make you uncomfortable?”
He shifted in his chair and his neck reddened. “Well, it’s not something I’d trumpet about—that’s for certain. Could we . . . keep it between ourselves?”
“Anna is a very sensible girl and not given to gossip. I trust her, and you can too.”
His fair brows rose. “Anna . . . ?”
“Kingsley. Oh. I did not think. Neil Kingsley’s daughter. Will that be a problem?”
Colin sighed. “I’ll get over it. We McFarlands are accustomed to being humbled by Kingsleys.”
Mercy acknowledged his self-abasing humor with a gentle smile.
The next day, Jane and Colin reorganized the tables in the newly expanded dining parlour. Afterward she stopped in the coffee room to see if Alwena needed any help. Rain began to fall and the wind picked up—a sudden storm blown in over the Salisbury Plain. Out in the courtyard, Tall Ted and Tuffy hurried to finish changing a team in the downpour, wincing and wiping rain from their eyes and then dashing into the stables as soon as they finished. Mr. Sanders came in the front entrance, the door banging open in the wind. He strained to close it, then went to dry himself by the coffee-room hearth.
Plop. Plop. In the entry hall, a leak sprouted from the ceiling and began puddling the floor. Jane groaned. It was always something. Mr. Broadbent had repaired the gutters, but they were still waiting for the slater to replace the broken tiles in that section of the roof.
With a sigh, Jane went to find buckets in the scullery.
Returning a few minutes later, Jane positioned the buckets to catch the leaks, then glanced up. Through the open taproom door, she saw Mr. Drake greet the barman and take a seat, shaking rain from his hat. The taproom was quiet, except for Mrs. Burlingame and Mrs. Klein at a corner inglenook, sitting over cider and a long talk.
Jane noticed a wilted flower on the hall table, and as she paused to pull it from the vase and tidy the arrangement, she overheard Bobbin say, “Haven’t seen you for a spell, Mr. Drake. How goes it at the Fairmont?”
“A few problems and delays. The usual g
rowing pains.”
Bobbin set a pint before him. “Pains, ey? That reminds me. You asked me about a Miss Payne a while back. Did you ever find her?”
Mr. Drake shook his head. “No. I thought I remembered that she had stayed here in Ivy Hill with relatives as a girl. I was merely curious what became of her.”
Mrs. Burlingame, the carter, spoke up. “I believe the Thomases have relatives by that name who used to visit now and again.”
Mr. Drake turned to her. “Oh? And where do those relatives live?”
She narrowed her eyes in memory. “I can’t recall the particulars at the moment.” She looked to her companion. “Can you, Kristine?”
“No, I never met anyone named Payne around here. They must not have a piano.”
“I will ask Mrs. Snyder for you. She knows everybody’s laundry—clean and otherwise.”
“Thank you. As I said, I was only curious.” Mr. Drake’s brow furrowed. “Mr. Thomas is the glazier, right? He’s done some work for me at the Fairmont. But I had no idea he had any family at all.”
Mrs. Burlingame nodded. “That’s him, all right. A tight-lipped fellow.”
Picking up his glass, James appeared to shrug off the topic, but there was an awkward vulnerability in his expression Jane had rarely seen. Or perhaps she was reading too much into his discomfort.
His eyes lit up when he saw her. “Jane! Just the person I hoped to see. Come and cheer me up.”
He pulled out a chair for her, and she accepted a small glass of cider.
He said, “By the way, I received a letter from your friend Miss Grove, asking me to support a charity school here in Ivy Hill.”
Jane nodded. “Mercy has always been a proponent of education. Even when we were little she loved playing school. Although trying to teach our dolls to read and write was not terribly fruitful.”
He smirked. “Those dolls were probably more attentive than I was as a lad. How I detested sitting for long hours on end. I would have done better had we been allowed to decline Latin verbs while riding or fishing.”
“No doubt. I can well imagine you an energetic and mischievous boy, James Drake.”
The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 8