The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  Timothy glanced at Rachel over the rim of his glass. For a moment she held his gaze, then looked away first.

  “Ah. Well. How quaint,” Lady Brockwell allowed. It was clearly not the answer she’d wanted. “However, sometimes romance comes before marriage and sometimes it is the other way around.” She paused and waited until the next course was laid before continuing.

  “Consider Sir Justin and me. We barely knew each other when we became engaged. In fact, he was courting another woman when we first met. A completely unsuitable woman, as he later came to understand. But he remembered his duty to his family and to this estate, and he married me instead. It was not a love match at first. But we grew to love and respect each other. And we were happy, in our way.”

  She glanced at Timothy and Justina in turns. “And I am certain that if your father were here today, he would support what I say, and assure you he never regretted that decision.”

  Rachel noticed Justina blush. Was this lecture directed solely at her, encouraging her to accept Sir Cyril? Or was it also directed at Timothy, warning him against her? Rachel felt her neck heat at the thought.

  Lady Brockwell gestured toward a formal portrait of Sir Justin on the wall and began extolling her late husband’s valor in serving as magistrate and militia captain. “Sir Justin was away from home a great deal. He often missed dinner with his family, going out even in the foulest weather for a council meeting or petty session, or to attend the assizes out of town. So dedicated was he.”

  She shifted her glance to Timothy. “My son is dedicated as well, though he seems to somehow manage most of his duties from his office here at home. Sir Justin, however, preferred to go to the people, not make them come to him.”

  Timothy acknowledged her words with an unconvincing smile, the corners of his mouth pinched deep.

  Later, when the meal concluded, Lady Brockwell signaled that it was time for the ladies to withdraw. She rose and led the way out of the room, leaving the men to talk racing and hunting over cigars and port while the females awaited them in the drawing room.

  As the four women filed out, Miss Awdry glanced longingly over her shoulder, as though she dearly wished to remain with the men. Rachel could not blame her. The beginnings of a headache were tightening her temples.

  In the drawing room, Lady Brockwell held court, continuing her lecture on the true value of marriage, and how the romantics had it all wrong. Rachel found herself thinking of Mrs. Haverhill. What exactly was the truth there?

  Lady Brockwell’s little pug dog padded through the open door, sniffed Miss Awdry’s hem, and then sat at her feet. He stubbornly refused to go to his mistress for all her cajoling.

  She gave up with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Ungrateful creature.”

  Miss Awdry said, “Probably smells the stables on my shoes.”

  Lady Brockwell grimaced and asked Rachel how the Miss Groves fared.

  Rachel answered politely, then shifted the conversation to include Miss Awdry, asking what other sports she enjoyed, which turned out to be a rather long list—fishing, crude and fly, riding, jumping, hunting, fowling, and archery, to name a few. But Lady Brockwell soon turned the conversation to Miss Awdry’s younger sister, asking about her accomplishments and doing a little fishing of her own—dangling questions about prospective suitors, and praising Sir Timothy’s superior qualities.

  Rachel’s head began to throb. She stood. “Pray forgive me, Lady Brockwell. I’ve felt a headache coming on all evening, and it has worsened.” Perfectly true. “I am afraid if I don’t have an early bedtime, I shall be useless in the morning.”

  “And you have your little library to open at the crack of dawn—that’s right.” Lady Brockwell turned to her guest. “Miss Ashford here is quite the woman of business.” Her tone was not complimentary.

  “That is very impressive, Miss Ashford. I applaud you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Awdry. It has been a sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance. But now I must bid you all good night.” Before I say something I will regret.

  Justina rose to embrace her, and Lady Brockwell halfheartedly offered to call for a carriage, but Rachel insisted the fresh air and the walk back to Ivy Cottage would do her good. Lady Brockwell did not press her, though Rachel knew she would never allow her daughter, or even Miss Awdry, to walk home alone at night. Then again, Miss Awdry likely had a pistol in her reticule and would be perfectly safe on her own.

