The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  He cleared his throat and stepped back. “Well, I won’t keep you. If you find out any more about the person who donated volume one, let me know, will you? Just out of curiosity.”

  She nodded but didn’t trust her voice to speak.

  Flickers of that old hope rose in her heart, just as she’d felt awaiting his return to Thornvale for the promised riding lesson. She would be foolish to forget what had happened instead. . . .

  Rachel had worn Ellen’s riding habit and a new hat, though considering her father’s financial problems, which he had just confided, she regretted the purchase. Even so, she was eager to spend time with Timothy again, doing something he loved. She hoped to learn to enjoy riding as well, and to spend many happy hours in his company in the future.

  She went outside at the appointed hour, expecting him on horseback. He arrived on foot.

  Still, she beamed at him. “Good morning, Timothy.”

  He did not return her smile.

  “Miss Ashford. I am sorry. I said I would come to Thornvale this morning, so here I am, but I am afraid there has been a change of plans.”

  “Oh. Are you busy? No matter. We shall attempt my lesson another day.” She smiled again, inwardly relieved to put off the frightening prospect a little longer.

  Then she noticed his tight expression—the flared nostrils and pulsing jaw.

  A groom passed by, and seeing him, Timothy gestured for her to precede him into the garden, away from listening ears.

  Once there, he said, “I am afraid duties at home will keep me from that original plan. My days of pleasure riding must be curtailed; my time is not my own. I had looked forward to—” His voice hitched, and he pressed his lips together. “But I am not the one to teach you after all. I trust you will find someone else to do so. Someone better suited.”

  She stared at him, mind slowly freed from its ruts, the cogs beginning to turn, to click through his words—those spoken and those unspoken.

  Please, no. . . . Her heart fisted. He was announcing not only the end of their riding lessons before they’d begun . . . but the end of everything else too.

  What had happened? Had she done something wrong? Or had Sir Justin learned the news of her father’s fall at the quarter sessions? If so, the Brockwells might want to distance themselves before the coming scandal. She could hardly blame them.

  But would Timothy really reject her over it . . . ? An icicle pierced her chest, and all her happy buoyancy of minutes before drained away. She felt the tears fill her eyes but tried to blink them back.

  He noticed anyway, and his eyes downturned. “Miss Ashford. Rachel.” Expression stricken, he reached for her hand, then stopped himself. “I am deeply sorry. It is not what I want. However . . . ” His Adam’s apple rose and fell. “My father shan’t live forever. He has decided it is time I begin learning all I need to know about managing the estate, his magistrate’s duties, and everything else the baronetcy entails. He insists that should be my focus for now.”

  For now . . . ? She looked into his eyes once more, scouring them for any hope of a later, but he averted his gaze before she could look too deep.

  He made a formal bow. “I wish you every happiness, Miss Ashford. If there is ever anything I can do to help you, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Her heart ached, and her pride pricked her. She would be loath to ask Timothy Brockwell for help—not when she had hoped he was about to ask for her hand.

  Chapter

  fifteen

  After the schoolgirls were in bed later that night, Rachel asked Mercy if she had any idea who the caped woman might be.

  Mercy narrowed her eyes in thought. “A black mantle?”

  “Yes. I believe she came down Ebsbury Road from the north.”

  Mercy slowly nodded. “I walk Fanny out that way on Sundays to visit her family. Their farm is just over the crest of the hill.”

  “Are you acquainted with any other women who live out there?”

  “Only the Joneses and the Millers. But I have seen a woman who wears a black mantle in all weather. I had to reprove Fanny because she called the woman a witch.”

  “That seems harsh, even from Fanny. Though Mrs. Timmons said something similar.”

  “I agree, though between us, if you had seen how the woman looked in her front garden, stirring a cauldron over the fire with a long stick. And with that black cape, and rather pointed nose . . .”

  “Mercy, I’m surprised at you!” Rachel teased. “What was she making—potions and poisons?”

  “According to Fanny, yes. But judging by the smell, I would say soap. Not as diabolical, and far more practical.”

