Rachel nodded, her eyes lingering on his. “May I ask where you went?”
“I needed to get away—to think. I also went on a mission of sorts.”
“Mission? What do you mean?”
“Come to Bramble Cottage with me, will you? Then I can tell you and Mrs. Haverhill the news at once.”
“Very well. Let me just ask Miss Matty to watch over the library for me.”
He agreed, and she hurried to find Matilda and to don a cape and bonnet.
Sir Timothy was quiet on the way, refusing to give any hint of his news. So as they walked, Rachel told him instead about her conversation with Carville at church.
When they reached Bramble Cottage, Mrs. Haverhill opened the door and invited them inside, her graciousness not fully masking her surprise at Sir Timothy’s return. She offered to make tea, but he declined.
“Please, may we sit and talk?”
“Of course.”
She and Rachel sat on the sofa, while he took the armchair facing them, a low table between.
From his inner coat pocket, he withdrew a small parcel—a rectangle of folded plush velvet. He laid it on the table between them and pulled back the corners of fabric to reveal its contents: a ring, a locket, and a lover’s eye brooch.
Mrs. Haverhill sucked in a breath, clapping a hand over her mouth. She looked at him with wide eyes, then tentatively reached out and picked up the locket and then the brooch.
“I never thought I’d see these again.”
She tilted the brooch toward Rachel, and she saw it held a small framed portrait of a man’s eye framed with tiny pearls. Then she lifted the gold ring with a single emerald. “I never wore this while making soap or gardening. I kept it hidden away. Or so I’d thought. How did you . . . ?”
“I wish I could claim some heroic feat,” he said. “But the fact is, I was contacted by a Bristol pawnbroker who recognized the family insignia carved inside the band and contacted me hoping for a reward. He guessed the ring must have been stolen but did not notice the insignia when he first bought it from a young man who gave his name as Kurtz. Does that name mean anything to you?”
Mrs. Haverhill shook her head.
“Probably a false name, at all events. The dealer bought the pin and locket from the same man, so I guessed they might be your missing mementos. He had already sold the locket but kept a record of who bought it. Took some time, but I was able to track down the person and buy it back.”
Rachel’s heart warmed. “That was good of you.”
Mrs. Haverhill nodded. She again looked down at the ring, made as though to slip it on, then stopped, holding it awkwardly suspended.
Her eyes flashed to his. “Your father gave this to me, but I suppose you want it back.”
“No. I searched the inventory records and found a note that this particular family ring had been ‘gifted to a special friend’ years ago.” He nodded toward it. “It’s yours.”
She slid it on her finger, the fit a bit loose in her current state of health.
“There’s more.” He pulled a long folded envelope from the same pocket and handed it to her.
“Here is the deed to Bramble Cottage—it’s yours outright to live in or sell or let as you see fit. And with it is a bank draft, sufficient, I believe, to keep you in comfort. I hope you understand that I deemed it better to give you a lump sum rather than ongoing support.”
“Yes, better to make a clean break of it. I understand. And it is exceedingly kind of you, Tim . . . Sir Timothy.”
He shook his head. “Not kind. Responsible. My father made you his responsibility, and he would never want to see you suffer deprivation. Nor do I.”
“What about Carville?” Mrs. Haverhill asked. “He has a claim to the cottage too.”
Sir Timothy lifted an unconcerned shrug. “He will be rewarded for his long service in other ways. He signed over the deed without complaint. He knew he was left the property only as a guise to hide Father’s relationship with you.”
She studied his face. “I suppose you hate me.”
He hesitated. “And I suppose you bitterly resent us, his family.”
She shook her head. “I don’t blame you. Any of you. Sir Justin made his own mistakes, and I made mine.”
She rose and stood at the hall mirror to pin on the brooch. “I gather your parents’ marriage was not . . . without its tension and conflict. Over the years, I have often thought I should leave. If I had not been so dashed dependent on him for every necessity of life, I might have done. Even so, guilt plagued me. If I had not been here, to compare to, to divert him . . . might he have given his marriage a fair effort and loved his wife in time?”
