The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  “Good day, Mrs. Haverhill,” Jane began. “Things have been busy here, and I haven’t had a chance to return about the soap. So thank you for coming to see me.”

  “That is not why I’ve come.”

  “Oh. Then how may I help you?”

  The woman winced and pressed a hand to her temple.

  “Are you all right, Mrs. Haverhill?”

  “Just a touch of headache. The sun . . .”

  “Yes, a warm day for autumn.” Jane eyed the woman’s layers of black clothing. “You are in mourning, I take it? I hope you don’t mind my asking. I am a widow as well and wore bombazine myself until recently, so I empathize.”

  “Yes, I am in mourning,” she replied briskly. “Tell me, how much is the fare to London?”

  Jane shifted into her professional role. “Well . . . you have two main options—stage or mail.” She gathered the appropriate printed timetables and laid them on the desk. “Here are the schedules and corresponding fares. You can see that going by Royal Mail coach is the fastest. But it is more expensive as well.”

  “My goodness,” Mrs. Haverhill breathed. “Fares have certainly risen since last I traveled.”

  “Oh, and when was that?”

  “Thirty years ago.”

  “Yes, I suppose prices are shocking, then. Though I am happy to report the roads and the coach springs have improved greatly in thirty years as well.”

  Mrs. Haverhill took a step back. “It was probably a foolish notion anyway.”

  “Did you need to go to London for some reason?” Jane asked. “If there is a family emergency or illness, perhaps you might . . . pay me as you can?”

  The woman shook her head. “I have no family. At least, none who would receive me. I have a brother I thought might . . . But no. It was probably an unrealistic idea. Be glad you are a widow, Mrs. Bell.”

  Jane looked at her in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

  “Never mind. Thank you for your kind offer, but I have changed my mind.”

  “Are you certain? Do let me know if you reconsider.”

  The woman’s pale countenance took on a grey pallor, and she seemed to sway.

  Jane stepped around the desk. “Mrs. Haverhill, are you unwell? Why do you not sit down a moment?”

  “I have troubled you long enough. Good day.”

  She turned and walked unsteadily across the entry hall. One moment she was framed in the open doorway, the next, she crumpled to the ground.

  “Mrs. Haverhill!”

  At her cry of alarm, Thora, Talbot, and Patrick came rushing out of the coffee room.

  Jane called, “Quick, go find Dr. Burton!”

  Thora knelt beside the woman. “I think she has only fainted. Patrick, run to Fothergill’s for some salts. That will be quicker. If he thinks she needs a physician, you can ride for him then.”

  Already the woman shifted, her face contorting and eyelids fluttering. “No doctor,” she muttered. “Don’t have the . . . Don’t need one.”

  “Shh . . . lie still,” Thora soothed. “Everything’s all right.”

  A few minutes later, Patrick returned, the apothecary on his heels.

  Mr. Fothergill knelt at the woman’s other side and swept a vial beneath her nose. Her face wrinkled, and she pushed it away.

  Thora rolled her eyes. “She’s already come to, Mr. Fothergill, but thank you.”

  Jane said, “Add the salts to our account, if you please. We will keep some on hand, just in case.”

  “I should still examine her.”

  Thora rose to her feet. “Then, let’s carry her into a private parlour. No need to make her a spectacle.”

  Talbot and Patrick carried the woman, who protested at being lifted, and laid her on a padded bench in the private parlour. There Mr. Fothergill felt her pulse, looked into her eyes, and asked her questions about her symptoms. After a few minutes, he decided she was in no imminent danger but said she should not be alone for a few days, until she felt herself again. Rest, fluids, and wholesome meals were his prescription. And if she was still not well after that, Dr. Burton should be consulted.

  “You will stay here,” Jane said, recalling the woman lived alone and had no family nearby.

  Mrs. Haverhill shook her head. “I could not.”

  “Of course you can. You heard Mr. Fothergill. You are not to be on your own. And don’t worry. We have a few rooms open at present, so you are welcome to stay at no charge.”

  “Why are you being kind to me? You won’t be, not when you hear . . .”

