The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  Rachel began talking, having no real idea of what she was going to say but determined to distract the girls from the storm.

  “I cannot think of any stories about sisters, but I will tell you one about two friends. Once upon a time there were two girls. We will call them Lady Rose and Lady . . . Joan. They grew up near each other and were the best of friends. Lady Joan was everything good and amiable. She could ride a horse as well as any man. She could shoot and dance equally well. Joan was also kind and befriended Lady Rose even though Rose was a few years younger.

  “Nearby, a young prince lived in the biggest and most beautiful house in the land. His mother, the icy queen, did not want him befriending the neighbor children, but the prince would sneak out to spend time with Joan anyway. He was kind to Rose as well but treated her like a little sister. Everyone knew he admired Joan.

  “Rose went along when they walked into the village or through the woods. But she had never learned to ride. In fact, she was a little afraid of horses, so when the prince and Joan would go off riding together, they would leave Rose at home. Rose would stand at the gate and wave and watch until the two of them disappeared. She feared one day when they came back, they would be married and she would lose her best friends forever. Secretly Rose was in love with the prince, but she knew he loved Joan and would probably marry her.”

  Phoebe asked, “Was Rose angry with Joan? ’Cause the prince liked her better?”

  “No, not angry. Sad maybe. But she loved them both and wanted them to be happy.”

  Rachel thought a moment, then continued, “As Rose grew older, she grew a little taller and her figure and complexion improved. Her father engaged a new lady’s maid for her, who helped her select pretty gowns and knew how to arrange her hair in flattering styles.

  “Finally, the day of her coming-out ball arrived. Rose had a new dress made for the occasion—a beautiful pink dress. She bathed in scented water, put on her new dress, and the new lady’s maid curled her hair and fastened roses in it with white-beaded pins. When Rose looked in the mirror, for the first time in her life she saw a princess looking back at her. She felt beautiful. Happy. Full of excitement for the ball ahead.

  “She floated down the stairs with a smile on her face, anticipating the reactions of her friends and family to her new dress, but what she had not anticipated was the prince’s reaction. He was standing at the bottom of the stairs as she descended. He looked up at her, then looked again. For a moment it seemed as if he did not recognize her, and then his mouth fell open and his eyes widened. The prince looked at her not as a little girl, not as a little sister, but as a woman. An attractive woman. Rose felt as though she could fly!

  “The prince told her she was beautiful and asked her to dance. They danced together and then again. Rose skipped and whirled through the figures until one of the roses fell from her hair. The prince asked to keep it as a memento. He tucked it into his pocket, close to his heart. . . .”

  An ache formed and throbbed in Rachel’s chest. She had to pause a moment, then took a deep breath and continued, “He danced with Joan and with other ladies as duty required, but all night, he only had eyes for her. Rose was not alone in noticing a change in how the prince looked at her and treated her. Joan noticed too.”

  “Was she angry?”

  “I . . . am not certain.”

  Phoebe squinted up at her. “But it’s your story.”

  “Yes . . . it is.”

  When she said no more for a moment, Phoebe prompted, “Did the prince marry Rose?”

  “No.”

  “He married Joan anyway?”

  “No. He married no one.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Phoebe sighed. “This isn’t a very good story.”

  “Shh.” Alice gently hushed Phoebe.

  Rachel injected a cheerful note into her voice. “But it is not a sad story. Not really. Rose was happy in many ways. She had a nice house to live in and was surrounded by good and kind friends.”

  Alice patted her hand at that and rested her head on Rachel’s shoulder.

  For a moment, Rachel remained silent, mind and stomach churning. Telling that tale had made her think. . . . Had she idealized that long ago night into a romantic fantasy instead of real life—a Cendrillon story of her own? Timothy was no more a prince than she a princess—they were both fallible human beings. It was time to get on with her life before it was too late.

  Thunder boomed and again the windowpanes shuddered. Rachel said, “Shall I sing to you instead? Hopefully I am better at that than telling tales.”