“I cannot pretend to approve of any of this,” Timothy said. “Though I know my parents’ relationship would not have been ideal even without your influence, lies and adultery must have a detrimental effect on any marriage. I don’t say that to injure you, but you must own the truth of it.”
She turned. “How could I deny it? I share the blame—of course I do.”
“I blame my father.” Nostrils flared, Sir Timothy shook his head, jaw tense.
Mrs. Haverhill walked slowly toward his chair. Standing before him, she reached down, slipped a finger beneath his chin, and lifted it. He looked at her in surprise, and she earnestly held his gaze.
“Your father failed in many ways, and he knew it. But he also knew he had done all right where you were concerned. Oh, he realized he had to share the credit with your mother and with God for your excellent natural character, but he was very proud of you. He thought the world of you, Tim. And someday when you’re not so angry and are able to forgive him, I hope you will remember that and treasure it. For though your father was far from perfect, he was still a man of worth. A man whose esteem meant something.”
For a moment longer, their gazes remained locked, and then she released his chin and stepped back.
He inhaled, gave a small nod, and rose.
Rachel stood as well, and together she and Sir Timothy took their leave.
They walked back into the village side by side, hands behind their backs.
“That was generous of you, Timothy. I am impressed.”
He shook his head. “I felt it my duty. And a way to make peace with an unhappy chapter of my family’s past.” He looked at her. “Although I realize some wrongs can never truly be righted, and certainly not by a few tokens and a piece of paper.”
Rachel looked up at him, gauging his meaning. He held her gaze a moment, then looked away across the field. He picked up a stick and struck at nettles in the hedgerow. “I hear you will be moving your father’s books out of Ivy Cottage.” His Adam’s apple rose and fell. “Back to Thornvale, I assume?”
Rachel gaped at him. “Where did you hear that?”
“My mother talked to Mrs. Grove when she was here. Something she said led Mamma to believe you would be moving your belongings back to Thornvale. And since you told me yourself of Nicholas Ashford’s proposal, it seemed a credible report.”
Rachel’s thoughts spun. Surely a simple misunderstanding—the women assuming that if Mr. Ashford was pursuing her, it was only a matter of time until she and her books returned to Thornvale. Or was something else afoot? Fear trickled through her.
As they turned the corner onto Church Street, she said, “I have no fixed plan at present. If Mrs. Grove said I would be removing the books, then she knows something I don’t.”
“I am sorry to distress you. I should not have repeated it.” He tossed away the stick and looked at her. “Then . . . you have not become engaged while I was away?”
“No.”
His expression brightened. “In that case, would you attend a concert with us at the Awdrys’ tomorrow?”
“Oh.” Rachel felt suddenly winded. Why would he ask her? After their fight. After . . . everything? She swallowed, avoiding his gaze. “Thank you, but I have already agreed to attend with Matilda Grove and . . . the Ashfords.” She felt herself flush
in embarrassment. Especially when she had just denied the rumor about her and Nicholas.
She stole a glance at him and saw his eyes dull. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be. You have nothing to apologize for, Miss Ashford. It is my own fault.” He smiled faintly. “He who hesitates is lost.”
The Kingsley brothers rumbled into The Bell stable yard in force the next morning, their wagon loaded with tools, lumber, and men. Jane was relieved they were finally able to turn their attention to the stables, which needed repair before winter.
She asked Mrs. Rooke to prepare a meal for them, and Cadi and Alwena spent more time ogling the men out the window than working.
Cadi blinked wide, innocent eyes at Jane. “I could take them some tea or lemonade—just to be helpful.”
Jane sent her a knowing look. “I think I will let Mrs. Rooke do that, Cadi, but thank you.”
The ostlers let the horses out into the paddock during the construction, but Athena did not get along well with the carriage horses, kicking and shying when they neared. So they kept her separate—tethered in the yard to keep her out of the way of the long planks, dust, and debris.
