He smiled at her, his gaze tracing her features.
She shifted. “At all events, Mercy is a gifted teacher. I have already made a donation, though I wish it could have been more. We have to build up our cash reserves, for who knows how long it shall be until that crafty new hôtelier begins stealing our customers.”
“I shall try,” he said. “But you are up to the challenge, Jane. I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
His words reminded her of what Gabriel Locke had said to her before he left. “You’ll be all right, Jane Bell. I know it. I have every confidence in you.”
Why was she thinking of him now? Gabriel had left, with no plans to return, while James Drake was here, and would be for the foreseeable future. She determined to give James her full attention.
He watched her face with interest. “What are you thinking of, Jane? Of me, I hope? When you look at me like that, I am tempted to think it means something.”
“It means I am striving to be a good listener. A good . . . friend.”
“Is it such a struggle?”
“You know it is not.”
He nodded. “Then, I shall meet with your friend Miss Grove and give her campaign every consideration.”
“Thank you. She will appreciate that, and so will I.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment, then waved away Bobbin’s offer of another pint.
From the front window, Jane saw a sleek two-wheeled curricle pass, pulled by a pair of matched bays, its leather hood raised against the rain. She recognized Timothy’s profile. Beside him sat a young woman in carriage dress and plumed hat, the feather drooping from the damp.
James asked, “Who is that with Sir Timothy?”
“His sister, Justina.”
“Ah. I thought perhaps it was some young lady he was courting.”
“No.”
James studied her with interest. “Would you mind if it were? I hope it isn’t an impertinent question, but I had heard the two of you were once a couple.”
“That was a long time ago.”
James leaned nearer, face alight with humor and admiration. “You had your chance to marry a baronet and instead married a business owner. That shows excellent taste on your part. I must say, it gives me hope.”
Jane shook her head. “James, James, James. I don’t know how well you mastered Latin verbs, but you have certainly mastered the art of flirtation.”
“Thank you.” His eyes gleamed. “It is one of my proudest accomplishments.”
Jane enjoyed another half an hour of diverting conversation with the handsome, charming man. Was diversion all it was? Or could there be more between them?
Chapter
nine
That evening, as Mercy walked down the Ivy Cottage corridor, she heard Mr. Kingsley and Anna in the library.
“Hey-ho, Annie-girl. How is my niece today?”
“I am well, Uncle Joseph.”
“More than well, I’d say. You’re clever and kind, Anna Kingsley. And don’t forget it.”
Mercy reached the doorway in time to see Anna grin up at him. “I shan’t.”
“Hang on. . . . What’s this?” He reached behind her ear and pulled something forth. “How did you come to have a wood screw in your ear? Hard to learn with a screw loose, little girl.”
“Uncle Joseph!” Anna gave a good-natured groan. It was clearly not the first time he’d performed the little trick.
Their fond teasing warmed Mercy’s heart.
“I am not a little girl any longer.” Anna straightened to her full five feet.
“As I see.” He gave her a wistful smile. “But don’t be in too much of a hurry, Annie-girl. I won’t know what to say to a fine lady.” He glanced over and noticed Mercy standing there. “Never do . . .”
Mercy crossed the threshold. “Hello, Anna. Good evening, Mr. Kingsley.”
He swiped the cap from his head. “Miss Grove.”
“Sorry to interrupt. I only wanted to ask if having Colin McFarland’s help would be beneficial now and again. He has offered his services.”
“I’d be glad of his help, if he can spare the time.”
“Excellent. Thank you.” She smiled at him. “Well, I will leave you to work in peace.”
Anna walked out with her, and together they went upstairs to check on the younger girls.
Mercy asked, “Where does your uncle live, Anna? I don’t know that I’ve ever heard.”
“In the rooms above the family workshop.” She pursed her lips in thought. “I believe he used to have a house when I was little, though. Uncle Matthew slept above the workshop, too, before he married. We have our own house, and Uncle Frank has my grandparents’ old place.”
“I see.”