  The girls nodded eagerly.

  Rachel thought for a moment. Then she cleared her throat and sang, “‘Come, thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing thy grace; streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise. Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above’”—Lightning cracked the sky as if punctuating the words—“‘Praise the mount I’m fixed upon it, mount of God’s redeeming love . . .’”

  The girls soon fell asleep, but Rachel lay there after the final notes faded away. How strange that a hymn her father had sung to her as a girl was the one that leapt to her mind and tongue. The last years of his life had been difficult for them both, but she was thankful for this reminder of better times in their past.

  Rachel turned her head to look at one slumbering girl, then the other. Unexpected contentment warmed her. She never could have imagined lying here in a borrowed bed in Ivy Cottage singing to two girls not her own.

  It is not a sad story at all.

  Chapter

  fourteen

  A few days later, Mercy went downstairs after the day’s classes were finished and passed Rachel coming up. “Library closed for the day?”

  “Yes. My feet are tired.”

  “I imagine. Do you mind if I look for some books to use in tomorrow’s literature class?”

  “Of course not. You never have to ask—you know that.”

  “Thank you.”

  “By the way, your aunt is entertaining a caller in the reading room.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “See for yourself.” Rachel’s eyes sparkled with humor.

  Entering the library a few moments later, Mercy heard a man’s voice coming from the adjoining reading room, now and again punctuated by Aunt Matilda’s cheerful tones.

  She stepped nearer and glanced through the open doorway. James Drake and her aunt sat talking in the comfortable armchairs. Mr. Drake held a teacup and accepted one of Matilda’s biscuits with a smile, nervy fellow. The two were the picture of old friends, though, granted, her aunt never met a stranger.

  Matilda was clearly enjoying her conversation with the handsome gentleman, and Mercy did not want to interrupt. She walked to the literature section and began perusing the shelves. As she did, Mr. Drake’s words registered.

  “I stopped to offer my condolences to Mr. Thomas,” he said. “Tried to, at any rate. He accepted the basket I brought, then slammed the door again.”

  “As you’ve gathered, Mr. Thomas keeps to himself,” Matilda explained. “But I used to take tea with Mrs. Thomas every week or two, so I knew them a little better than most.”

  “Is that how you met Mary-Alicia?”

  “Yes. I talked with her during a few of her visits.”

  “And what was your opinion of her?”

  Matilda paused to consider. “She seemed quite ladylike and accomplished, especially considering her rather humble background. Her mother saw that she was educated and her manners genteel. But after her parents died . . . Well . . . not much supervision, you understand.”

  Mr. Drake apparently noticed Mercy in the adjacent room, for he stood and said, “Good afternoon, Miss Grove.”

  She looked over and raised a hand in greeting. “Hello. I am only here to choose a few books for class. Don’t let me interrupt you.”

  “Very well.” He resumed his seat.

  Matilda added,
“Join us when you’re finished, Mercy.”

  Mercy nodded and continued her search. She thought their conversation might change course, but after sipping again, Mr. Drake asked Matilda, “Why did Miss Payne not come to live here permanently after her parents died?”

  “The Thomases wanted her to, but she was . . . oh, sixteen or seventeen by that time and wanted her own way—as most of us do at that age. She replied to a newspaper advertisement and took a position as a lady’s companion to a dowager with a taste for travel. After that, the Thomases barely heard from Mary-Alicia for nearly two years, save the occasional dashed-off note from some far-flung destination or other. I suppose you met Mary-Alicia during that period?”

  “Yes, I met her in Brighton.”

  “I imagine she met Mr. Smith on the coast somewhere as well. She wrote to let her grandparents know she’d married an officer she’d met in the course of her travels. He had to ship out, so they’d eloped instead of returning to marry in the church here.”

  “Of course she married. A pretty girl like her.”

  Mercy glanced over at that and saw Aunt Matty nod.