  As Rachel crossed the hall toward the front door, Sir Timothy stepped out of the dining room.

  “You are not leaving already?”

  “I am.”

  “Has Mamma sent for the carriage?”

  “No, I insisted I would walk. It isn’t far.”

  “Then at least allow me to walk you home. It is after dark. I insist.”

  “If you like. Though I would be perfectly all right on my own.”

  He turned, his gaze pinning hers. “Yes, I believe you would be, Rachel Ashford. You and Jane . . . independent women, the both of you.”

  She looked at him in surprise. “Is that a bad thing?”

  “I meant it as a compliment.”

  “Oh. Well then, thank you.”

  He helped her on with her shawl and opened the door for her. They descended the steps and started down the drive.

  “I am sorry you had to sit through one of Mamma’s lectures. I am used to them. It has been ingrained into me since I was old enough to understand—probably earlier—that romantic love is fleeting. But marry the right person for the family’s sake, and love will come in time.” He sent her a sidelong glance. “Forgive me. That was a thoughtless thing to say.”

  Rachel looked over at him while they walked—his handsome profile illuminated by a hunter’s moon.

  She took a deep breath and ventured, “They wanted you to marry Jane.”

  He met her gaze. “They were once . . . resigned to that idea.”

  “And now Miss Arabella Awdry is the favorite.”

  He shrugged. “With Mamma, perhaps, but not with me.”

  Dare I? Rachel thought. She had wanted to know for so long. Emboldened by the darkness, she asked, “Was I ever the right person for your family’s sake?”

  For a moment he did not answer. The only sounds were the crunching of their shoes over the pea-gravel drive. Then he said, his voice rumbling low in his chest, “You were to me.”

  She swallowed. “Do you mean, until my father lost everything and had his name dragged through the papers?”

  He winced. “I would not say it so harshly, but I can’t deny its effect. Though even before that, my parents had their concerns.”

  “Concerns? Why? Because your father was a baronet and mine only a knight? I am still a gentleman’s daughter.”

  “Your father’s behavior called that distinction into question.” He waited until they had passed the lamplighter, then added, “And your grandfather’s reputation was not without blemish either. His gambling debts were the reason your father had to go out and make his own fortune.”

  Rachel felt herself growing angry but marshaled her self-control. “It all boiled down to money, I suppose? My father lost his fortune and my dowry, rendering me unsuitable?”

  They passed the public house, and he lowered his voice. “There was more to it than that, you must allow. There was the very real scandal caused by your father’s questionable business dealings. It was only due to the help of some highly placed friends that he did not end in bankruptcy or worse.”

  “So you washed your hands of me.”

  “No. That was not what I wanted. I thought I would let things lie for a time. The scandal would die down eventually, and people would forget—hopefully my parents among them. But then my father died, sending me into mourning. And afterward, I was overwhelmed, striving to take his place on the estate, in the parish, among the JPs. . . .”

  When they reached Ivy Cottage, he stopped at the gate and sighed. “I know you have long been expecting a proposal, and I . . .
I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Rachel’s head pounded and indignation flared. “After tonight, I think I am fortunate to have escaped that particular noose.” She jerked open the gate.

  “Rachel!” he breathed, offense and hurt in his tone. He grasped her hand to keep her from storming off. “Wait.”

  Rachel pulled away, shaking her head. “And you are wrong, Sir Timothy. I may have once hoped for a proposal from you, but no longer. You may leave here with your conscience clear. No need to offer out of charity.”

  “I was not—” Agitation tightened his every feature. “Very well. Forgive me for raising such a distasteful prospect, Miss Ashford. And accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.’’

  With that, he turned on his heel and stalked away, disappearing into the night.

  Chapter

  twenty-one

  Mr. Kingsley arrived unexpectedly just before their dinnertime the next evening. Mr. Basu was busy in the kitchen, so Mercy opened the door for him herself.

  “Mr. Kingsley. Come in out of the rain.”