Mercy wondered why Mr. Kingsley no longer had a house, and what had happened to his wife, but she decided it would be rude to ask.
A few days later, Rachel surveyed the progress in the library. Mr. Kingsley and Colin had finished most of their construction work in the main room and had moved on to the adjoining drawing room, where she had arranged groupings of comfortable furniture as a reading room of sorts. More bookcases would be added there as well, and perhaps eventually a partitioned stand to hold periodicals. She would have to ask Mr. Kingsley if he would be willing to build one when he had time.
Becky Morris arrived with a hand-painted sign and laid it on the desk for Rachel’s inspection. The sign read The Ashford Circulating Library in fine lettering. The amiable young woman also handed Rachel a trade card printed with Mr. Morris, Painter and the amount owing scribbled at the bottom.
“It’s perfect,” Rachel declared. “Did you paint this yourself or did Mr. Morris?”
“There is no Mr. Morris—not anymore.”
“Oh, sorry. I saw Mr. Morris on your card and thought he might be your husband.”
“No. No husband. I haven’t found him yet. Though I am daily looking!” Becky snorted with laughter, then tapped the card. “That’s my pa, God rest his soul. Hope you don’t mind that I kept his name, but not everyone wants to hire a girl. And he taught me everything I know, after all.”
“I don’t mind at all. I have my father to thank for my . . . business too. So we have that in common.”
The two young women shared a smile. Then Miss Morris went out to hang the sign near the side door, which the Miss Groves had decided would serve nicely as the library’s separate entrance.
Her father’s collection of books waited in crates and boxes, and after Becky left, Rachel worked to catalog them in the new ledger Jane had bought for her in Salisbury. She listed books by title and by author, and categorized them by genre. She pasted a library label within each book, and then Anna Kingsley helped her shelve them accordingly.
Rachel was just about to stop for the day, when Mrs. Barton from the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society plowed through the side door. She strode straight to Rachel’s desk with a book in her hand.
“Are you accepting donations for credit toward borrowing books?”
“That’s right, Mrs. Barton.”
The dairywoman nodded briskly and plunked down a well-worn volume.
Rachel looked dubiously at the title. The Care of Calves and Management of a Dairy.
Would anyone else in Ivy Hill be interested in such a specific book? Rachel doubted it but said only, “Thank you, Mrs. Barton.”
She dipped a quill and wrote the title in the appropriate column.
The woman bent to watch her write. “It’s Bridget Barton, if you need my given name.”
Rachel took a deep breath. “I should clarify that this book will become the property of the library. That is how things are done at the Fellows’s Circulating Library in Salisbury, so I believe it is fair and common practice. But I wanted to make sure you were comfortable donating the book under these terms.”
The woman hesitated. “Do you mean I can never have it back?”
“Well . . . if you change your mind, I suppose you might pay outright for whatever
you borrowed, and then have it back.”
Mrs. Barton chewed her lip. “Could I come here and . . . visit the book now and again? If I miss it?”
Rachel bit back a grin. “Yes, of course. Or you could borrow it at any time. But . . . this book is clearly important to you, Mrs. Barton, so if you want to reconsider, I will understand.”
The dairywoman lifted a resolved chin. “No. . . . I already know it by heart, and someone else’s cows should benefit from its instruction.”
“Very well.” Rachel finished filling out both ledger and card. “There you are.”
“And the annual fee . . . Twenty shillings, was it?” Mrs. Barton paid for her subscription with coins extracted from her bodice.
Trying not to wrinkle her nose, Rachel accepted the warm coins and then gestured toward the many bookcases. “Would you like to select something to borrow now?”
“I would like a book, but the bossies will need milkin’ again soon, so perhaps you could pick something for me? Something I’ll enjoy?”
Rachel’s stomach fell. “Oh . . . I would not know how to do that.”
Mrs. Barton planted a hand on her hip. “Are you the librarian or aren’t you?”
“I suppose I am. Though new and ill-qualified. Perhaps you could tell me what sort of books you like to read?”