  Hear what? Jane thought but said only, “Shh. We’ll talk later.” She shot Thora a questioning look, but Thora’s expression told her nothing.

  Mrs. Haverhill was able to get to her feet with help, and Thora and Talbot each took an arm and helped her up the stairs. Jane led the way and opened the door to the first empty room. There Talbot excused himself and said he would ask Mrs. Rooke to send up an invalid tray.

  “First, let’s get you out of these heavy clothes,” Thora said. “You must be sweltering. No wonder you fainted. And a cool bath, I think.”

  “Good idea.” Jane had noticed that Mrs. Haverhill, though genteel in appearance, carried a less than fresh odor. “I’ll ask Alwena and Ned to bring the tub.”

  A short while later, the bath had been delivered and filled, and the chambermaid and potboy had gone, though not without casting curious looks at their unusual guest. Privacy restored, Jane and Thora helped Mrs. Haverhill off with her dress and petticoat. As they began unlacing her long stays, Thora hesitated and met Jane’s gaze with a long look of concern. The woman’s skin was deeply creased from the boning, even through the thin fabric of her shift.

  “Mrs. Haverhill,” Thora asked, “how long have you been wearing these?”

  The woman hung her head, clearly embarrassed. “Since my young maid left. I couldn’t get out of them myself.”

  “When was that?”

  “Several weeks ago now.”

  “You poor thing,” Jane murmured.

  They helped the woman bathe, wash her hair, and slip into an old nightdress left by a guest weeks ago, laundered but not reclaimed. “This will do for now,” Thora said. “It’s clean at least.”

  Jane offered, “I can ride out to your house later, Mrs. Haverhill, and fetch some of your own clothes, if you like.”

  The woman hesitated. “I am afraid I have fallen behind in washing my things. I am still learning to do for myself.”

  “I understand,” Jane said. “Mrs. Snyder launders all my clothes. I would be lost without her.”

  They got the woman into bed and insisted she drink the broth and eat the custard Alwena brought up. Finally, Mrs. Haverhill nodded off.

  Leaving the woman to sleep, they tiptoed out of the room, and found Alwena hovering in the corridor.

  “What is it, Alwena?” Jane asked.

  The maid’s eyes were large. “Mrs. Rooke put up a fuss. Said she did not want to cook for ‘her sort.’ What did she mean? Is that woman a . . .” She mouthed the taboo word prostitute. “You could lose your license!”

  Thora frowned. “Mrs. Haverhill is our guest, Alwena. That is all you or Mrs. Rooke need concern yourselves with. But I will tell you right now that she is not . . . that . . . and never has been. I will tell Mrs. Rooke the same before I go. I know I speak for Mrs. Bell as well when I say that we—she—will brook no such slander of anyone under her roof.”

  “Very true.” Jane nodded, though inwardly her thoughts whirled. If Lord Winspear heard a known woman of ill-repute was lodging in The Bell, he would not hesitate to summon her on charges of keeping a disorderly house.

  “Go on, Alwena. Back to work. The dining parlour will not sweep itself.” Jane waited until the girl had trudged down the stairs before turning to Thora, eyebrows high.

  Thora took her arm and led her down the passage, out of earshot of their new guest or anyone eavesdropping at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Thora . . .” Anxiety filled Ja
ne. “What is it? Do you know more than you’ve said? Are you acquainted with her?”

  “Not really. She has always kept to herself. But I don’t want you to be ignorant, Jane.”

  “She isn’t . . . what Alwena said, is she?”

  “No. Not as far as I know. But you may have to defend your decision to invite her to stay here. There were rumors about her when she first moved here some thirty years ago. And people have long memories.”

  “What sort of rumors?”

  “Oh, you know how people gossip. An attractive woman living on her own, and young at the time. How could she afford it? And why was a certain man from Brockwell Court seen going up Ebsbury Road more often than before? She didn’t help her case, refusing invitations, being aloof to those who called and tried to befriend her.”

  Jane wanted to ask who the man was, but didn’t want to appear the gossip. Instead she said, “That is not a crime.”