  “Foul weather.” He stomped his boots and tipped the water from his hat before stepping inside. “Sorry to arrive so late. Had to finish up a few things at the Fairmont first.”

  “No matter. I did not realize you were coming this evening.”

  “I’ve only come to take a few measurements for a raised library desk I’ve proposed to Miss Ashford—a larger one at a more comfortable standing height.”

  “Excellent idea—like a shopkeeper’s counter.”

  His mouth quirked, and his eyes shone with subtle humor. “Well . . . I would not describe it that way—not to Miss Ashford.”

  She grinned. “Ah. Wise man.”

  Aunt Matilda joined them in the vestibule. “Mr. Kingsley, what a pleasure. Have you eaten? We are having hot soup and fresh bread. Just the thing on a night like this.”

  “No, thank you. I usually have something on the way over, but I can wait ’til I get home.”

  “Why not join us? Mrs. Timmons always makes plenty. The girls have already eaten, but Mercy and I were just about to sit down. Miss Rachel won’t be joining us. She is . . . not feeling well.”

  Mercy and her aunt had overheard bits of her argument with Sir Timothy the night before, and Rachel had truly felt ill all day.

  Mr. Kingsley said, “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Only heartsick,” Aunt Matty clarified. “She’ll be all right, by and by. But do please join us.”

  “I don’t want to be an imposition.”

  “Imposition!” Matilda scoffed. “When you have worked long hours here out of the goodness of your heart? It is the least we can do.”

  He hesitated. “It isn’t customary.”

  “Surely once would not hurt? It’s only a humble bacon and cabbage soup, but no one makes it better than our Mrs. Timmons.”

  He slowly shook his head. “Miss Grove, you do know how to tempt a man. I am afraid I am powerless to resist bacon.”

  “Wonderful! I will fetch another bowl!”

  “May I wash my hands first?”

  “Of course,” Matilda said. “I’ll show you to the scullery.”

  “I know where it is.” He looked at Mercy from beneath a fall of sandy blond hair.

  Mercy guessed he was remembering the day she’d helped him clean and bandage his cut. Her face warmed at the memory.

  A few minutes later, the three of them sat down in the dining room, and Mr. Kingsley smiled apologetically. “I’m afraid my table manners aren’t equal to such fine company as you ladies.”

  “We shall not be giving an examination, Mr. Kingsley,” Mercy assured him. “You are among friends.”

  Matilda spread her serviette on her lap. “We see all sorts of manners and lack thereof at this table and have survived perfectly well.” She looked at him expectantly. “Would you like to say grace?”

  “Oh. Of course.” He cleared his throat. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly grateful, amen.”

  “Amen.”

  Mr. Kingsley placed his own table napkin on his lap. They ate without speaking for several minutes, Mr. Kingsley surreptitiously watching how Matilda spooned her soup and attempting to imitate her genteel motions. The soup spoon looked small in his large, work-worn hands. He slurped once, winced, and reddened.

  Mercy quickly tried to think of something to say to fill the slurp-revealing silence.

  “The Egyptians highly esteemed the cabbage,” she blurted. “Even raised altars to them. The Greeks and Romans ascribed to them great healing powers.”

  He looked over at her, soup spoon dripping, halfway to his mouth.

  She swallowed. “But we did not cultivate them here until well after the reign of King Henry the Eighth. Nor carrots, nor radishes, nor other vegetables of like nature.”

  “Is that so?”

  Her aunt pressed her lips together and handed her the bread basket.

  Mercy felt her face heat in embarrassment. “Forgive me. I did not mean to give a lecture.”

  Mr. Kingsley broke off a piece of bread. “Not at all. Quite interesting.”

  Mercy sipped her soup, then tried again. “Anna mentioned that you live over the Kingsley Brothers’ workshop?”

  “That’s right. I often go down and do a bit of carving or whatnot after my regular day’s work. Very convenient. Also, we think it a wise precaution what with all the tools we keep downstairs.”

  “I see.”

  He scraped the bottom of his bowl. “Delicious soup.”