“I don’t know. I’ve had little opportunity to read for pleasure. And between you and me, I’m not the best reader—so nothing too difficult, if you please.”
Rachel called to Anna Kingsley, still busy shelving books. “Anna? Would you please come here a moment? Mrs. Barton is looking for suggestions, and I know you are a great reader. Would you mind helping her find something?”
“Not at all.” The young woman smiled at Mrs. Barton. “Do you like romances? I’ve just finished a gothic romance called Fugitive of the Forest. I could not sleep a wink all night.”
“A romance, ey? What would Mr. Barton say?” The woman tsked, then gave a saucy grin. “Lead on, my girl.”
Rachel watched them cross the room with a dizzying sense of awe. Her first patron. The Ashford Circulating Library had become a reality. She looked again at the money in her hand . . . the first she had earned in her life. Tentative excitement tingled through her. She might just support herself yet.
On her way home after posting letters, Mercy saw Mrs. Craddock walking up Potters Lane and caught up with her. The two women exchanged pleasantries about the beautiful weather before parting ways at the bakery.
Continuing toward Ivy Cottage, Mercy was taken aback to see Mr. Thomas, the glazier, standing at the front windows. Was he trying to catch a glimpse of his great-granddaughter?
Noticing Mercy, the old man ran gnarled fingers over a lower pane. “You ought to have this seen to. Hairline crack forming there.”
Mercy approached, squinting at the window. “I don’t see anything.”
“Haven’t got my trained eye, have’ee?”
“Apparently not.”
He glanced down the street. Satisfied the baker’s wife was out of earshot, he lowered his voice and said, “Could’ee come to our house? I’ve got to talk to thee.”
“If you like. Or you could come in now, since you are here.”
“No. Might raise questions.”
“Mr. Thomas, would you like to see Alice?” Mercy glanced at her watch pin. “She is probably in the back garden now but will come inside any minute.”
For a moment he seemed to consider it, then said, “No need.”
“Shall I bring her with me when I come to call?”
“No. Definitely not.”
Mercy sighed. “Very well. I have a class to teach soon, but I could come this evening around five, if that suits? Unless that will interrupt your dinner?”
He shook his head. “I eat at four most days. And the girl caring for Mrs. Thomas leaves for the day about then, so five will suit well.”
“All right.”
Mercy did not like secrets, but Mr. Thomas insisted he had his reasons for keeping Alice’s connection to him and his wife private. He did not explain beyond that, leaving Mercy to come up with theories of her own.
She went inside and taught her class, feeling distracted. What did he want to talk with her about? Afterward, Mercy escorted the girls to their dinner. She left Ivy Cottage a few minutes before the hour, glad it was still light, although the autumn evenings were already beginning to shorten.
Mr. Thomas answered her knock and gestured her inside. The house was modest, simply furnished, and somewhat cluttered. But it had excellent windows.
He nodded toward one of two chairs near the fireplace.
She seated herself and looked at him warily. Was he going to confide something unsavory about Alice’s background? Would he tell her he had decided to pull the child from Mercy’s school? What?
He remained standing, evidently too fidgety to sit.
“Thank’ee for coming here, Miss Grove. My wife is not long for this world, and I don’t wish to leave her longer than necessary.”
Mercy said gently, “Now that Mrs. Thomas is so very ill, are you sure I should not bring Alice to see her just once? What peace it might give her.”
“Peace?” His lip curled. “I doubt anything can bring her peace now.” He glanced toward the back of the house to a door slightly ajar, then added more softly, “You think me heartless, I suppose.”
“It is not my place to judge you, Mr. Thomas.”
“But you think me cold to distance myself from the girl. You made that clear when I brought her to your school in the first place.”
“I don’t think you are heartless. But I do think you are depriving yourself and your wife of one of life’s greatest blessings. Alice is a loving, affectionate child. What a comfort she might be to you both . . . especially now.”
He shook his head. “Not after what her mother did. Mary-Alicia spurned our home and our protection to go her own way.”