  “How old of a woman is she?”

  Mercy shrugged. “Certainly not an old crone. Maybe . . . fifty?”

  “What is her name, do you know? I’d like to offer her a subscription.”

  “I believe it is Mrs. Haverhill, though Aunt Matilda would know for sure.”

  “If she does, she did not tell me. Although I did ask her when Mrs. Timmons was in the room . . .” And their cook was not the most charitable or discreet person.

  Mercy nodded again. “That might explain it.”

  “Have you not met the woman?”

  “No. She keeps to herself, I understand. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her in Ivy Hill.”

  “How curious. Hmm.” Rachel considered. “I wonder if she likes to read. . . .”

  The next day, Rachel decided to walk up Ebsbury Road to see if she could spot this woman outside. If successful, she would try to strike up a conversation. Rachel took a few coins in her reticule, thinking she might ask to buy some soap before raising the topic of a subscription.

  As she stepped out of Ivy Cottage, she saw Jane coming up Church Street.

  Jane waved. “Rachel, where are you off to?”

  Rachel met her at the gate. “To a Mrs. Haverhill’s. Do you know her?”

  “I have not met her, though I have heard of her. I understand she makes aromatic soaps and sells them at the Wishford market. In fact, I had planned to go out to her place at some point to ask if she might make some soap especially for The Bell.”

  “I want to offer her a subscription. She recently donated a book to the library. At least I think it was her. I only caught a glimpse of her face.”

  “Do you mind if I go with you?” Jane asked. “I’d like to meet her as well.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. I would enjoy the company. And I’ll feel less nervous about knocking on a stranger’s door with you along. Let us hope she does not have a vicious dog.”

  Together the two friends walked up Ebsbury Road. They crossed Pudding Brook and passed a farmyard, the road narrowing as it ascended Ebsbury Hill. Near the top, they reached a charming cottage, surrounded by a low stone wall. In the large front garden, a cauldron lay tipped on the ground, its iron stand toppled beside the fire, embers still smoking. The garden gate hung open. A stone path led from it to the cottage’s front door, which stood open as well. But Rachel saw no one about.

  She and Jane exchanged concerned looks and walked tentatively up the path, stepping over a broken flowerpot. On the wall near the door hung a small plaque, partly covered by ivy. Bramble Cottage.

  “Hello?” Rachel called. “Mrs. Haverhill?”

  In reply, an orange tabby mewled and came padding to the open door.

  Jane knocked on the frame and repeated more loudly, “Is anyone home?”

  Rachel peeked over the threshold. She saw an end table overturned and desk drawers pulled wide, contents spilling forth like a burst seedpod.

  What happened here? Instinctively, Rachel stepped back. Whoever had done this might still be near.

  “Should we go in?” Jane whispered. “Make sure she isn’t . . . hurt or something?”

  Fear tightened Rachel’s stomach at the thought of the two of them going inside. She looked over her shoulder, hoping to see someone to hail for help—a neighbor or field hand. She noticed a woman in black trudging
toward the cottage from the opposite direction—the road that wound around the back way into Wishford. The woman carried a low market basket in her hands.

  Looking up, she frowned, then strode forward purposely. “Yes? What do you want?” She stepped through the gate, fair eyes snapping with suspicion.

  Rachel pointed. “The door was open when we arrived.”

  The woman glanced from the tipped cauldron to the broken blue-and-white flowerpot. Two identical pots stood near it, unscathed. Then she looked at the open door, and her mouth gaped in a dark maw. She dropped her basket and ran forward.

  Jane and Rachel parted like curtains to let her pass between them and into the house.

  Curious and concerned, they watched from the doorway as the woman turned a full circle in the room, surveying the overturned furniture and open drawers, then walked up the stairs, moaning, “No, no, no . . .”

  A few moments later, she came back down, expression pained, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth.

  She stood there, eyes distant. “The money I could understand, even the ring. But the lover’s eye? The mourning locket? Knowing what they mean to me?” A thin, high wail escaped her. She pressed the handkerchief to her lips, her eyes, then held it beneath her nose, as though to stem a flood of emotion.