Even so, the loud hammering and the strange men coming and going set Athena more on edge than usual. The horse had always been spirited, and lately more skittish. She was clearly not acclimating well to all the changes she’d experienced over the last few months: moving here to The Bell under Gabriel Locke’s care, then Gabriel leaving, then Jake Fuller filling in for a time, and now Jake’s son, Tom.
Jane retrieved a carrot from the kitchen, planning to go out and try to comfort her horse. As she passed through the corridor, she saw Hetty on the stairway. Patrick stood on the half landing above, stretching up with a feather duster to reach the candle chandelier for her.
Good gracious. Patrick cleaning something of his own free will? He must be smitten indeed.
Coming back inside after visiting Athena, Jane found Hetty and Patrick standing near one another in the office, Patrick pointing out a series of marks on the wall.
“See here? This is the year I passed John in height, although he was older. He did not like that, I can tell you.”
Hetty traced her fingers over the marks. “You are so blessed to have grown up here, Patrick, in one place your whole life. Knowing everyone in town . . .”
“It had its blessings, I own, and its drawbacks.”
“Like what?”
“Like being in one place your whole life. Knowing everyone and everyone knowing your business.”
Hetty smiled thoughtfully. “It all depends on your perspective, I suppose.”
“I suppose you’re right. And where did you grow up?”
“Oh, here and there. We moved around a great deal—never in one place very long.” She sent him a wry look. “Rather like you these last few years.”
“Touché.” Patrick leaned near and pulled something from her hair. “Just a cobweb.” His fingers lingered, caressing the red tendril.
Jane cleared her throat. “Hello, you two. I hope you are behaving yourselves.”
“Oh! We are.” Hetty blushed. “In fact, I was just telling Mr. Bell I need to get back to work upstairs.”
“She was, Jane. My fault—I was distracting her.”
Hetty gathered her housemaid’s box and marched purposefully up the stairs.
Patrick watched her go. “I’d almost forgotten how pretty she was. How sweet and clever. How she makes me laugh.”
“Careful, Patrick. You begin to sound like a man besotted.”
“Hm? Oh, well, yes. But nothing to worry about, Jane.”
Jane was not reassured.
She picked up a basket of clean linens from the passageway and carried it upstairs. She found Hetty plunked down on the bed she was supposed to be making, hands pressed to her cheeks.
“Oh, Mrs. Bell, I should never have come back here. What was I thinking? He is so handsome and so devilish charming, it makes it nigh unto impossible to think clearly—to remember my promise to keep him at arm’s length.”
Jane sighed. “Do be careful, Hetty. Remember he’s abandoned you once before. I care for my brother-in-law—don’t mistake me—but you know what he’s like. I’d hate to see you get hurt again.”
“I know, and you’re right. But he seems different now. He still flirts with me, but he’s thoughtful and kind too. He hasn’t done anything improper, though I confess that if he tried to kiss me, I’d take him in my arms and kiss him back.”
“Then keep your arms busy,” Jane advised and thrust the laundry basket into her hands.
Chapter
thirty-two
The morning of the Awdrys’ concert, Nicholas sent a trio of small peach-colored silk roses, arranged to wear pinned to one’s bodice. How thoughtful. Rachel knew it was too late in the season for fresh roses this color, but these made a lovely substitute.
Later, when dressed for the occasion, Rachel pinned the flowers to the bodice of her ivory evening gown. She checked her reflection in the mirror and was satisfied the gift was suitably displayed.
When the Ashfords’ traveling chariot stopped in front of Ivy Cottage early that evening, Rachel stood waiting in the vestibule. She could see Mrs. Ashford’s profile through the carriage window. Nicholas let himself out and came to the door alone.
Rachel invited him inside. “Matilda will be down in a moment. She went back upstairs for a fan.”
He nodded. “That’s all right. We have plenty of time.” His gaze roamed her form and face with obvious pleasure, then fixed on the silk roses. “Those look well on you. You are so beautiful.”
Rachel felt her cheeks warm. “Thank you.”
