The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  “I don’t think the Miss Groves plan to go, though they received a vaguely addressed invitation as well.”

  “Then let’s convince them.”

  Rachel could not resist his boyish enthusiasm. Together they walked into the sitting room and relayed Nicholas’s offer.

  Mercy smiled softly. “Thank you, Mr. Ashford. That is very kind of you. I will not attend, but my aunt would enjoy the outing very much. In fact, I was sorry that it seemed she would have to miss out.”

  Matilda said, “Are you sure you won’t change your mind, Mercy?”

  “I am. But you go, Aunt Matty, and have a wonderful time.”

  “Then I shall indeed. Thankfully, I have not yet posted my regrets.” Matilda winked. “Sometimes procrastination pays.”

  The sound of a carriage and four on rather narrow Church Street was a rare occurrence, drawing Mercy to the dining room window to investigate. A hired chaise and four post horses arrived. Anxiety rippled through her. Her parents were early. Rachel was occupied in the library, and Aunt Matilda and the girls were still in the schoolroom, though perhaps that was for the best.

  The carriage door opened, and her father unfolded himself from within, straightening to his full height, and then held out his hand to help her mother alight.

  After her, a third occupant emerged—the tutor, the man they wanted her to meet. He was not as tall as her father, and not as old. From this distance, that was about all she could tell. Mercy took a deep breath and told herself to remain calm.

  Mr. Basu padded past her toward the front door, but before he reached it, her parents let themselves in without knocking. Why should they? Mercy reminded herself. It had been their house long before she began to think of it as her own.

  She gave her cheeks a quick pinch, knowing it would take far more than that to make herself comely but hoping to minimize the disappointment she would likely see on the man’s face.

  She entered the vestibule wearing a determined smile.

  Her father’s hair and side-whiskers held a bit more silver than she remembered. And in his long homely face, she saw the unfortunate resemblance to her own.

  Her mother looked lovely as always, if a bit more plump. She wore a fashionable carriage dress and velvet-collared cloak that made Mercy feel shabby as she stood there in her plain day dress.

  “Hello, my dear. Here we are.” She glanced at Mercy’s dress and bestowed the smile she wore when saying something unpleasant. “I realize we are a bit earlier than we wrote, and no doubt that is why you have not yet changed. But oh well. We’re all here now. And this is our guest we wanted you to meet.” She turned to the man still standing on the doorstep.

  Her father turned to him as well. “Come in, my good fellow. Come in. My dear, allow me to present Mr. Norbert Hollander. Mr. Hollander, my daughter, Miss Grove.”

  He stepped inside and bowed. “How do you do?” He was stately looking and somewhat taller than she was. That was a point in his favor.

  Mercy curtsied. “Mr. Hollander, a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Mr. Hollander is a tutor and lecturer of Worcester College,” her father said. “He taught George during his Oxford days.”

  “Yes.” Mercy injected a cheerful note into her voice. “So you mentioned in your letter.”

  She glanced at the man again, trying to judge his age. Considering he had been George’s tutor, he must be at least forty or forty-five, though he could pass for several years younger. He had a pleasant, ordinary face with a straight nose, placid blue-grey eyes, and lips as thin as her own. His light brown hair was receding slightly at the front and a bit longish in the back. He was not handsome, but then, neither was she.

  He wore a traditional frock coat in sensible grey. His striped waistcoat puckered slightly over his mildly stout middle. His shirt collar was not as pristine as it might have been, and his wrinkled cravat was haphazardly tied—evidence not of poverty, she surmised, but of a bachelor’s neglect.

  He stood stiff and somber, clutching his hat. Mr. Basu, hovering nearby, finally yanked it from him and took her father’s as well.

  “Oh. Thank you,” he murmured.

  Mercy smiled, hoping to put him at his ease. “Welcome, Mr. Hollander. Please do come in. You must be tired and thirsty after your journey. Why don’t you go into the sitting room, and I shall see about tea.”

  “The family sitting room, my dear?” Her mother gave another of her false smiles. “I think, with a guest, the drawing room might be more appropriate.”

  “You forget, Mamma. The drawing room is now part of the circulating library. I wrote to you about it, remember?”

