The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  “You can’t marry a man you don’t love just to save Rachel’s library.”

  “I know. But I feel terrible about it.”

  Jane squeezed her hand. “She will understand. And what about Alice? What has Mr. Hollander said about her?”

  “He finds the idea of becoming an instant parent daunting, but he is willing to do so for me.”

  “Good. That is to his credit.”

  Mercy studied her friend’s face. “Is something wrong, Jane? You look sad. I have been so wrapped up in my own concerns, I failed to ask how you are?”

  Jane looked down, and Mercy doubted she would tell her.

  For a moment Jane pressed her lips together, and then she said, “In all honesty, I am feeling sorry for myself. We have a child about the place now, and it has reminded me of those I lost. But it shall pass.” Jane smiled bravely. “I am determined not to be ruled by self-pity.”

  Mercy squeezed her hand, and held on a little longer than usual.

  “I admire you, Jane. And I will try to do the same.”

  That evening, Thora noticed how gloomy Jane seemed and asked what was bothering her.

  “Hm? Oh, I am just tired. We had a difficult guest last night. A Lady something or other and her suspicious lady’s maid. She demanded to inspect the bedclothes and watched while Hetty changed the perfectly clean sheets yet again. And poor Mrs. Rooke had the meals she’d prepared sent back thrice.”

  “Poor Mrs. Rooke? Those are words I never thought to hear you utter.”

  Jane did not even grin.

  “Jane,” Thora insisted, “what is it?”

  Finally, her daughter-in-law confided her unsatisfying visit to Mr. Beachum and the reason for it.

  Jane managed a sheepish smile. “You will probably think me very foolish. It is an impractical desire to know. I realize I should give it up.”

  Thora shook her head. “Never liked that man.”

  Thora said nothing more and made no promises. But she determined to call on Mr. Beachum herself as soon as she had the opportunity.

  Chapter

  twenty-nine

  The looming loss of her school throbbed in Mercy’s chest like a broken rib. Her mind struggled to believe it. There must be something she could do. Might she relocate the school somewhere else, like the church? But what about her boarding pupils? Or did God want her to give up the school for some reason she could not fathom? Was she supposed to accept this, or fight it? If only discerning His will was easier.

  Longing for direction and comfort, Mercy selected a book from Rachel’s library—a book of sermons.

  Rachel marked it down in the ledger, then glanced again at its spine. “This is one of the books donated anonymously. You are the first to borrow it.” She grinned up at Mercy. “I hope it proves more interesting than it looks.”

  Mercy thanked her and took it up to her room.

  Reading the sermons in bed that night made her drowsy, which was a comfort, of a kind. She soon fell asleep, book to her chest, waking only long enough to blow out the bedside candle before closing her eyes once more.

  In the morning, Mercy awoke to find the book still in bed with her. Hoping she had not bent its pages, she carefully lifted and closed it, only to find something sticking out. Oh no. Had she torn a page? She carefully extracted the piece of paper, surprised to find it folded in thirds. A letter—its seal broken and the direction smeared illegible.

  Curious, she opened it, and read:

  Dear Grandmother,

  Please don’t fret. That you still love me and pray for me is such a balm, I cannot tell you. I know it distresses you that you cannot come here to help me, nor invite me to live with you there. But it is not your fault. Grandfather feels to do so would be condoning my sin. If just for me, I would not mind so much. But I do worry about my daughter. My health worsens by the day. My biggest worry is what will happen to her if I were to die here, alone, where no one really knows or cares about me.

  So I must beg one more favor and apologize for having to ask you to keep another secret from Grandfather. The last one—I promise.

  There is only one person I can think of who might help my daughter if I don’t survive. I met him years ago when I worked for Lady Carlock. I did not have his permanent direction until much more recently, when I happened into Lady Carlock in Bristol. She told me she had seen the man again on one of her recent travels. In fact, she had his card in her reticule and gave it to me. I enclose it herein.

  He was a kind and generous man, as I recall. If the worst happens as I fear, please post the enclosed letter to him per the address on the card.

