Rachel watched Miss Matty’s expression with concern, and Mercy pressed her aunt’s hand.
Matilda gave each a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about me, my dears. I am sad, of course, but not distraught. Marion Thomas is—was—a woman of faith who looked forward to eternity in heaven. I take comfort in that.” She sighed. “And considering her state of mind and health these last several months, her passing is a blessing, though of course a difficult loss for her husband.”
Rachel glanced at Mercy, wondering how the news might affect her and young Alice.
Mercy said, “At least her passing does not come as a shock—Mr. Thomas guessed his wife would soon pass. No wonder he set about getting their affairs in order.”
Rachel nodded her agreement.
Later, Matilda went over to the Thomases’ to take her turn sitting vigil with the deceased. She had feared Mr. Thomas might forbid anyone but the undertaker and his assistants from entering, but the glazier gave way to custom, and the women of Ivy Hill did what they did so well—they rallied around the bereft man, bringing meals and prayers and presence.
The morning of the burial, Matilda returned early to the Thomas home to help prepare the funeral meal, which the mourners would partake of after the service and committal.
Rachel and Mercy stood at the window, Mercy holding Alice’s hand, when the funeral procession passed Ivy Cottage on its way to the churchyard. The bearers walked slowly, coffin held aloft. Several more men followed somberly behind—black crepe tied around their hats, long ends hanging down the back. Among them, Rachel saw Sir Timothy, Mr. Fothergill, and a few others she recognized.
After the procession had passed, Alice went upstairs with the other girls.
Rachel watched her go. “Did you tell her? Does she know it was her great-grandmother who died?”
Mercy shook her head. “It seemed strange to tell her, when she had never met the woman. Though she did recognize Mr. Thomas as the man who brought her here to Ivy Cottage.”
“The whole situation is a little strange.”
“I agree.”
Rachel returned to the library. Some time later, she heard the church bells toll—the ringers sounding a peal, signaling the end of the interment.
Timothy Brockwell stopped by the library not long after, removing his hat as he entered. “Good day, Miss Ashford.”
“Sir Timothy. I saw you pass by with the procession. How was the funeral?”
“Appropriately somber and hope-filled at once. Our vicar preached an excellent sermon.”
“I am sure he did.” Rachel recalled Mr. Paley’s comforting words after her father’s passing. “Were you well acquainted with Mrs. Thomas?”
“Not particularly, though I try to attend all the funerals of parishioners, when I can. To pay my respects.”
“That is good of you. Did your father do the same?”
He shrugged. “He attended some, I believe. That reminds me. I asked my family about his book, and the housekeeper helped me search, but we have not yet found the missing volume of Milton.”
“Thank you for trying. By the way, Carville came here a few days ago. He asked to go through the books you donated. Said he wanted to make sure no important papers or valuables were accidentally given away with the books.”
Timothy nodded. “I happened to mention I’d donated them. You would have thought I’d given away the family jewels. Did he find anything?”
“No.”
“Good, or the man would have scolded me as though I were still a misbehaving adolescent.”
Rachel doubted Timothy Brockwell had ever misbehaved in his life. She thought of what Carville had said about the taxes and gifts of food. She was grateful but also embarrassed to realize they’d been recipients of Sir Timothy’s benevolence. Recalling Carville’s entreaty, she decided not to mention it.
Rachel drew herself up. “Well, I will keep the rest of the set for now. Hopefully volume one will turn up yet.”
He nodded again, but made no move to leave.
Nervousness prickled through her. “Was there . . . something else?”
“Miss Ashford, you know that I have always . . .” He stopped, glancing at the black crepe around his hat brim as if recalling the solemn occasion. “Never mind. That is all for the present. And now I will bid you good day.” He bowed and walked away.
Oh, Timothy, she thought wistfully. So skilled in restraint. A true, reserved Englishman, who believed in Shakespeare’s adage “The better part of valour is discretion.”
After he left, and Rachel was alone again, a silky ribbon of memory wove itself through her mind. . . .