  “In Ivy Hill it is,” Thora snapped. “You know I have never joined the charity guild or the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society, so I am not privy to all the village gossip. But if even I heard speculation about the woman . . . well, I just want you to be prepared. I think you did a kind and Christian thing in offering to care for her for a few days. I just don’t want you to be caught unaware if others grumble.”

  “Thank you, Thora.” Jane thought of something. “Would you and Talbot do me a favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “Would you mind stopping by Ivy Cottage on your way home and discreetly letting Rachel Ashford know Mrs. Haverhill is here? We called on her together, and I think she would want to know.”

  “Happily. It is barely out of our way at all events. Would you like to write a note, or shall I work out a way to talk to her in private?”

  “You may simply call in to see her new library. Perhaps even become a subscriber while you’re there.”

  “I know Talbot plans to.” Thora straightened. “We shall take our leave as soon as I have a word with Mrs. Rooke. That is, if you don’t mind?”

  “No, please do.”

  Thora nodded. “Send Colin or one of the ostlers out to the farm if you need help with Mrs. Haverhill. Or anything else.”

  “Thank you, Thora. I will.”

  Jane hoped she would not regret asking Mrs. Haverhill to stay.

  Chapter

  nineteen

  The library door opened, and Rachel looked up from her desk. Nicholas stepped inside, a vase of flowers in his hands.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Ashford.” He gave her a rueful smile and handed her the flowers. “I remembered a vase this time.”

  “That was not necessary, but very thoughtful. Thank you.”

  She set it on the desk and positioned it to best effect while he selected a periodical.

  “I’ve come to read the newspapers—and to see you in the bargain, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. You are very welcome.”

  He smiled at her, then sat down nearby with the latest copy of the Salisbury Journal.

  In the adjacent reading room, members of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society were engaged in a heated debate over Waverley, the novel they had all read. Rachel watched the proceedings through the open doorway.

  Charlotte Cook shut her copy with a snap. “I found the main character insufferable—an insipid young man. And the narrator rattles on and on.”

  Judith Cook nodded. “Yes, I am quite of your opinion.”

  Mrs. Barton shook her head in disgust. “All those strange spellings for dialect. I could barely make out a word. I tried reading it aloud to my bossies, and their milk curdled on the spot!”

  Rachel suppressed a laugh. She met Nicholas’s gaze over the newspaper and found him grinning.

  “Might you be exaggerating a little, Bridget?” Mrs. O’Brien asked.

  “A very little.”

  Mrs. Klein pressed a hand to her heart. “Oh, but when the author describes the picturesque Highlands and bonny Flora playing the Scottish harp near a waterfall . . . I was completely transported.” She sighed. “It was all so delightfully romantic.”

  Judith Cook nodded. “Yes, I am quite of your opinion.”

  Nicholas and Rachel shared another smile.

  He set aside the newspaper and joined her at the desk. “Miss Ashford, will you come to Thornvale tonight and have dinner with us?”

  Rachel hesitated. She would enjoy visiting dear Thornvale again, though being there would be bittersweet—especially with Mrs. Ashford on hand to remind her she was no longer its mistress.

  “Thank you for the invitation, Nicholas. I—”

  The door opened, and Mr. and Mrs. Talbot entered.

  “Excuse me a moment.”

  Jane’s mother-in-law took her aside and told her about Mrs. Haverhill’s collapse. Rachel thanked her, promising to visit later that afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. Talbot both signed up for subscriptions while they were there, and she thanked them for that as well.

  When they left, Rachel approached Nicholas. “I am sorry, but the Talbots brought news—I am needed at the inn this evening. Perhaps another time?”

  “Of course. I will hold you to it.”

  As soon as she closed the library that day, Rachel put on bonnet and gloves and walked to The Bell.

  Jane greeted her warmly. “Thank you for coming, Rachel. We are busy this afternoon, and I can’t spend as much time with her as I’d like.”

  She led Rachel up to the woman’s room. Jane knocked and poked her head inside. “Mrs. Haverhill? Rachel Ashford has come to see you, all right?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  Rachel stepped inside, and Jane closed the door gently behind her.

  Mrs. Haverhill looked tidier than when Rachel had last seen her dirty and perspiring in her garden. But she looked markedly peaked.