  “Just as I wrote to you about . . . several things, which you don’t seem to recall either. But . . . very well.”

  They crossed the vestibule, and Mercy gestured them through the open sitting room door. “Do be seated—anywhere you like. I will just step into the kitchen and ask Mrs. Timmons to make tea.”

  At the door, Mercy laid a hand on her mother’s arm. “Mamma, perhaps you would help me a moment?”

  “Help you ring for tea? I hardly think . . .” Seeing her daughter’s expression, she relented. “Oh, very well.”

  The men continued inside, but Mrs. Grove allowed her daughter to lead her several yards down the passage. “What is it, Mercy?”

  “I thought we should discuss sleeping arrangements.”

  “I assume you are putting him in George’s old room? Unless you have relocated your schoolroom to the attic, as I suggested long ago?”

  “No, Mamma. The girls’ dormitory is up there. Aunt Matty has offered her room. You know Rachel Ashford has been living in George’s old room for some time now. It seemed wrong to put her out for a stranger.”

  “He is not a stranger. George and your father have known him for years. And I trust he shall not be a stranger to you for long either.” Her eyes sparkled.

  “Mamma, don’t get your hopes up.”

  “My hopes would be higher were not Rachel Ashford under the same roof. Pray do not be offended, my dear, but a side-by-side comparison with her is not to your advantage. That is why I had hoped Miss Ashford would have gone elsewhere before we arrived. Could she not remove to the inn for a few days?”

  Mercy felt hurt and offended on her friend’s behalf.

  Rachel stepped out of the library nearby, and Mercy was mortified to realize she had overheard the exchange. “I would not mind at all, Mrs. Grove. I did offer to leave, but you know Mercy—she was too kind to accept. I will pack my things and be out of your way in no time. I shall need to return to oversee the library, but I will keep to those two rooms.”

  Her mother sighed. “In that case, never mind, Miss Ashford. If you are going to be here anyway, there is no point in sleeping elsewhere. Stay. We shall make the best of it.”

  “Very well,” Rachel agreed and retreated back into the library.

  “Thank you, Mamma,” Mercy said dutifully. “Now, why do you not rejoin the men. I will be there as soon as I speak to Mrs. Timmons.”

  “All right. Don’t be long.”

  Mercy kept a smile on her face as she walked away. But when she entered the privacy of the butler’s pantry, she stopped and leaned against the counter. Closing her eyes, she drew a deep breath. She asked God to give her kindness, patience, self-control, and anything else that would help her through this awkward visit without dishonoring her parents or being inhospitable to their guest.

  A short while later, as the four of them took tea, they discussed impersonal topics like the tedium of the journey on dusty roads and debated the improvements of the turnpikes. Afterward, Mr. Basu appeared to show Mr. Hollander to his room. The weary travelers would have an hour to rest, wash, and change before dinner.

  Mercy was glad for the respite as well and used it to gather her composure. She also gathered the girls to ask them to be especially quiet and polite during the next few days, and to heed Miss Ashford and of course her aunt while Mercy was busy with her guests.

>   Mercy had barely made it to her bedchamber when her mother knocked once and let herself in. Behind her, Mr. Basu carried several boxes. “There on the bed, if you please.” Mr. Basu set down the boxes and quickly departed.

  “I brought you a new walking dress, spencer, and bonnet.” She kept her voice low, since Mr. Hollander was on the other side of the wall in Matilda’s room.

  “Thank you, Mamma.”

  “But for now, do change into something pretty for dinner. What about that rose-colored evening gown I had made for you?” She stepped to Mercy’s closet and began pulling out gown drawers.

  “I think that one is too young for me.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Perhaps the ivory, instead?”

  “Oh, very well. For tonight . . . We don’t want to appear to be trying too hard. But the rose one tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Grove looked over her shoulder. “Where is that upstairs maid of yours? She should be here helping you change. Helping us both.”

  “She is no doubt busy helping Mrs. Timmons and Mr. Basu prepare dinner. You know we have only a small staff. And that is all we need . . . usually.”