Timothy had been away for several days, attending the quarter sessions with his father. Rachel went to Brockwell Court to spend the afternoon with Justina, who was lonely without him. Rachel had empathized.
They were outside playing battledore and shuttlecock when Timothy returned home, a day earlier than expected.
He walked out of the stables and drew up short, a smile breaking over his face. “Rachel, what a pleasant surprise.”
“Justina asked me to visit since you were away. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”
Justina tossed down her racquet and ran to him. “Tim! We didn’t expect you ’til tomorrow!”
He ruffled his little sister’s hair. “Father sent me ahead. He returns tomorrow night.”
“Guess what?” Justina clutched his arm. “I beat Rachel twice!”
Rachel nodded. “It’s true, I’m afraid. Your sister is a dab-hand with a battledore. She has obviously played a great deal with her elder brother.”
“Yes. Justina often asks to play, and I oblige her.”
“Will you play now, Timothy?” the girl begged.
“Not now, poppet. I need to see how all goes on here at home. But first, shall we deliver Miss Ashford home in the curricle?”
“Oh yes! Let’s do!” Justina turned to Rachel. “My brother promises to teach me to drive it when I am old enough. I long to drive. I shall be a crack whip with his bang-up pair. I know it!”
Timothy tucked his chin and raised his eyebrows. “Apparently someone has been spending too much time with her brother Richard.” He and Rachel shared a smile over his sister’s head.
Soon the three of them were crowded into the curricle, Timothy at the reins. He started the horses off at a sedate trot, but Justina begged, “Faster, faster!”
With an apologetic look at Rachel, he urged the horses to speed, turning the corner sharply. Justina tipped sideways, squealing in delight. Rachel held onto her hat.
As they drove up the High Street, Rachel was surprised to see her friend Jane Fairmont standing outside The Bell, talking to the handsome innkeeper they’d met in Bath. Jane lived nearer Wishford and rarely ventured into Ivy Hill unless in the company of Mercy, Timothy, or Rachel herself.
Following her gaze, Timothy glanced back over his shoulder, then looked again, his expression dulling with sheepishness, or perhaps guilt. But then he noticed Rachel watching him and managed a reassuring smile.
A few moments later, they reached Thornvale. Timothy handed the reins to his sister, who beamed in reply, and then he helped Rachel down.
He was quiet as he escorted her up the walkway, and Rachel feared that seeing Jane had left him with misgivings.
But at the door, he turned to her with a hopeful smile. “Shall we have our first riding lesson soon?”
“Yes. Please.”
“Say, day after tomorrow, ten o’clock?”
Rachel nodded. “I shall look forward to it.”
He pressed her hand, looking deep into her eyes. “As will I.”
But the planned lesson had turned out to be nothing like she’d anticipated. Instead, it had been a hard lesson indeed.
Chapter
twelve
Mercy thanked Alice for gathering the slates, then watched as she hurried to catch up with the other girls filing out of the schoolroom to wash before dinn
er. Mercy heard a man call a friendly greeting outside, and glanced out the window with interest. There came Mr. Kingsley walking up Church Street, toolbox in hand. He paused to talk with their neighbor a few moments before continuing to Ivy Cottage. Even though the circulating library had opened, Mr. Kingsley still came when he could to finish the detail work, adding trim and moulding around the installed bookcases.
Colin McFarland had arrived nearly an hour before to study with Anna, so Mercy went down to let him know Mr. Kingsley had come. But when she reached the sitting room and peeked inside, she saw Colin and Anna were still hard at work, their heads bent close together at the desk. The tip of Colin’s tongue protruded as he concentrated on a column of figures.
He slid the paper toward Anna to review, then crossed his arms and chewed his lip while he waited.
Anna looked up and gave him an encouraging smile. “Almost. You summed the first two columns correctly but forgot to carry the four to the hundreds column here—see? You’ll remember next time. Now, let’s try multiplication. If a coach fare is seven shillings sixpence, and a family of four travels together, what will their total fare be?”