He stepped nearer. “Miss Ashford. Rachel, I—”
“Here I am, here I am . . .” Matilda bustled into the vestibule, reticule and folded fan in hand. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Ashford.”
“Not at all.”
Matilda smiled at him. “Perhaps you might help Rachel on with her shawl?”
“With pleasure.”
Rachel handed him her kashmir shawl, and he settled it around her shoulders. Then he opened the door and escorted the ladies to the waiting carriage.
As promised, Mrs. Ashford was polite and even cordial, although most of her warmth was directed toward Matilda rather than herself. That was fine with Rachel. She was relieved the woman’s attention was pleasantly engaged elsewhere. As the two older women talked, Rachel felt herself relax against the cushions, lulled into a sleepy state by the carriage’s constant motion. Now and again, she looked over and found Nicholas watching her. His mouth would curve into a small smile, and she returned it.
When they finally reached stately Broadmere and entered the fortress-like hall, Rachel was struck by the many mounted animal heads on the walls—not her favorite decoration.
Sir Cyril Awdry greeted them with a toothy grin. “Welcome, welcome, one and all.”
Rachel thanked him, though she had the distinct impression that he did not recall who she was.
People milled in the antechamber, while others proceeded into the large ballroom to find a seat among the rows of chairs.
Rachel saw Justina Brockwell and Miss Bingley, and excused herself to greet them.
Justina beamed. “Rachel! I am happy to see you. You came with the Ashfords, I see.”
“Yes, and Miss Grove.”
“I know you met Sir Cyril and his sister Penelope at our house, but have you met his younger sister, Arabella?”
“I have not.”
Justina turned to survey the crowd. “There she is. Talking with Timothy.”
Rachel followed her gaze, easily picking out Timothy’s tall masculine form, handsome in evening dress. He stood talking to a pretty, willowy young woman dressed in a striking white gown. Its wide neckline exposed much of her shoulders and delicate collarbones without an immodest display of bosom. A blue silk tunic wrapped around her tiny waist, clasped with a jeweled brooch. It must be the latest style, Rachel
thought, quite unlike her own gown, with its lower neckline and less distinct waist. The young woman’s honey-colored hair was ornamented with a sophisticated bandeau and ostrich plume. Rachel’s silk roses and simple coiffure suddenly felt too girlish for her seven and twenty years.
“She is lovely,” Rachel observed.
“As are you.” Justina pressed her hand. “Do sit near us. Promise?”
Rachel nodded. “I will if I can.”
A few minutes later, she walked with the Ashfords into the ballroom lit with wall sconces and tall candelabra stands. Mrs. Ashford selected a chair in the same row as the Brockwells, so Rachel was able to sit near Justina after all. Timothy, however, ended up one row back, next to Arabella Awdry. Rachel felt self-conscious with him behind her.
When the appointed hour for the concert had come and gone without fanfare, people began to look around in restless curiosity.
Sir Cyril walked to the front of the room, clasped and unclasped his hands. “Thank you all for coming. Goodness. Such a lot of people.” He smiled, put a hand on his hip, and then lowered it again. “I know you have come expecting music, and music we shall have. Hopefully—eventually. Our songbird has just arrived, after some unexplained delay, and needs time to prepare and warm her voice—whatever that means. Personally I find tossing back a brandy is all that’s needed to warm my throat, but I am uninitiated in these matters.”
He chuckled to himself, then went on. “I have been told that many ladies and gentleman go in for this sort of thing. Personally, I detest Italian singing. There is no understanding a word of it. But I am vastly happy to oblige all of you.”
He grinned, and again the awkward hand rose to his hip, and then back down to his side. “I hope you will enjoy Signora Maltese. I prefer a good folk song, myself. Or whistling as I strike across a field, gun in hand, pointer at my side, birdsong filling the air. Now that is music to my ears—that is, until I blast them down.” Again he chuckled, then cast his anxious gaze over the room. He looked at the clock, rocked on his heels, and adjusted his cravat. “I could whistle for you now . . . ?”
The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 30