  Her mother sighed. “I knew I should have brought along my maid, but with Mr. Hollander in the chaise, we were cramped as it is, and Martine would leave me for the dowager next door if I forced her to ride outside all the way from London.”

  “We will make do,” Mercy assured her.

  Her mother helped Mercy dress and then brushed and pinned her daughter’s hair herself. As she did, Mercy was taken back to her childhood when her mother had often done the same. They had not been so fine as to need a lady’s maid in those days. And even though their former housemaid used to attend Mrs. Grove, her mother had often tried to do “something” with Mercy’s hair before church or a social event. Mercy’s fine, straight hair had rarely cooperated, and her mother had yanked out strands more than once in her impatience to comb through the tangled length.

  Sitting there now, Mercy felt a bittersweet lump rise in her throat. She could not even relish the pleasure of having someone brush her hair, because she anticipated a painful tug or criticism at any moment. She felt herself shrink on the seat, until she was that young girl again—a girl who avoided meeting the gaze of the plain spinster staring back at her.

  Chapter

  twenty-two

  Later that evening, after the girls had eaten, the Groves and their guest gathered around the long table in the dining room, Rachel included and perfunctorily introduced. The meal began in reserved silence, save for the clink of serving dishes and cutlery. It reminded Mercy of their recent dinner with Mr. Kingsley.

  Mercy subtly observed Mr. Hollander while he ate. His table manners were good, she decided, though he ate a bit too fast. If he were one of her girls, she would admonish him to slow down to avoid a stomachache.

  Mercy tried to think of pleasant, innocuous conversation, but she felt nervous. Every question that flitted through her mind seemed too forward or leading. She did not want to give the impression she was interviewing the man as a prospective husband.

  Was she?

  Mercy sent a look of appeal to her loquacious aunt, but even Matilda remained subdued in her sister-in-law’s presence.

  As Mr. Hollander bent with relish over his meal, her mother jerked her head toward him, signaling Mercy to engage him in conversation. What to say? His family—she could ask about his family.

  Before she got the words out, Mr. Hollander filled the uneasy silence himself. “What delicious turnips and roast chicken. I like good, plain food, well prepared. Far better than the fare one gets at Worcester College.” He glanced at Mercy. “May I compliment you, Miss Grove, on the excellence of the cooking?”

  Her mother coughed, but Mercy kept her expression even. “I am afraid not, Mr. Hollander. Our cook, Mrs. Timmons, gets all the credit.”

  “Ah. I did not wish to assume ladies living alone could . . . well. Excellent meal, all the same.”

  “Really, Mr. Hollander.” Her mother smiled, though clearly embarrassed. “We are perfectly able to keep a cook for Ivy Cottage. As well as our own in London, of course. Mr. Grove is not so miserly as to leave his daughter and sister to shift for themselves.”

  “And we are grateful for your generosity, Papa,” Mercy said. “Though the school does bring in a little income. A very little.”

  “Please no talk of that at dinner, Mercy,” her mother bid with a stilted little laugh.

  Aunt Matilda spoke up at last. “I have a fondness for baking, Mr. Hollander. Cakes and biscuits are my specialty. Though Mercy insisted Mrs. Timmons be allowed to make our dessert tonight, along with the rest of her excellent meal.”

  Mr. Hollander smiled at her. “I shall hope to have the pleasure of your fine baking another time during my visit, Miss Grove.”

  “Then, indeed you shall, Mr. Hollander.” Aunt Matty’s eyes twinkled.

  Mrs. Grove coughed again, and Mercy bit her lip. She glanced over and found Rachel hiding a smile behind her water glass.

  Their visitor looked around the dining room. “What a superbly featured room. It reminds me of the provost’s dining parlour, though smaller, of course.”

  Her mother nudged her under the table.

  “Thank you,” Mercy said. “We are fond of it.”

  Her father added proudly, “Ivy Cottage has been in the Grove family for generations, though it has been expanded over the years.”

  Mrs. Grove nodded. “It is a sweet, snug house, I will allow. Excellent for a young family. Though now, of course, Mr. Grove and I prefer to live in London. And you, Mr. Hollander? Might you enjoy village life after so many years in Oxford?”

  Mercy choked on a turnip.

