The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  “But if you were to marry, you would not have need to continue teaching.”

  She looked at him in astonishment. “My need to teach goes deeper than financial gain. It is my calling. My purpose.”

  “But would not being a wife—your husband’s helpmeet—be your new purpose?” Again he held up a hand. “Miss Grove, I don’t mean that in a condescending manner, truly. I understand that a woman of your intelligence and education would want to do more than plan menus and write laundry lists or whatever it is that wives do when they have servants to cook and clean.”

  Aunt Matty waved good-bye to Mrs. Shabner, then looked in their direction. Seeing them in deep conversation, Matilda called to the pupils, “Let’s go in, girls. Time has got away from us.”

  As her aunt shepherded the girls inside, Mercy turned on the bench to better see Mr. Hollander’s face. “Then what are you suggesting I do?”

  “That you take all that passion for education and help me write my book, as your aunt proposed. A book that will improve the lives of not just a few pupils, but if all goes well, many hundreds more. Thousands, even.”

  “How could I help? I am a teacher, not a writer.”

  He thought for a moment. “You could . . . compile my notes and devise those broader applications you suggested. Edit and proofread and write fair copies and whatever else needs doing. Your help would be invaluable, don’t you see? Your experience as a teacher would not be wasted. With your assistance, I could complete the book more quickly, and I know it will be a great success.”

  “And if it is not?” Mercy asked, thinking, You have not written a single word yet! It seemed like quite a leap to depend on it for his future livelihood.

  “And if it is not,” he answered calmly, “then I will pursue my former plan of opening a boys school or becoming a private tutor.”

  “But I already have a school.”

  “Yes, with six girls of humble birth who pay, what, a few pounds a year? Without your father’s support, you could not live on that. You know a boys school, especially a prestigious one with an Oxford man at the helm, would command a far greater income.”

  It would; she could not deny it.

  He added gently, “Would not caring for the boys, acting as the school’s matron, be a reasonably satisfying substitute?”

  Mercy felt flustered. “Substitute for what—for pupils of my own, or children of my own?”

  “Both, if need be. As you say, there is no guarantee of future offspring.”

  “I am not sure. . . . What about Alice?”

  “I will have to think about that,” he replied.

  “And so will I.”

  That afternoon, Jane found the office empty and wondered where Patrick was. When she rounded the booking desk, she saw a foreign sight: Patrick carrying two large water cans up the passage from the scullery.

  Hetty met him as she came down the stairs. “You didn’t have to do that, Mr. Bell. I’ll take those up from here.”

  “You should have Ned or Colin carry them for you.”

  “They’re busy. Besides, I did all the hauling at Goldie’s.”

  “You’re not at Goldie’s any longer, thank God. And here, the male staff help with the bath water.”

  “I don’t mind. I am as strong as they come.” She playfully flexed an arm muscle. “See?”

  His gaze remained on her face. “Yes, I do see. And if you are half as strong as you are pretty, heaven help us all.”

  She gave him a charming smile at that, and he stood there smiling back like a besotted schoolboy.

  “Patrick?” When he didn’t respond or even seem to hear her, Jane repeated more loudly. “Patrick!”

  He jerked around, water sloshing on the floor. “Hm? Oh, Jane, sorry.”

  Jane rolled her eyes. “Haven’t you something more productive to do than flirt with our new maid?”

  He lifted the water cans. “I was helping her.”

  “Um-hm.”

  “And now I had better deliver these before the water cools.” He gave Hetty another smile and carried both cans effortlessly up the stairs.

  With a guilty glance at Jane, Hetty bent to wipe up the spill with a cleaning rag. “Sorry, Mrs. Bell.”

  “That’s all right, Hetty. Not your fault.”

  The door opened, and Jane turned. There came Talbot and Thora, Betsey in arms. Seeing her mother, the little girl all but launched herself out of Thora’s clasp.

  “Ma, Ma!”

