The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  “Thank you, Papa.”

  He looked at her fondly. “Can you not like Mr. Hollander? Or at least respect him enough to consider him as a potential husband? I don’t say he is a perfect man, but you must admire his education and love of books, if nothing else!”

  “I do.”

  “Then give him a chance. But know that either way you will always have a home—with George here or with us in London, if you prefer.”

  “But my school, Papa.”

  “I know you will miss your school. But you might yet have your own children. Then could you not pour your talents into raising and teaching them? If nothing else, you might help educate George’s children one day. They’ll need their keen aunt to guide them. Heaven knows it will be beyond George.” He winked at her, and she managed a small grin in return.

  “You have given me much to think about, Papa.” She rose. “So if you will excuse me . . .”

  “Of course.” He rose as well and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “It will be all right, my dear. You’ll see.”

  Mercy managed a wobbly smile and turned from the room. She walked upstairs to the schoolroom, quiet this late in the day. There she shut the door, and the tears she’d fought so hard to contain filled her eyes and ran down her cheeks. Mercy leaned back against the wall slate, heedless of the chalk sure to mar her gown.

  She closed her eyes tight, squeezing every muscle of her face, her hands, her body, trying to restrain the loud cry building within and threatening to burst forth.

  Nearby, a book clapped closed, and Mercy’s eyes flew open. There sat little Alice in the window seat, half hidden behind the curtain. The little girl set down the book and walked over to her, steady green eyes latched onto Mercy’s face, a wrinkle of confusion between her brows.

  “Are you crying, miss?”

  Mercy wiped a hand over her eyes. “A little.”

  “I have never seen you cry before.”

  “Everyone cries sometimes. Even me.” And something told Mercy her crying days were just beginning.

  Alice held out her hand to her. It was a sweet gesture, something Mercy had offered to her so many times.

  Mercy took Alice’s hand in her own. “Thank you.”

  “Shall I sit with you awhile? It always makes me feel better when you sit with me.”

  “Yes,” Mercy whispered, throat tight. “I would like that very much indeed.”

  Chapter

  twenty-eight

  Seeing little Betsey with Hetty, Jane felt a stirring of self-pity she recognized but did not like in herself. Why was it that women like Hetty bore perfectly healthy babies when they didn’t want any, while she who had so desperately longed for one remained childless?

  Memories of her losses flashed in her mind, but she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep them at bay.

  Jane excused herself and escaped to her little lodge—which only brought the past closer. She sat down heavily on the bed she and John had shared, and where those awful scenes had taken place. Alone there, she felt powerless to stop the memories, especially of the most recent and most painful time.

  After John had died, she carried that final babe longer than any of the others. And she had allowed herself to hope that God would spare the child, since He had taken John.

  But He had not.

  When the bleeding had started that night—too early! Not again!—Jane had sent a maid no longer in their employ to fetch the midwife. Mrs. Henning had understood Jane’s desire to keep her pregnancies private—not to raise anyone’s hopes when she had lost one child after another. So she had come to the lodge now and again to check on Jane discreetly, ostensibly for a social call, should anyone see her or ask.

  That night, Mrs. Henning had brought the physician with her, her own confidence flagging after so many failed births. Yet both were powerless to do anything to stop Jane’s child from coming into the world too soon.

  Jane had wanted to see the baby more closely but was afraid to, should he not be whole. But then she decided she didn’t care. She wanted to hold her son. But Dr. Burton said it would only make things harder.

  He gave her laudanum or something to calm her. It made her feel drowsy. Disconnected. She heard him say in a low voice to the midwife that he would take care of the remains.

  Jane had wanted to shout at him. He is not “remains.” He is my son. That is his body. The body I carried within mine and came to love. But none of it came out, at least not sensibly.

  Mrs. Henning noticed her distress and told the doctor she would take care of the child herself.