Colin stared down at the paper and sighed.
“It will get easier, Mr. McFarland. I promise. Come, I’ll help you.”
Mercy decided not to interrupt the lesson. Instead she stepped into the reading room to greet Mr. Kingsley and see if she might help him herself.
He glanced up when she entered, then looked again. “Oh. Evening, Miss Grove. Thought I heard Colin’s voice.”
She nodded. “He is . . . occupied at the moment but will be in soon, I trust. What are you working on tonight?”
“Miss Ashford asked me to build a partitioned stand to hold periodicals, like an oversized parlour Canterbury, if you’ve seen one. I’ve drawn a plan she likes, but I want to take a few more measurements. Make sure it will suit the available space.” He took out a folding ruler from his toolbox and extended it.
Mercy offered, “May I hold one end for you?”
“Thank you—just there against the far wall.”
She did so, and he measured, then wrote in a pocket notebook with a stubby pencil.
When he’d finished, she asked, “May I see your plan?”
“If you like. I’m no artist, mind.” He turned back a few pages and showed her several views of the proposed cabinet.
“Very nice.” She added on a chuckle, “I would selfishly suggest elongating the legs so taller people needn’t bend so low.”
She’d said it as a bit of a joke, but he looked from the drawing to the top of her head, a few inches below his.
“You’re right. Taller people like us should not have to suffer cricks in our necks our entire lives.” He grinned. “Excellent idea, Miss Grove.”
Pleasure filled her at his praise, and she returned his grin.
Colin came in then, and Mercy was almost sorry to see him.
The next day, Rachel slept late, having stayed up past twelve reading the night before. When she awoke, she hurried to get washed and dressed and down to the library by the posted opening time of nine o’clock. She arrived downstairs as the tall case clock chimed the hour, so she proceeded directly into the library, forgoing breakfast. Her stomach rumbled its protest.
Miss Matilda entered the library through the drawing room, Mr. Basu on her heels with an old wicker basket.
“What is this?” Rachel asked.
“Books.”
“More books? Who brought them?”
“We don’t know. Mr. Basu found them on the doorstep this morning.”
“Is there no name, or a note?”
Matilda shook her head. “Not that I can see.”
“But how am I to credit someone if they don’t give their name?”
“I suppose they wanted no credit.”
“But I—”
“The books are heavy, my dear,” Matilda interjected.
“Oh. Forgive me. Here on the desk, Mr. Basu, if you don’t mind. Thank you.”
He set down the basket and quickly exited. Matilda lingered.
“Did you see no one leaving?” Rachel looked out the library window.
“No.”
Rachel sighed. “I will have to hope there is an inscription in one of them.” She began pulling out books and stacking them on the desk.
The books themselves were a benign assortment: A cheaply bound Gothic romance, several women’s magazines complete with fashion plates, a copy of Steel’s Navy List, a few travelogues, a book of poetry, and another of sermons. She opened the covers, hoping for a dedication or name inscribed within. Nothing.
How frustrating!
Rachel frowned. “I don’t like the idea of accepting books without giving proper credit.”
“I know you don’t.” The older woman regarded her affectionately. “Do not be so proud, my dear. We’ve all needed help at one time or another. There is no shame in allowing friends and neighbors to bless us.”
Rachel dipped her head, but Miss Matty raised it with a gentle finger. “You were once in a position to help others, Rachel Ashford. Now others are in a position to help you. Don’t waste time feeling embarrassed. But when you are in that privileged position again someday, remember to return the favor.”
A dry laugh escaped Rachel. “Will I ever be?”
“Yes, my dear, I think you will. And that is when you will be able to give ‘credit’ to those who need it. It is how village life works, at its best. At least here in Ivy Hill.” She tenderly cupped Rachel’s cheek. “All right? You’ll remember?”
Rachel nodded, hope and doubt washing over her. “Thank you, Miss Matty. I will try.”