  “Hello, my love!” Hetty rose, wiped her hands on her apron, and picked up the child, hugging and kissing her. “I missed you. How was she? Any trouble?”

  Thora shot Talbot a look. “No trouble at all.”

  With Betsey returned to her mother’s care, Thora went to the kitchen to greet Mrs. Rooke while Talbot talked to Colin at the front desk.

  The cook grumbled about the returning chambermaid having a child sleep in her room. Scandalous and unheard of!

  “Am I cooking for a baby farm now rather than a renowned coaching inn?” Bertha Rooke’s eyes flashed. “It would never have been allowed in your father’s day. Or yours.”

  “Perhaps not. But you do know I am caring for the child so Hetty can work here?”

  “I heard that but could not credit it. Are you not the one who gave her the sack in the first place?”

  “I was. But people change.”

  “Her or you?”

  “Both, hopefully. Or perhaps I was wrong about her.”

  Mrs. Rooke humphed. “Love has softened your brains.”

  Thora chuckled. “You’re probably right about that.”

  Mrs. Rooke was likely not the only one raising eyebrows over the situation—probably gossiping about it as well. Let them. Thora decided she did not care.

  Talbot was still talking to Colin at the desk, so Thora sought out Patrick. She found him alone in the office, massaging his shoulder muscles.

  “Patrick, I want to talk to you.”

  He slouched in the chair, mouth quirked. “How that tone does take me back. Something tells me I shall not like what you have to say.”

  “Look at me and answer honestly. Were you and Hetty . . . involved . . . when she worked here before?”

  “Yes—though only very briefly.”

  “So it is possible the child is yours?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose it is, yes.”

  Thora shook her head. “When I sent Hetty away, I thought I could prevent the worst from happening. I did not know I was already too late. I was trying to protect you. Now I see I should have been trying to protect her.”

  Patrick sent her a swift glance, and in it she saw a depth of hurt that surprised her.

  “I am not a lecher, Mamma. She came to me. But thank you for that sterling summary of my character.”

  Regret and concern twisted Thora’s stomach. “I am sorry. But can you blame me, after . . . everything?” She reached out and cupped his chin. “Let’s not waste time on past regrets, Patrick. It’s what we do now that matters.”

  Chapter

  twenty-seven

  The next morning, when Mercy went downstairs for breakfast, she was surprised to see Mr. Hollander in the vestibule, valise in hand.

  Her stomach sank. “Mr. Hollander, you’re leaving? I thought you planned to stay longer.”

  “I had. But I have decided to travel back early on my own. I have been to The Bell and secured a place on an Oxford-bound stage.”

  She walked nearer, heart pounding dully. Her mother would not be pleased. “Do my parents know?”

  “I told your father late last night. Your mother had already gone to bed. I asked him to pass along my gratitude for introducing us.”

  “I did not intend to offend you, Mr. Hollander.”

  “You did not.” He patted her hand and looked at her earnestly. “I don’t go away angry, Miss Grove. I go away . . . hopeful. You know where I stand, but I will not pressure you. I will leave you to consider what you want for the future. I think you an
d I could have a good life together. Not everything you want, perhaps, but I believe we could be happy. I have read enough on the subject to glean that some compromise is required in marriage—some sacrifice of personal preference—and I am willing to do so where Alice is concerned.”

  That was a relief. Or was it? If only he were willing to compromise on her school as well!

  “But I shall not oversell my charms, which are not legion, I realize.” He handed her a card. “Please do write if you think of any further questions, or when you reach your decision. I move out of my rooms after Christmas, so if you could let me know by then?”

  “I will, thank you. I appreciate your patience.” Outwardly, Mercy remained calm, but her heart and mind were not. Should she ask him to stay longer, or give him an answer now? If only she knew what the answer should be.

  After breakfast with the girls, Mercy returned to her bedchamber. Her mother came in, hair still in paper curlers, dressing gown over her nightdress, expression pained.