  When Jane awoke from a heavy sleep, Mrs. Henning was there at her bedside. She did her best to reassure Jane. She said she had wrapped his little body in clean cloth and laid him in a small wooden box made by the joiner and kept on hand for just such occurrences. Jane had been grateful to know he would be protected that way.

  The midwife went on to tell her she had delivered her sad burden to the church for burial, reminding her that no markers were used in such cases.

  At the time, it was enough to know he’d been buried properly. Jane had not wanted to ask questions and spread her tale of woe.

  But now? Logical or not, she longed to know where her children were—to have a place to grieve, to mark, and to remember.

  Jane walked to St. Anne’s first thing the next morning.

  The vicar was just stepping out of the church as she arrived. “Morning, Jane. Good to see you. I am expected at the almshouse in ten minutes, but—”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Paley. I am here to see Mr. Beachum, actually. Is he here?”

  He pursed his lips. “Really? I’m afraid I don’t know. The man has been here for more years than I have and sets his own hours. He wasn’t in the vestry just now, but he also keeps a private office downstairs. Do you know the way?”

  “I will find it. Don’t let me keep you.”

  “Very well, good-bye.” Mr. Paley started down the church path, and Jane went inside and down the narrow stairs that led to the crypt and storage room. Nestled between them, she found a closed door bearing a small placard: Parish Clerk.

  Jane knocked, and a voice called, “Come.”

  She entered the dim, cave-like chamber. Inside, an elderly man hunched over a paper-strewn desk.

  “Mr. Beachum?”

  “Yes?” He looked at her over the tops of his spectacles. “Ah, Mrs. Bell. Are you lost? I rarely receive visitors down here.”

  “No. I am here to see you.”

  “Oh? Is something the matter?” Hope sparked in his eyes. “Have you a complaint to lodge against the vicar?”

  “No, nothing like that. I was only wondering if you could tell me the location of a certain grave. A few graves, actually.”

  “Of course.” He pulled out a broad sheet of paper folded like a map and spread it out on his cluttered desk. “I have the whole churchyard plan right here. Who are we looking for?”

  Jane swallowed. “My children.”

  “Your . . . Ah.” He refolded the plan and laced his fingers over it. “Mrs. Bell, if you are referring to premature or still births, they are not on this diagram. As you know, the cemetery proper is reserved for church members and those baptized.”

  “But—”

  “Such things are kept quiet for privacy’s sake, Mrs. Bell. It is a sensitive matter, these poor creatures born too soon or passed on before baptism.”

  “I understand it is a private matter for many women. It was for me. But why can I not know myself?”

  “It is not a matter of public record.”

  “But you do record it?”

  He shook his head. “Only the general area used for such burials over various time periods, not specific plots by name.”

  “Why?”

  “That is the way it has always been done here.”

  “But you are responsible for the parish burials?”

  “Under the churchwardens’ authority, yes. Just as my father was before me. Though the sexton digs
the graves. And he, as everyone knows, is a bit daft.”

  Jane frowned, stretching out her hands in supplication. “Is it so much to ask? I only want to know where my children are buried.”

  “As I said, I cannot help you. The records are still in disorder from Mr. Bingley’s last term as churchwarden. It would take days to unearth even the general location. And as you see I am busy, so . . .”

  Jane turned and walked out. She did not thank him or wish him good day. She only wanted to escape that dank room and heartless man before he saw her cry.

  Longing to confide in Jane, Mercy walked to The Bell. On her way, she passed the Kingsley Brothers’ workshop, a brick building with an extended roof over an open-sided work area on one side, and double doors to an enclosed workroom on the other. The sign above read:

  Kingsley Bros.

  Masons, Builders & Carpenters

  Plans Made & Estimates Given

  The broad double doors were open, and inside Joseph Kingsley worked. Mercy stopped to watch him. Scraper in hand, he smoothed a wooden rocking horse poised atop two sawhorses. She noticed sawdust in his side-whiskers and in the fine hairs on the backs of his hands.