  She continued, “So Mary-Alicia lived alone in Bristol, awaiting her husband’s brief leaves, apparently. Probably accustomed to such a life, growing up with a father in the navy.”

  “Do you recall Mr. Smith’s given name?”

  Matilda winced in concentration. “Marion told me once . . . I think it was something with an A. Adam or Alvin, or . . . oh, Alexander. That’s it. As in, Alexander the Great.”

  “Alexander Smith,” he repeated thoughtfully.

  “Right. And months later, Mary-Alicia wrote again, to let her grandparents know she and her husband were expecting a child, and then again to announce the birth of a daughter. . . .”

  Mercy wondered if she should interrupt their conversation as she had before on the street but decided rushing into the room to do so would be rude. Besides, she was curious to hear this part of Alice’s background as well.

  “Marion hoped her husband would finally allow their granddaughter to visit, as soon as her child was old enough to travel. Instead, Mary-Alicia wrote with the terrible news that her husband’s ship had been lost at sea. The Mesopotamia, I believe it was. She had to remain in Bristol to await word of any survivors. None came. Again, Marion wanted to invite Mary-Alicia and her child to live with them here in Ivy Hill, but Mr. Thomas refused.”

  “Why? Was he still so upset about the elopement?”

  Aunt Matty nodded again. “In his mind, she’d betrayed them, running off like that. And the man can hold a grudge like a prize bull. In any case, when Mary-Alicia fell so terribly ill, Marion was devastated. Her mind was already slipping by then, but even so she was distraught she’d not been able to help her, had not been with her at the end.”

  Mr. Drake’s voice sounded deeper than usual. “She died in Bristol?”

  “Yes. Buried there too.” Matilda pressed his hand. “Again, I am sorry. Were you . . . good friends?”

  “No.” He quickly shook his head. “I had not seen her in years. I did not even remember the name Ivy Hill until I saw it in print recently and it struck a chord. Still, I am sad to learn of her fate.”

  “Apparently she had been laid low with childbed fever and never fully regained her strength.”

  “Did the child survive?”

  Mercy held her breath. Would her aunt divulge Mr. Thomas’s connection to Alice?

  “Oh, yes.” Matilda smiled. “Hearty and hale since the first time I clapped eyes on her.”

  “I saw no evidence of a child at the Thomases’.”

  “Why would you? She—” Her aunt’s gaze darted toward Mercy. “That is, Mr. Thomas is a private man, as you’ve come to realize.”

  Mercy exhaled in relief.

  Mr. Drake studied Matilda’s face, speculation written in his expression. “I . . . see.” He set down his cup. “Well, Miss Grove, I appreciate your filling me in on what I missed in Mary-Alicia’s life. I am only sorry it ended so tragically.”

  He rose and bowed. “Thank you for the tea and conversation. Now, if you will excuse me, I had better get back to the Fairmont.”

  Matilda smiled. “You are very welcome, Mr. Drake. Good day.”

  He stepped into the library and greeted Mercy politely. “I came here with the intention of speaking to you about your charity school, not realizing you would still be busy teaching. Your aunt kindly invited me to take tea with her instead.”

  “We may talk now, if you like.”

  “Another time, if you don’t mind. The day has got away from me.”

  “Of course. Another time.”

  He bowed again, and took his leave.

  Mercy watched him go, wondering about Mr. Drake’s connection to the former Miss Payne. There was more going on beneath that man’s polished surface than he let on.

  After the evensong service ended, people began to rise from their pews to greet one another or file out. Mercy remained with the schoolgirls, but Matilda walked over to talk to the Brockwells. Rachel stopped to speak to Jane and then the Ashfords. It was difficult to be friendly with Mrs. Ashford after her comments about the circulating library, but Rachel made an effort for Nicholas’s sake.

  From the corner of her eye, she noticed Sir Timothy stop in the aisle nearby, politely waiting for a lull in their conversation.

  Mrs. Ashford noticed Sir Timothy as well and interrupted Rachel and Nicholas’s exchange.