  “Your father just told me.” She closed the door. “Mr. Hollander has gone back to Oxford?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why? Don’t tell me you refused him already.”

  “He is giving me time to decide without pressuring me. I hope you will do the same, Mamma.”

  Catherine DeLong Grove heaved a sigh. “Mercy, I see now that we have made your life here too comfortable. Allowed you to believe that you would have Ivy Cottage to yourself with no obligation to the rest of the family—save your aunt, of course. But that was never our intention. This house was never meant to be a girls school, subscription library, or whatever notion strikes you next. It is a family home. Meant for a married couple and their children. You and George grew up here. Before that, your father and Matilda.

  “I had hoped you would marry long before now. I have tried, heaven knows, to help you over the years, to improve your chances and introduce you to the right sort of men. Not all were interested, but a few were. However, none of them were good enough for you. This one wasn’t tall enough or had enough clever conversation. That one was too much the rattle or sportsman.”

  Defensiveness flared. “I never said they were not good enough.”

  “But you didn’t marry them either, did you? Do you know Sir Cyril Awdry is now courting young Miss Brockwell?”

  Yes, Mercy had heard. “They weren’t right for me, Mamma.”

  “Now we bring Mr. Hollander to you on a silver platter. Taller than you, intelligent, well-read, and a professor, for goodness’ sake, and still you despise him.”

  “I don’t despise him. I never said a critical word about him.”

  “Of course not. Everyone knows Mercy Grove is too kind and gentle to say an unkind word about anyone. How weary I am of hearing the saintliness of my only daughter extolled.”

  The words pricked her. “I am not a saint, Mamma. And I cannot claim to never say anything I shouldn’t.”

  “Yes, about your mother, no doubt. Who is so horrid as to try to see you well married and happy!”

  “I am happy. Or I was.”

  Her mother stepped closer and looked into her face. The anger fell away and in its place, her direct scrutiny seemed to strip Mercy bare. Her mother might not always empathize, but she knew her daughter very well.

  “Look me in the eye and tell me the absolute truth. Can you tell me, before God, that you are never lonely? Never hope for a husband to love you, comfort you, and show you affection? Never wish for children to love and teach and pray for?”

  In her mother’s expression Mercy saw not belligerence but earnest question. Tears and pain brightening her eyes, she repeated, “Can you?”

  Mercy lifted her chin. She did not believe all women needed a husband or children to be fulfilled. To be complete and whole and happy. She opened her mouth to say so, but the words stuck there. She swallowed and shook her head. If only she were one of those women.

  Her mother grasped her hand. “You see, my dear? You may not approve of our bringing Mr. Hollander here, but you must allow we are only trying to help you. I don’t want you to be alone all your life. Now, will you marry the man or not?”

  “I . . . don’t know if I can, Mamma.”

  Her mother sighed. “Then you leave me no choice, Mercy. George and his new bride will need a place to live. As I said, Ivy Cottage is a family home. A Grove family home, meant for a married couple. If you refuse to marry Mr. Hollander, we will offer the home to George and his soon-to-be wife.”

  Mercy sucked in a breath. “But . . . George has had no interest in Ivy Cottage, Ivy Hill, or England, for that matter, for two decades. Perhaps you never said the house was mine and Aunt Matty’s forever—but with you and Papa living in London and George out of the country all these years . . . yes, I did see this place as my house. I do. This is my home. It isn’t right you should give it to someone else if I simply choose not to marry a man I don’t love.”

  “Please don’t be melodramatic, Mercy. George has as much right to live here as you do. More, now, as he will soon have a wife to provide for and, one day soon, God willing . . . children.”

  Mercy’s heart beat hard. “And what are Aunt Matilda and I supposed to do? And what about Alice?”

  “Calm yourself, Mercy. Heavens, I have never seen you so upset. No one is putting you out on the street. Matilda will live out her days here with George’s family. And if you choose that fate for you and your ward as well, so be it.”