  He glanced up and paused in his work. “Miss Grove.”

  “Good day, Mr. Kingsley. How are you?”

  “Well enough. How are things at Ivy Cottage? With your . . . suitor?”

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “I was there when you received your parents’ letter, remember? You told me you feared the man would expect you to be as clever as your father and as pretty as your mother.”

  “That’s right.” She averted her gaze, embarrassed to recall all she had said to him in the agitation of the moment.

  “He was not disappointed, was he?”

  She shook her head, surprised anew to realize it was true.

  He resumed his smoothing. “I told you he would not be.”

  Mercy darted a look at the man, but he kept his focus on the wood. He set down his scraper and picked up a piece of dried sharkskin instead.

  She asked, “Is that a new commission?”

  “No. A gift for a niece.”

  “How thoughtful.”

  He shrugged. “I always make something from oak for each new member of the family.”

  “Why oak?”

  “I like working with it.” His low voice was accompanied by rhythmic swishing as he polished the wood. “It’s hard yet beautiful. Lasting.”

  Mercy stepped closer, running her hand over the smooth surface. “Your niece is a lucky girl.”

  He flashed her a small smile. “So the visit went well?”

  Mercy considered how best to respond. “In some ways better than I expected, and in some ways far worse.”

  He glanced up. “How so?”

  Again she paused, her stomach churning to think of her parents’ ultimatum.

  His expression sobered. “You needn’t tell me anything, Miss Grove. I should not have pried.”

  “I don’t mind. I just don’t know how much to say. I don’t want to abuse your ears again.”

  “I did ask.”

  “Then I will say that he . . . made his willingness clear, but I told him I needed more time to consider. We have only just met.”

  “Sometimes attraction is immediate, Miss Grove.”

  “Attraction, maybe, but mutual respect and affection? Love? How long does that take? At all events, he asked for my answer by Christmas.”

  “I heard your mother when I visited the library. She is obviously in favor of the match—made him sound perfect for you. Educated, well-read, a professor of all things. Writing a book together, I think she said?”

  Mercy ducked her head. “I would only assist.” She changed the subject. “What brought you to the library? Did you forget a tool or something?”

  “No.” Now he averted his gaze. “I went thinking I’d find a book to read. But most of them were over my head.”

  “I am sure that is not the case. You are clearly intelligent and capable.”

  Again he looked up to study her face.

  She found his eye contact deliciously disconcerting and dragged her focus to his hands instead. “Your work is lovely, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mercy pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. “When Mr. Hollander and I saw you on the green with your nephews, he asked me if that charming blond woman was your wife. I said I did not know who she was. I did not recognize her, so . . .”

  “Esther? No. She is not my wife.”

  Something in his tone made her stomach cramp.

  Mercy licked dry lips. “You are . . . a widower?”

  He darted another look at her, then averted his gaze, brushing shavings and grit from the horse’s withers. “Yes.”

  “I . . . don’t believe I ever met your wife.”

  “No, you wouldn’t have. I married Naomi years ago, when I lived in Basingstoke, working on a long-term commission there.”

  Naomi . . . “What happened?”

  His face twisted. “She died in childbirth, a year after we wed, our only child with her. I don’t talk about it—to anyone, usually.”

  What a selfish fool Mercy felt now for her prying questions. “I’m sorry.”

  He nodded. “Me too.”

  He did not, she noticed, explain who the pretty blond woman was.

  She swallowed. “Well. Good day, Mr. Kingsley.”

  “Good-bye, Miss Grove.”

  How final that sounded.

  Mercy continued on to The Bell to talk to Jane. She found her in the entry hall, just returned from some errand, pulling off her bonnet and gloves.

  Taking one look at her face, Jane hurried to her side. “Mercy, what is it? Here, let us go to the lodge and talk in private.” She called into the office for Patrick to oversee the desk, then linked her arm through Mercy’s and led her across the drive.