  All my love and gratitude forever,

  M.A.

  Mercy frowned, her mind rapidly sifting through thoughts. M.A. . . . A letter from Mary-Alicia, written to her grandmother before she died? Mercy glanced at the book again. If so, Mr. Thomas must have donated this book after his wife’s death. Who was the “generous man” mentioned in the letter?

  She thought immediately of James Drake, who met Mary-Alicia in Brighton. But she had traveled with that lady for nearly two years and had surely met many people. Mercy told herself not to jump to conclusions.

  She opened the book again and flipped through the pages. Nothing. Where was the second letter M.A. mentioned? It was not enclosed, nor a card. Had Mrs. Thomas posted it, as requested? It seemed likely. Unless . . . had the elderly woman already been confused when the letter arrived?

  A knock sounded, and Mercy jumped, sliding the letter under the book.

  Her mother popped her head in. “Still in bed? Come on, sleepy girl, time to get dressed for church. And we leave tomorrow, remember, so I may need help packing. Will you do these up for me? Then I will help you.” She turned around, so Mercy could reach her corset strings beneath her unfastened gown.

  Mercy scrambled out of bed to oblige her. “Of course.”

  The letter, and her questions, would have to wait.

  After church, Mercy’s parents lingered to chat with Lady Brockwell and a few other old friends, saying their farewells. Murmuring that she would see them at home, Mercy followed her aunt and the girls as they filed out of the nave. Rachel, she noticed, had been taken aside by Mr. Carville, the Brockwells’ butler. She wondered what the two of them had to talk about.

  Aunt Matilda and Mrs. Shabner strolled arm in arm, as usual, down Church Street, and Alice and Phoebe followed their example in miniature behind them. The other girls walked ahead, talking and giggling in a little cluster.

  As they passed the public house, Mr. Drake strode up Potters Lane. Phoebe waved energetically, while Alice made do with a shy smile.

  “Good morning, Alice. Miss Phoebe.” He fell into step beside Mercy. “Good day, Miss Grove.”

  “Hello, Mr. Drake. I did not see you in church.”

  “I am not much of a churchgoer, I’m afraid.”

  Mercy thought. “Actually, we have not seen you at all in some time.”

  “I took a trip down to Portsmouth.”

  “Oh? Any particular reason?”

  “Curiosity. Your aunt mentioned that Alice’s father died on the Mesopotamia, is that right?”

  “I believe that is what Mrs. Thomas told her. Though that was years ago. Why?”

  “After we last spoke, I consulted a complete collection of Steel’s Navy Lists—which include Royal Marines—hoping to find confirmation of Mr. Smith’s service and details of his death. Do you know what I found instead?”

  Mercy shook her head, unease filling her.

  “I learned that no lieutenant named Alexander Smith was listed among the missing and presumed dead of the Mesopotamia. Nor had any such man even served aboard that ill-fated ship.”

  “Perhaps his rank had changed, or my aunt misheard or misremembered his given name. Smith is a very common surname, you must allow.”

  “True. However, I did find an Alexander Smith, a lieutenant of marines, listed in several older editions, among the crew of another ship.”

>   He watched her reaction, then added, “I also found the name Alexander Smith circled in the copy of Steel’s Navy Lists donated anonymously to Miss Ashford’s library.”

  Mercy wasn’t sure she wanted to ask what Mr. Drake was suggesting.

  Reaching Ivy Cottage, Matilda and the girls went indoors, while the two of them lingered near the gate.

  He continued, “So I tracked down that Alexander Smith and found him living on half pay in Portsmouth. Very much alive and having never met a Mary-Alicia in his life.”

  Surprise and suspicion twisted Mercy’s stomach. She studied his face. Why would Mr. Drake take time away from his hotel to look for Mr. Smith? Why was he so interested? She thought again of the “generous man” mentioned in the letter and asked, “How did you meet Miss Payne again?”

  “I met her at a Brighton resort, while she was traveling with an older woman as her companion.”