  “But what about my school? My other pupils?”

  “They must go. The schoolroom will be returned to its original purpose, as will the drawing room. All those extra bookcases must go.”

  This could not be happening. “And Rachel?”

  Catherine Grove sighed again. “The Ashfords were old friends. If their daughter needs a place to stay, and you are willing to share your bedchamber with her, I shall not object. Though I don’t know that our new daughter-in-law will feel the same way. Or you might live in London with us, if you prefer.”

  Mercy shook her head. “No, Mamma. Ivy Hill is my home. I don’t wish to leave it.”

  “Then marry Mr. Hollander and raise his children here. The decision is yours.” Her mother squeezed her hand and departed, leaving Mercy alone to ponder her fate.

  That evening, Mercy sat through a tense and quiet dinner in a daze of disbelief. Rachel and Aunt Matilda kept looking at her in concern, but how could Mercy reassure them all was well when it was not?

  After the meal, her father called her into the sitting room and closed the door behind them. “If it helps at all, Mercy, I am sorry. I feel I must support your mother in this, but I take no pleasure in it.”

  He led her to a chair and sat down opposite her. “I still hope it will work out between you and Mr. Hollander. Because I really can’t deny that your brother and his wife will need a home to begin married life. If you both married, I suppose we might have to justify buying a second house for George, but if not, you can all live here.”

  Mercy stared glumly at her hands. “But no school.”

  “You can understand that, can’t you? George and Helena will need the room for their children and her parents, when they visit.”

  “How do you know they will even want to live here?”

  “George hinted at it. In his last letter.”

  Mercy winced. “And Mother is eager to oblige him.”

  “I don’t say I approve of your mother’s methods—of attempting to force your hand—but please try to understand. These last years have been trying for her—physically and emotionally. Women her age often go through . . . changes, I gather. Her physician says it is quite normal, though perhaps more noticeable in your mother’s case.”

  “Why?”

  “Because life has disappointed her.”

  Mercy’s heart thudded. “I have disappointed her, I think you mean.”

  “Oh, Mercy, you are not alone in that. I have disappointed her as well. She had such lofty aspirations for me. I was supposed to d
istinguish myself somehow. Write a great treatise or run for political office or some such. Why do you think she has wanted to live in London all these years? So I could rub shoulders with the right sort of people. I have never been ambitious enough for her.”

  He rose and began pacing the room. “George disappointed her as well. Disappointed us both, truth be told. Determined to go to India against our wishes—I blame Winston Fairmont for that. How else would a boy raised in landlocked Wiltshire develop such a strong desire to cross the ocean? But even that venture proved a disappointment. He never became the success—financially or otherwise—we’d hoped. Otherwise, he might be in a position to buy his own house.

  “And of course your mother has long wished you would marry and have children. It’s only natural she should. You can’t blame her for that. Nor can I deny that grandchildren would have been a pleasant diversion these last few years.

  “And now George is engaged at last. She has something to look forward to, and pour her great energies into planning—setting up housekeeping for the new couple. The dream of grandchildren is in her grasp at long last. Miss Maddox, however, is from the north, near York. Your mother fears that if we don’t provide an appealing living situation for them, then she will prevail upon her family to provide a house in the north, where we would very rarely see any future grandchildren.

  “But with them here in Ivy Cottage, we would be within relatively easy traveling distance and have rooms to stay in whenever we like. You can see the attraction of the plan.”

  He sat back down with a sigh. “I know your mother can be . . . difficult. More so these last few years. I hope it is not disloyal to say so, but I want you to understand, to find it in your heart to give her extra patience and gentle forbearance.”

  “I will try, Papa.”

  “I know you will, my dear aptly named daughter. You do recall that it was my idea to name you Mercy?”

  She nodded. She had heard the story before.

  “Your mother wanted to name you Gertrude or Ophelia or some such nonsense. But I insisted. And I was right—you have lived up to that name.”