  In the keeper’s lodge, Jane pulled out a chair for her at the small table, and took the seat across from her.

  “Tell me.”

  Mercy took a deep breath and told her all about Mr. Hollander’s visit and her parents’ ultimatum.

  “There I was, campaigning for a larger school, when I should have been more thankful for the one I had. Now I am losing my school, and George and his wife will have Ivy Cottage unless I marry.”

  Jane’s eyes widened. “Oh, Mercy, no.”

  Mercy nodded. “Mr. Hollander is not a bad man, Jane. I enjoyed discussing books with him and sharing a few meals, but that does not mean I am ready to share my life with him. My . . . bed. No.” She shuddered.

  Jane pressed her lips together, then said gently, “I know it can be an unsettling prospect at first. I remember . . . well, vaguely.” She chuckled. “It is natural to be nervous. But are you certain you would not feel that way about any man?”

  Mercy looked away, feeling her face flush.

  Jane’s eyebrows rose high. “Oh, Mercy!” she exclaimed, astounded and chagrined. “I am sorry. I had no idea there was someone else. I hope I did not hurt your feelings by teasing you. How thoughtless of me.”

  “There is not anyone else,” Mercy insisted. “In terms of . . . actual possibility. No one else is courting me or anything like that. But there is someone I . . . like. And the thought of sharing his life and his bed . . .” Her sentence trailed away, and again her face heated.

  Jane studied her. “Not as unappealing?”

  “Not unappealing at all.”

  “Good heavens. I don’t suppose you will tell me who it is?”

  Mercy shook her head. “I had better not. Especially with Mr. Hollander awaiting his answer.”

  “Does this man you like . . . whoever he is . . . know about Mr. Hollander? That he has basically proposed and given you ’til Christmas to decide?”

  Mercy sighed. “He knows.”

  Jane winced. “And he said nothing? No hint that it . . . bothered him?”

  “I don’t think so. I am no
expert in reading men, of course, but he seems to agree with my parents that Mr. Hollander and I are well matched. Both educated and well-read. Both teachers.”

  “And this other man is not?”

  Mercy crossed her arms. “He isn’t very book educated, that is true. But he is capable and intelligent, generous and hardworking . . .”

  “Goodness, you do like him. Does he like you?”

  Mercy shrugged and considered. “I think he likes me well enough—at least as a friend. We talk easily. He admires my knowledge and teaching ability as I admire his strength and skill.”

  “That is a start.”

  Mercy shook her head. “No, it isn’t. I saw him embrace a beautiful woman the other day. My complete opposite—petite, blond, pretty, charming . . .”

  Jane blinked in surprise. “Rachel?”

  “No, someone even prettier, if you can imagine. You should have seen how he smiled at her! He embraced her right there on the green. Besides, he seems to be encouraging me to accept Mr. Hollander. How could he communicate more clearly that he has no romantic interest in me himself? Apparently only Mr. Hollander is thus afflicted.”

  “Oh, Mercy, what will you do?”

  “I don’t know. I will lose my school either way. Should I give up my independence too—in exchange for a husband and possibly children of my own?” She looked at Jane. “You gave up your former way of life to marry. Was it worth it?”

  “Oh, Mercy, our situations are so different. I was attracted to John from the beginning. And although I had my reservations about marrying him, I never doubted he loved me.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “I came to, yes. Not the all-consuming love of novels and poetry, but yes. And after romantic love waned, I still cared for him.” Jane laid her hand over hers. “Could you come to care for this Mr. Hollander?”

  “Care for him, yes. Love him? Desire him?” Mercy shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “What does Rachel say about it?”

  “I haven’t discussed it with her yet. Her future is at stake too. I think I could sway Mr. Hollander to keep the library, but if I don’t marry him, it will definitely have to close. I can’t bear to tell her she might lose her library so soon. I don’t want to worry her unnecessarily.”