  Mercy reached toward the tureen. “Would you like more?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve had plenty.”

  “Do you do your own cooking, Mr. Kingsley?” Matilda asked, and Mercy felt embarrassed at the leading question.

  “Such as it is, yes. Though my brothers’ wives often invite me over, so I don’t starve, as you can see.” He patted his midsection, then reddened again. “Sorry.”

  Mercy had already noticed his lean midsection, in masculine contrast to his broad shoulders, and saw nothing to apologize for in the least.

  Rachel reviewed the argument in her mind and could not help but cringe at the memory—her questions, Timothy’s unflattering answers, and the harsh words she’d said in reply. He had injured her pride and she’d struck back, more forcefully than she’d intended. He had told her the truth—a truth that embarrassed her, though she could not refute it. And she had punished him for it. Now guilt and remorse were punishing her.

  Oh, her stubborn pride and untamed tongue! She could hear her mother’s voice, gently admonishing her and Ellen not to provoke each other into heated arguments. “Remember, girls—a gentle answer turns away wrath, but harsh words stir up anger.” If only she had heeded that advice.

  Why had she asked—what had she expected? Rachel pressed her eyes closed against the image of Timothy’s stricken face. At least now she knew for certain. Her family’s scandal and financial ruin had not changed. If anything the marks against her had worsened since becoming a humble boarder in Ivy Cottage, and now one who worked for a living as well. She could still hear Lady Brockwell’s sour tone when she’d described Rachel as “quite the woman of business.”

  Rachel sighed. This was for the best, she told herself. Now she could stop wondering why and stop wondering if . . . and focus on the suitor she had.

  The next morning, Rachel washed, dressed, and shook off her malaise, determined to put aside self-reproach and join the others. Her stomach growled as she walked downstairs—she was hungry after forgoing dinner the night before. Entering the dining room, she gave Mercy and Matilda reassuring smiles. I am well. No need to worry. Then she sat down and consumed a convincingly large breakfast. As they ate, Mercy reminded them that her parents and guest were due at four that afternoon.

  Mr. Basu brought in the mail. An invitation had arrived, addressed vaguely to Miss Grove. Matilda read it, then handed it to her niece. “I think it must be for you, my dear. It i
s from the Awdrys.”

  “The Awdrys? Then it is more likely for you.” Mercy read the invitation, then looked up. “I don’t believe I will go. But Aunt Matty, you would enjoy such an evening, I know.”

  “I would indeed. But Broadmere is a long way from here, and without a carriage . . . No, I will send our regrets.”

  Rachel was surprised Matilda did not try to persuade her niece to attend. Then she remembered. Many years ago, Sir Cyril had paid Mercy marked attention, which she had not reciprocated. Rachel supposed it might be awkward to be a guest in his house now. Rachel recalled her own discomfiture at Brockwell Court. Her argument with Timothy echoed through her mind again, but she quickly banished the memory. She thought of Nicholas instead. Would things be terribly awkward between them in future, if they did not marry? She hoped not. For she sincerely liked the man.

  Later that afternoon, Nicholas came to visit her in the library, a bright smile on his face.

  Her heart lightened, and she smiled in turn. “You seem in good spirits.”

  “I am. At the prospect of spending time with you.”

  “Oh?”

  “We received an invitation to a concert at the home of Sir Cyril Awdry—are you acquainted with him?”

  “A little.”

  “We are to hear an Italian singer. Come with us.”

  She ducked her head. “I was not invited.”

  “I am not so sure. The invitation was addressed simply to The Ashfords, Ivy Hill, Wiltshire. Are you not an Ashford of Ivy Hill?” He grinned. “I would not be surprised if this invitation was meant for you in the first place, especially as we have never even met the man.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Please say yes, Miss Ashford. I promise my mother will be on her best behavior.”

  “She cannot want me to come.”

  “But I very much do. How can I enjoy that long journey without your company? Perhaps Miss Grove might come with us. We have room for four in our carriage, though we shall be snug.”