  “Foolish, selfish, hurtful creature,” she muttered.

  “Mrs. Haverhill,” Rachel gently began, “I am dreadfully sorry. Have you been robbed? Can we help you? Truly, you look very ill. May I make you some tea?”

  The woman shook her head, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

  “Shall we . . . summon the constable, or the magistrate?” Jane asked. “So they can try to find out who did this?”

  The woman looked over as if just recalling they were there. Her body stiffened, and a new emotion crossed her face. Fear?

  “Oh. No, I . . . Thank you, but no. Please don’t say anything to either the constable or Sir . . . the magistrate. This is my problem. I need no help to determine who did this. Who else knew just where to find everything of value? Who knew I hid a key in that particular flowerpot among those outside?”

  “But if you know who did it,” Rachel said, “surely you will want to bring that person to justice?”

  “Justice?” She laughed bitterly. “Precious little of that in this world. No. There is nothing to be done. Please, don’t say a word to anyone in authority, I beg of you. This is a . . . family matter, of a sort. And it must remain that way. Please. I must have your word. I could not live with myself if any harm came to . . . anyone, because of me.”

  Jane studied her anxious face. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. Perfectly.” With one last wipe of her handkerchief, the woman assembled her composure and drew a long breath. “Now that’s settled, what did you ladies wish to see me about? Or were you simply passing?”

  Rachel regarded the woman more closely. Her nose was a bit prominent, especially red, as it was now, but her eyes were a lovely blue. Rachel said, “I am Miss Ashford. I believe you left a book for me at the new circulating library?”

  A wary light shone in those blue eyes. “Is that a problem?”

  “No! I appreciate every donation. In fact, I’ve come to offer you a credit toward borrowing another book, if you have any interest in a subscription.” Rachel handed the woman a card with the credit noted.

  Mrs. Haverhill accepted it reluctantly. “You needn’t have done that. I wished nothing in return. I meant to leave the book anonymously, though obviously I failed. Still, I thank you.”

  Jane spoke up, “And I am Mrs. Bell. I had hoped to speak to you about possibly making some soap for the coaching inn, but we can discuss that another time.”

  Mrs. Haverhill nodded. “Yes. Another time I would be happy to speak to you. Perhaps next week. Would you mind returning then? I rarely venture into Ivy Hill.”

  “Of course. I don’t mind at all. I shall stop by some afternoon soon.” Jane turned.

  Rachel held the woman’s gaze. “Are you sure there’s nothing we can do? It seems wrong to leave you to face this alone. The local magistrate is a friend of ours. He would want to help you, if he knew.”

  Mrs. Haverhill shook her head, eyes flat. “No, he would not. Now remember, not a word to him or to the constable.”

  Rachel blinked. “Very well, if you insist.”

  Jane took her arm. “Come, Rachel.”

  They walked away. At the gate, Rachel turned back and saw the woman still standing there, framed by the open doorway, a picture of betrayal and loss.

  On the walk back into the village, Rachel slowly shook her head. “Why would she do nothing? Why insist the authorities not be told?”

  Jane considered. “She mentioned it was a family matter ‘of a sort,’ whatever that means. She may not want to get some thieving relative into trouble.”

  “I suppose. If a prodigal son or daughter sneaked home and stole something to survive . . . She might not want her own child to be sent to prison, or transported.”

  “Sounds like whoever it was took far more than would be required for mere survival.”

  “Has she children?” Rachel asked.

  “I have never heard of other Haverhills in the area, have you?”

  “No. But I had not heard of Mrs. Haverhill until recently either. I know we promised not to report the theft, but do you think it would be all right if we asked Matilda Grove what she knows about Mrs. Haverhill?”

  “I think that would be all right. If we don’t mention the theft.”

  Rachel nodded her agreement.

  Upon their return, they found Matilda Grove in the sitting room, sewing something.

  “Hello, Rachel. And Jane—good to see you again, my dear.”