Matilda left her, and Rachel ceased her search through the books and instead began adding the titles to her inventory list. When she’d finished, she glanced at the now-empty basket and noticed something lying at the bottom. She picked up the small rectangle of thick paper. A calling card.
James Drake
Proprietor
The Drake Arms, Southampton
So . . . the anonymous donation was not so anonymous after all. Why would Mr. Drake leave more books on her doorstep? The titles seemed too recent to be from the Fairmont attic and a few a bit feminine to be his personal property. She would have to ask him. Rachel decided to send him a note and invite him to call.
A few days later, as Mercy came downstairs, she noticed the door into the library stood open. As a general rule, they kept it closed during the day to keep the circulating library somewhat separate from the rest of the house and especially the school, giving them all a bit more privacy. Her aunt had probably forgotten and left the door open. Rachel had gone for a walk with Mr. Ashford, Mercy knew, and Aunt Matty had offered to watch over the library for her until she returned.
Mercy walked toward the door, intending to close it, but Aunt Matty appeared from around the shadowy corner and grasped her hand to halt her, a finger to her lips.
Taking in her aunt’s stance and mischievous look, Mercy peered through the doorway to see what had caused her to hover there, listening. Inside the library, Mr. James Drake slowly strolled past each bookcase, hands casually clasped behind his back, surveying the shelves with an approving air, but not picking up a single book.
Matilda whispered, “I asked if I could help him, but he said he was just looking.”
Mr. Drake sat down on one of the chairs, crossed his ankles, and leaned back—at his ease but reading nothing. Was he waiting, hoping to see Rachel? Probably. As pretty as Rachel was, it would be little wonder if the man had taken an interest in her. The only wonder was why no suitor had claimed her as his bride long before now.
Then Sir Timothy entered through the outside door, book tucked under his arm. The baronet had come to the circulating library before to donate books and to select a few to read. Now he drew up short at the sight of another male patron sitting there so casually.
“Mr. Drake.”
“Good day, Sir Timothy.”
/> Sir Timothy waved a gloved hand toward the shelves. “No luck finding something to interest you?”
“Not yet.” Mr. Drake sent him a grin, but Sir Timothy did not return it.
“Mr. Drake, it seems to me I saw a lot of you at The Bell and now here at Ivy Cottage.”
“I could say the same of you.” If Mercy was not mistaken, a gleam of humor shone in Mr. Drake’s eyes.
Sir Timothy looked not amused at all. “I am a subscriber and an avid reader. Are you?”
The hotel owner shook his head, lips pursed. “I am a subscriber, but books are not what bring me here.”
A muscle in Sir Timothy’s jaw twitched. “Mr. Drake, I don’t know exactly what you are about, but may I remind you that it is not kind nor honorable to toy with women’s affections.”
Drake’s mouth quirked. “Yet here we both are.”
Sir Timothy frowned darkly, but Mr. Drake held up a conciliatory palm.
“Don’t worry. I have no intention of toying with the affections of anyone in this house.”
“Then what, may I ask, is your interest here?”
“You may well ask. But I am under no obligation to answer. However, your interest is perfectly obvious. And our young friend Mr. Ashford makes no pretense about his reasons for visiting Ivy Cottage either.”
Sir Timothy crossed his arms. “So I’ve noticed.”
The side door opened again, and Rachel stepped through, the door held for her by Mr. Ashford. Rachel’s face was framed by a broad-brimmed bonnet, her cheeks pink with fresh air and exertion, and the bishop’s blue spencer she wore brought out the color in her large, lovely eyes.
Her gaze landed on the two men, and she faltered. Stepping in behind her, Mr. Ashford drew up short to avoid colliding with her.
Mercy tapped her aunt’s shoulder and gestured that they should move away, but Matilda remained glued where she was.
“Gentlemen,” Rachel said a little breathlessly. “I hope you have not been waiting long. Are you here to find a book? Miss Matilda would have helped you—”
Mr. Drake waved away her concern. “Oh, she offered, never fear. But I am not here to look at books. You asked me to call, remember?” He slanted a smug look at Sir Timothy.
The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 12