  “Sir Timothy, how are you? A lovely service, was it not?”

  “Indeed, ma’am.”

  Rachel and Nicholas turned toward him as well.

  “Forgive the intrusion. I simply wanted a word with Miss Ashford, when she has a moment. No hurry.”

  Rachel said her farewells, noticing a hesitation on Nicholas’s part, or perhaps disappointment. He had likely hoped to walk her home.

  Sir Timothy stepped closer to her. “I am sorry your conversation was cut short on my account. Miss Matilda said you had something to show me?”

  “Oh, yes. The prodigal has returned.”

  His brow furrowed, then cleared. “Do you mean the missing volume one?”

  She nodded.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Someone donated it yesterday.”

  His eyes widened. “You’re joking. May I see it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then, may I walk you back to Ivy Cottage?”

  “Yes, if you’d like.” She reminded herself that it was only because he wanted to see the book.

  He gestured for her to precede him down the aisle. Rachel caught Matilda’s eye and signaled that they would go on ahead. Meanwhile, Sir Timothy paused to let his mother and sister know to take the carriage without him, saying that he would see them later at home. Lady Brockwell looked from him to Rachel with a slight frown but said nothing.

  As the two descended the church steps together, Rachel saw Nicholas and his mother talking to Mr. and Mrs. Paley. He glanced over as she and Timothy walked by, then looked again, concern evident on his face. How to explain? She sent him a—hopefully—reassuring smile as they passed.

  Reaching Ivy Cottage a few minutes later, Sir Timothy opened the front door for her and followed her inside. Rachel picked up a candle lamp from the vestibule table and carried it into the library, dim at this time of evening. There, she lit a second candle from the first, retrieved two books from the Milton set, and handed them to him.

  He examined volume one at the desk, then said, “Let’s compare the editions.” He opened volume two and ran his finger over the publication information, pausing at the Roman numerals printed inside. “See here, both eighth editions and same year published.” He looked at her. “What are the chances?”

  Rachel shared Matilda Grove’s theory that many more people bought the first volume than the rest of the set.

  He nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. Paradise Lost is better known, whereas the later volumes contain the lesser-known Paradi
se Regain’d and other poems. I don’t know if this particular edition was published serially or all at once. You don’t know who donated it?”

  Rachel shook her head. “I saw a woman pass Ivy Cottage with a bundle under her arm. It was likely her. She wore a hood, so I did not see her face very well. I believe she came down Ebsbury Road from the north. I am not acquainted with anyone who lives up there, as far as I know. Are you?”

  He shook his head. “I am familiar with most people in the village, but not everyone beyond it. Especially if they have never appeared before the council or magistrates. I have met a few yeoman farmers who live out that way—the Millers, the Joneses . . .”

  “Might your father have lent the book to one of them?”

  He looked again at the first volume. “My father often encouraged my siblings and me to read his favorite books, so it is possible, I suppose.”

  Mrs. Timmons’s remark about the “the witch of Bramble Cottage” went through Rachel’s mind, but she decided not to repeat it. Instead she asked, “Is the book valuable?”

  “It is not an early edition, but books like these are still expensive.” Sir Timothy’s dark brows knit.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Something about the houses up that way . . . I can’t quite remember. Never mind, I shall ask Carville.”

  “By the way, would you mind letting him know the book has turned up? He asked to be informed.”

  “Of course.”

  Sir Timothy remained where he was, his previous distraction fading as he focused on her face. The flickering candle flames reflected in his brown eyes, turning them to warm caramel. Light and shadows played over his handsome face, accentuating his aquiline features.

  Her gaze was drawn to his masculine mouth with its full lower lip, and not for the first time, she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She was glad the darkness hid her blush—and that he could not read her thoughts!

  He lowered his voice. “Rachel, may I ask if you and Mr. Ashford . . . That is, if you are not, I—”

  Out in the vestibule, the front door opened and banged shut, and chattering voices reached them—the Miss Groves and their pupils returning from the evensong service.