Mercy hesitated. “You did not . . . approve of her marriage to Mr. Smith?”
He scoffed. “Hardly. When she wrote years back with the news he’d been lost at sea, Mrs. Thomas wanted to ask her and the child to live with us, but I refused. That would have been condoning her behavior. You must see that.”
“I understand that is how you viewed the situation. I do not have to agree.”
“She wrote again late last year to tell us she were ill. Mrs. Thomas wanted to go to Bristol directly, but I were workin’ on a greenhouse and couldn’t leave ’til I’d finished. Commissions like that are few and far between. By the time I arrived, Mary-Alicia had passed.”
He swallowed, and Mercy was relieved to see some sign of emotion cross his weathered face. “Her landlady gave me a sack of her things, handed over the child, and demanded her unpaid rent. I paid every farthing and brought the girl to you.”
“That was . . . good of you, Mr. Thomas,” Mercy allowed.
His sharp eyes bore into hers. “Have you and your aunt kept your word and not told anyone our connection to the girl?”
“We have. Though I have hated to keep secrets from my closest friends. Does Mrs. Thomas still not know her great-granddaughter is right here in Ivy Hill?”
He shook his head. “Mrs. Thomas was never good at keeping secrets even when in good health. How much more risky now that her mind is a slippery wheel and her tongue a loose gate?”
“Who is there?” a reedy voice called from the back room. “I hear someone. Is that our wee girl?”
Mr. Thomas shot Mercy a telling glance. “No, Mrs. Thomas. You forget. Mary-Alicia is gone. It is only Miss Grove, come to call.”
“Miss Grove? Miss Grove, let me see you.”
Ignoring a warning look from Mr. Thomas, Mercy rose, stepped to the door, and pushed it wide. A frail, elderly woman lay in bed, her silvery hair falling around her in untidy wisps, her eyes large and confused.
“Hello, Mrs. Thomas. It is good to see you. My Aunt Matilda and I think of you often, and pray for you.”
/> “Pray for me? No, pray for our wee girl. She is very ill and far away. And Mr. Thomas says we cannot go to her!”
“Shh . . . Do not upset yourself, Mrs. Thomas.” Mercy sat gingerly on the edge of the woman’s bed and took her hand. “Mary-Alicia has gone to heaven and is safe and at peace. She would not want you to worry about her anymore.”
“In heaven . . . ? Oh no. And her little child? Is she in heaven too?”
Mercy stole a glance at Mr. Thomas, in the doorway, but kept her expression even. “She is perfectly well, Mrs. Thomas, I promise you. She is healthy and happy and well cared for.”
It was on the tip of Mercy’s tongue to ask the poor woman if she wanted to see Alice, but she hesitated, knowing it would anger Mr. Thomas, and potentially upset young Alice as well. In the next moment, she was glad she had refrained, for Mrs. Thomas eased back against her pillows and murmured a relieved, “Thank God.” A moment later, her eyelids fluttered closed.
“She’ll sleep now, for several hours, most like.” He gestured for Mercy to precede him back to the main room, closing the door most of the way behind them.
“You see I have my hands full here.” Mr. Thomas jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “We are in no fit condition to care for a child.”
“Yes, you explained that when you brought Alice to the school.”
“And now all the more. My wife is dying, Miss Grove, and even were I able to overlook her mother’s behavior, I am not a young man. You may judge me harshly, but I am not without feeling. I don’t want the girl to be neglected or worse, should my wife and I both pass while she is still so young. That’s why I’ve asked’ee here—I want you to become her guardian.”
“Guardian?” Mercy’s heart pounded.
“Yes. And she your ward.”
“But why?”
“Why would’ee want to shoulder the burden?” he interjected. “And you an unmarried woman? I understand your hesitation, but appeal to your Christian charity.”
Mercy had only meant to ask “Why me?” but did not correct him. She felt light-headed and her chest tight. She forced herself to take a deep breath, and to think.
The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 9