  Mercy’s heart began to pound dully. “How long ago was that?”

  “About nine years.”

  “She must have married soon after,” Mercy said, but the words sounded hollow in her ears.

  “I think Mr. Thomas has his doubts about that.” Mr. Drake crossed his arms. “And that is why he refuses to talk about his own granddaughter or acknowledge his great-granddaughter.”

  Quite possibly, Mercy thought, again recalling M.A.’s letter. She lowered her voice. “That is a theory better kept to yourself, Mr. Drake. Such a rumor could only harm an innocent young girl like Alice.”

  “I am not spreading rumors, Miss Grove. I am speaking to you in confidence. I simply want to learn the truth.”

  “Even if the truth hurts Alice?”

  “I have no intention of hurting her.”

  “I hope not. With Mary-Alicia gone, as well as the grandmother she confided in, I doubt we shall ever know the full truth. And that may be for the best.”

  Mercy’s parents came strolling up Church Street arm in arm. She did not want to discuss this in front of them.

  “Please excuse me, Mr. Drake.”

  “As you wish.” He nodded and walked away, tipping his hat to Mrs. Grove as he passed.

  Her parents followed her inside Ivy Cottage.

  Her mother’s face brightened with interest. “Who was that man, Mercy?”

  “Oh . . . just a friend of Jane’s. He owns Fairmont House now.”

  “Does he indeed?” Her mother eyed her carefully. “Anything else we should know about him?”

  Mercy shook her head. “No. Definitely not.”

  When the service ended that Sunday, Rachel was surprised when Mr. Carville sought her out.

  He took her aside and said, “I am worried about Sir Timothy. He left without telling me his plans. Have you spoken with him?”

  “No. Not in some time.” Rachel had not seen him since he rode off, upset, from Mrs. Haverhill’s.

  “He seemed rather agitated. Do you know where he went?”

  “I don’t.”

  Carville looked around, then lowered his voice. “Did he learn the truth about that woman?”

  Rachel held his gaze and did not pretend ignorance of what he was asking. “Yes.”

  “And he blames me, I suppose.”

  “No. His father.”

  “Him? What about her?”

  “She is part of it, of course, but learning of his father’s deception shocked and deeply disappointed him.”

  “But he knows I . . . lied to him.” A sheen of fear shone in the old man’s eyes.

  “Yes.” She gentled her voice. “But he also knows you were trying to protect the family.”

  He nodded. “I was. You don’t think Sir Timothy intends to do anything . . . rash, do you?”

  “Of course not,” Rachel replied with more confidence than she felt. “Sir Timothy can be depended upon to act responsibly.”

  Yet, was not riding off on an unexplained absence already rash, Rachel wondered—at least for him?

  “I am sure you are right, miss,” the butler said. “At least I hope you are.”

  When Rachel returned to Ivy Cottage a short while later, she found Mercy waiting for her in the vestibule.

  “Rachel, I know it is Sunday, but could you do something for me?”

  “Of course, anything.”

  “Has Mr. Drake returned that edition of Steel’s Navy List he borrowed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then I’d like to see everything else given by the same person who donated the book of sermons I borrowed yesterday.”

  “Of course. Just give me a few minutes.” Rachel looked at Mercy again, noting her disturbed expression. “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know for certain. Hopefully not.” Mercy hesitated, glancing at the library door. “Shall I help you?”

  “No need.” Rachel nodded toward little Alice, lingering near the stairs, book in arms. “I see Alice is waiting for you to read with her. I will do this.”

  Mercy looked over, her expression immediately softening. “Very well. Thank you.”

  Mercy walked away, hand extended to Alice, and Rachel stepped inside the library. She opened her inventory ledger, referenced her list, and began gathering the books that had been donated in the same basket with Steel’s Navy Lists and that particular book of sermons: a Gothic romance, women’s magazines, a few travelogues, and a book of poetry. She opened the covers looking for any inscription, as she had started to do before Matilda urged her to accept donations without seeking to credit the donor. She saw nothing. What was Mercy hoping to find?