  Mr. Hollander did not seem embarrassed by the leading question. He answered thoughtfully. “Indeed I might. For Oxford is rather like a collection of small villages, now I think on it, with its separate colleges, communal greens, and secluded courtyards. Yes, I find the prospect of village life charming.”

  “Would you not miss academia?” Mercy moved her foot to avoid another nudge from her mother.

  “Some aspects, yes. But surrounded by my books and intelligent company, I should do very well anywhere, I think. As Sheldon says, good books are the most reliable of friends, though they often spur us to self-reflection, when we might prefer to pass the time thus untroubled.” He chuckled.

  He had a sense of humor, at any rate, Mercy allowed. “Sheldon? Is that an author?”

  “Oh, no, forgive me. Professor Sheldon. I forget you don’t know him.”

  “Ah.” Mercy’s mind sought another topic. “And . . . have you a favorite author?”

  He grimaced. “I do detest that question. How can one answer? How can one choose a favorite from among one’s very confidants and mentors? I am not a youth with my arm slung around the shoulder of one chum to the exclusion of others. Each suits at a different time. A different season . . .” He paused, glancing from abashed face to abashed face. “Pray, do not be offended. I meant no disrespect. I forget I am not in a debate with my peers.”

  Mercy hesitated. “We are not your peers?”

  “I only meant . . . with other tutors and lecturers. We are accustomed to regular and heated debates on such topics.” He grinned. “The academic equivalent of the public house brawl.”

  Mrs. Grove cleared her throat at the inappropriate reference.

  With a glance at Mercy, Matilda offered, “I am fond of Anne Radcliffe myself.”

  Mr. Hollander looked at her gratefully. “I am not familiar with that name. Is she a . . . poet?”

  “A novel writer.”

  “Awful, gothic stuff, I gather.” Mr. Grove made a face. “Not to the taste of learned men like us, Hollander. I am a Wordsworth man myself, but you know that.”

  Mr. Grove turned to Rachel. “Have you any Wordsworth in that circulating library of yours?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  Her father explained, “Miss Ashford here has f
illed our library and drawing room with her late father’s books. An impressive collection, if memory serves.”

  “I can think of no better use of space.” For a moment Mr. Hollander’s gaze lingered on Rachel’s face. “Are you a great reader, Miss Ashford?”

  Was that a hint of admiration in his eyes for her pretty friend or simple curiosity? Mercy could not be certain.

  “I am afraid not, Mr. Hollander,” Rachel replied. “I have only recently begun to appreciate books.”

  “Oh . . .” Mr. Hollander’s brow furrowed at the foreign thought. Any hint of admiration Mercy had seen—real or imagined—faded.

  Mrs. Grove interjected, “But Mercy is a great reader.”

  Mercy thought this praise ironic, when her mother had long disapproved of her studious ways.

  Her father nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, she always has been. Far more so than George ever was. It is one of the reasons I insisted she be educated alongside her brother when the two were young. That is, of course, until George went off to Oxford.” He looked expectantly at Mr. Hollander.

  The tutor faltered. “Em, yes, George was a very . . . likable young man. Very popular with his fellow students.”

  He abruptly turned to Mercy. “And you keep a girls school, I understand, Miss Grove?”

  She noticed her mother slant her father an anxious look, but Mercy kept her focus on Mr. Hollander. “Yes, I do.”

  “I once thought I should like to keep a boys school when I retire from Oxford. The idea of being a headmaster to younger lads, while their minds are still developing, less cynical, open to ideas . . . Or, if not a school per se, perhaps I might take a few pupils into my home for private tutoring.”

  “Have you a home, Mr. Hollander?” Matilda asked, eyes innocently wide. She ignored her sister-in-law’s glare.

  “Only a few rented rooms. Living at the college does not allow the luxury of a private house. But now that I am leaving that life, I desire to have a home of my own.”

  “You say you once thought of keeping a boys school,” Mercy said. “You have changed your mind?”

  “Perhaps one day I shall. However, I have long desired to write a book, though the time to do so has eluded me. Once I retire, that shall be my first objective.” Here he glanced at Mercy. “Or perhaps, my second.”