  “Hello, Miss Matty. What are you working on?”

  She lifted a needle and wad of material. “Just a bit of mending.”

  Rachel said, “I could have done that—sewing is one of the few ways I can contribute.”

  “And no doubt you would do it better, but Mrs. Timmons asked me to mend a few aprons. I think she just wanted me out of her kitchen.”

  Jane and Rachel took seats near her, and Rachel began, “Miss Matty, how well do you know Mrs. Haverhill?”

  “Ah. Was that who donated the book, after all?”

  Rachel nodded, guessing Matilda had suspected as much all along.

  “Forgive me for avoiding your questions earlier, but I did not want to mention Mrs. Haverhill in our cook’s presence. She tends to say unkind things about her, as you heard. I barely know the woman, actually. I’ve only spoken to her a handful of times in all the years she has lived here. I took her a cake when she first moved into Bramble Cottage. A few other women tried to welcome her as well, but she invited none of us inside and made it clear she wanted her privacy. Some women were set against her because of it. Or for other reasons. I think Mrs. Snyder is the one who taught her to make soap in recent years, but beyond that she has always wanted to be left alone.”

  “Has she lived alone all this time?”

  “Not exactly. She did have a maid-of-all-work. Bess Kurdle her name was, though she died last year. Bess would come into Ivy Hill on errands for her mistress now and again, but she was not well received—a bit of a troubled past, I gather. Both women preferred to do their shopping in Wishford.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Haverhill mentioned she rarely ventures into Ivy Hill.”

  Matilda nodded. “Bess Kurdle had a daughter. I believe she continued to work at Bramble Cottage after her mother passed on.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Mrs. Burlingame passes the cottage regularly on her route. She’s mentioned seeing a younger woman working outside now and again. And apparently she sells Mrs. Haverhill’s soap at the Wishford market.”

  Jane said, “She seemed upset about a . . . family matter. Has she children that you know of? I have never heard of a Mister or a Miss Haverhill, have you?”

  Matilda shook her head. “No, there are no other Haverhill
s in Ivy Hill. I don’t know where she came from originally. London, maybe.”

  “Was she already a widow when she moved here?”

  “Um . . . yes, I believe she was.” Matilda rose, her chair scraping across the floor. “Why all these questions? Did you . . . hear something about her?”

  “We met her today and are only curious.”

  “I suppose you offered her a library credit, and she turned it down?”

  Rachel looked away. “Well, she took the card, though reluctantly.”

  Matilda laid a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “Remember what I told you, Rachel. Your chance to help someone in kind may arrive before you know it.”

  Chapter

  sixteen

  Jane sat on the lodge steps, petting Kipper. Colin walked over, flipping through the day’s post. “A letter for you, Mrs. Bell.”

  Jane accepted it. “Thank you, Colin. By the way, I tried to find you yesterday afternoon. Three post chaises arrived at once, and we needed help.”

  “Oh. Sorry, Mrs. Bell. I didn’t think you’d need me then.”

  “I didn’t either. I know you take a few hours of rest now and again, but do let me know when you leave the property so I know where you are if other unexpected needs arise.”

  “Very well, ma’am.”

  When he returned to the inn, Jane glanced at the letter and noticed the vaguely familiar handwriting. It was clearly and emphatically addressed to Mrs. Jane Bell. The first name underlined to differentiate from Mrs. Thora Bell, she guessed. From this detail, Jane concluded that the letter was from Hetty Piper. The former chambermaid would not know that Thora had since married and was now Mrs. Talbot.

  Jane opened the seal and read:

  Dear Mrs. Bell,

  Believe me, I did try to find another place, armed with the fine character letter you wrote for me. But Goldie is determined I shall work for no one in Epsom but her and has slandered my name all over town. So I’ve had no offers—respectable ones, that is.

  Does your kind offer of a place at The Bell still stand? If the lioness forbids you to engage me, just say so and I shan’t come. If I do come, I promise I shall do my best to keep my distance from her son. Heaven help me.