  She stacked the books on the desk for Mercy to look at when she came back, and closed her ledger. Then something caught her eye. She regarded the stack of books from the side. From this angle, she noticed a slightly widened gap in one of the book’s otherwise tightly bound pages. Had several pages become folded over, or was something stuck inside? She picked up the romance and opened it to that spot.

  Inside, she found a folded rectangle. Not sealed, nor addressed. Should she open it, or wait for Mercy? Hoping to discover the donor’s identity, Rachel unfolded the paper and read.

  Dear JD,

  Do you even remember me? More likely my face is but a blur in your memory. But I have never forgotten you.

  Even had I tried, I could not. For I have a daily reminder. And in her small face and soft green eyes, I often catch a glimpse of yours. It draws me up short and stills my thoughts, and just for a moment I allow my mind to travel back and relive those days that are probably far more vivid in my mind than in yours.

  We had planned to stay another week in Brighton, as did you, or so you said. But Lady Carlock is an impetuous woman and decided late in the night that we must away the following day. I don’t know if she had learned of our relationship, or if her desire to see Wales immediately was real and genuine. Whatever the case, we left early the next morning.

  I wrote a note, intending to leave it for you at the front desk. Imagine my surprise when the clerk told me you had already quit your rooms and departed. No, you had left no forwarding address, nor a note for me.

  Did you fear this very thing and leave before I could demand anything of you? That is what I have often imagined. Though now and again, I allowed myself to wonder if you might change your mind and try to find me. I considered writing to you, but I did not have your direction at the time. I thought we had shared so much, yet in hindsight I realized how little of your life you had actually shared with me.

  After spending some weeks in Wales, I left Lady Carlock and took lodgings in Bristol, where I eventually had a child in secret. I wrote letters to my grandparents, fictionalizing a whirlwind romance and elopement to a marine whose name I picked from a navy list. I did not initially tell them where I was living, afraid they would seek me out and discover the truth. I had a little money saved and supported myself as best I could by taking in sewing for a milliner.

  When my daughter was several months old, I thought it would be safe to let my grandparents know where I was. When I
read news of a ship lost at sea, I wrote again to say that my husband had been on that ship and was now missing and presumed dead. I thought they would invite me to live with them, but they did not. My grandmother would have, I know. But my grandfather forbade it. Apparently, he never believed my story. He knew or at least suspected I had lied and despised me for it.

  My health since giving birth has not been good. I contracted a fever from which I never fully recovered. All these years of hand-to-mouth living in damp Bristol have no doubt taken their toll. Whatever the case, the apothecary offers me many elixirs but little hope.

  My grandparents are quite elderly, and I’m not sure they would be equal to raising a child, even were my grandfather willing to take her in. And so I write to you.

  Should the worst happen, as I dread, I have decided I must let you know the truth now that I have your direction (I happened to see Lady Carlock not long ago, and she gave me your card). I will send this letter to my grandmother for safekeeping, with instructions to post it to you after I am gone.

  This is my last will and testament, of sorts. I have scant worldly goods to bequeath, but I have one most precious possession, and I would do anything to protect her.

  Her name is Alice. She is your daughter. I have kept that fact secret from her. She believes she is the daughter of Alexander Smith, who died at sea. She is seven years old at the time of this writing and has your eyes.

  At the bottom of this letter, I will add both my landlady’s address in Bristol, as well as my grandparents’ direction in Ivy Hill, Wiltshire. Hopefully you can find Alice through one of them.

  May God bless you for any help you might give her.

  Sincerely,

  Mary-Alicia (Payne) Smith

  Rachel pressed a hand to her chest, realizing it was beating too hard and too fast. Footsteps approached, and Rachel instinctively turned, hiding the letter behind her back. From the corridor, she heard cheerful voices. She looked through the doorway in time to see Mercy and Alice appear, hand in hand, chatting companionably.

  Noticing her, Mercy began, “We thought tea and biscuits might be in order after our reading. . . .”