  “Miss Ashford. How good of you to come. My, my, your third call on me in a week’s time. I don’t know why you and Mrs. Bell are so kind to me, but I am grateful. Although it is difficult for me to . . . accept charity.”

  “That I understand.” Rachel smiled and sat in a chair beside the bed. “Are you feeling better? I was sorry to hear you fell ill.”

  “I suppose everyone knows . . . and is spreading the news of my mortification.”

  “Not at all. Jane simply sent word through her mother-in-law. I believe Thora was on hand when you . . . when the incident occurred?”

  “Yes. She was kind as well. Surprisingly so. I’ve heard enough about Thora Bell over the years to expect a harsh taskmaster, but I suppose I should know better than anyone not to believe everything one hears about someone.”

  “Thora does have a stern reputation.” Rachel glanced around the room—it was much nicer than she would have guessed. “Would you like me to let anyone know where you are?”

  “No.”

  “You have no way to reach your young maid? Perhaps if she knew you were ill . . .”

  “No. I don’t have her direction. Nor do I believe Molly would come back. Not now.”

  “I am sorry. Is Molly’s father gone as well?”

  “He’s long gone. He was sent to prison for poaching and died before the year was out. Bess had just given birth to Molly and was bound for the workhouse. A terrible fate, especially for a mother. Thankfully one of the magistrates took pity on her and spared her. Asked me to take Bess on as my maid-of-all-work. I agreed. An unusual situation, but it suited us. Little Molly grew up in Bramble Cottage, on her mother’s hip as she cooked. Or playing with her few homemade toys on the floor . . .” Tears filled the woman’s eyes, and she swiped at them with the back of her hand.

  Mrs. Haverhill sucked in a breath. “Oh no!” She looked earnestly at Rachel and sat up straight. “You have been to my house. You know what happened there. I must ask you to do me a favor.”

  Rachel hesitated. Would she regret agreeing? The woman seemed a bit unstable. She swallowed. “If I can.”

  Mrs. Haverhill grasped Rachel’s hand. “Would y
ou go to my cottage and see to Mr. Nesbitt, make sure he is all right?”

  Rachel blinked. “Mr. Nesbitt?”

  “He’ll try to escape, but don’t let him.”

  “Mr. Nesbitt is your . . . ?”

  “My cat. Mrs. Bell is so busy, I hate to ask her. But he has never been left alone so long before.”

  Rachel smiled in relief. “I will be happy to do that.”

  A knock sounded, and Jane nudged the door open with a tray. “I’ve brought you two some tea.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bell. Very thoughtful.” Mrs. Haverhill settled back against her pillows. “And your friend Miss Ashford is a godsend. She has offered to go to Bramble Cottage and check on my cat for me. I’m afraid he will be out of food, but if he has enough water, he’ll be all right for another day or two . . . hopefully.”

  Jane set down the tray on the bedside table. “Do you know, I have a cat myself. I’ve been saving some kipper for him, but he’s so overfed, he can go without tonight. Rachel, you take it for . . . ?”

  “Mr. Nesbitt,” Rachel supplied.

  Mrs. Haverhill sighed. “Thank you, Mrs. Bell, that is a worry off my mind.”

  Rachel asked, “Is there anything else you need me to bring back for you while I’m there? Brush, tooth powder? Or a book, perhaps?”

  “Mrs. Bell has generously provided all I need. Just make sure my cat is looked after. That’s all I ask.”

  “May I have the key?”

  “It is in another blue-and-white pot. I placed it where the broken one stood.”

  “You put the key back where it was?” Rachel blinked in disbelief. “After someone who knew where it was used it to break in?”

  The woman shrugged and avoided their gazes, not attempting to explain. Rachel’s heart twisted to see how much the lonely woman hoped young Molly would return. Mrs. Haverhill would clearly welcome her with open arms. Even now.

  Rachel stayed long enough to take tea with the woman, keeping the conversation light after that, and then excused herself. Downstairs, she found Jane in the office.

  Jane handed over a wrapped dish of the promised kipper and walked Rachel out.