“Dashed gossipmongers! Then it will be our secret—at least until Alice is older and decides how she wants to deal with the issue.”
Mercy feared she might be ill. “Do you really mean to raise her as your daughter? How will you explain that without revealing the truth?”
He spread his hands, a cool smile on his face. “I am an old friend of the Smiths’. Nothing could be more natural than their closest friend should feel responsible to care for their daughter, now they’re gone, especially as her great-grandfather is unwilling to do so.”
“That is a lie. You never met Mr. Smith.”
“Actually, I did—in Portsmouth. Gregarious fellow, especially when someone else is buying. I was a much closer friend of Mary-Alicia, though for Alice’s sake, we may not want to trumpet that fact about. And since you seem to have a low opinion of my character, it will not shock you to learn that I will happily lie to protect Alice. Though I would prefer to make my true role known, I will first consider how best to proceed. Talk to a lawyer myself.”
But Mercy had not been willing to lie to protect Alice. Oh, God, have I made a terrible mistake?
Temples pounding, Mercy rose. “I hope you will take time to reflect carefully before you do anything hasty, Mr. Drake. Consider what is best for Alice long term.”
She exited his office in a fog of disbelief. What had she done by antagonizing the man who held Alice’s future in his hands? A future Mercy would likely have no part in after this.
To get Athena away from the construction, Jane had tried taking her out to Angel Farm, but the unfamiliar surroundings and animals agitated her more than the noise at The Bell. Jane thought about the Fairmont but discounted it since that place, too, was crawling with workmen. So she returned Athena to the inn, hoping the horse would eventually calm down.
A cold rain fell the next day, so instead of tethering Athena in the yard, the horsemen put her in the high-sided stall at one end of the stable, where she seemed to feel more secure than out in the open. They left her there the following day as well, but every time a loud noise erupted—a dropped hammer or a curse shouted by a careless workman—Athena would rear up or kick. Jane feared she would injure herself, and sure enough, when she went out with an apple that afternoon, she was sorry to see a gash on one of Athena’s rear legs and went to ask Tom Fuller to look at it.
Tom entered Athena’s stall to examine her injury, but Athena whinnied and reared up, her hooves coming dangerously close to Tom’s head, scaring them both. Tom slipped out of the stall, defeated, and shut the gate behind him.
“I can’t do it, Mrs. Bell. I’m sorry. And she shouldn’t be ridden until her hooves are trimmed and re-shod and that cut treated. But you see how she is—she won’t let me near her. She’s gone wild, I tell ya. That’s racehorse blood for ya. Unpredictable, jumpy creatures. I’ve had my fill. Hate to say so, but I give up on your mare.”
“Tom, no. She needs someone to care for her. She’s high-spirited, I know, but she has been out of sorts since Mr. Locke left, and now all the construction and noise. She’ll settle down, eventually. Get used to life here again.”
“I doubt it, ma’am. And meanwhile I’m not willing to get kicked in the head until she settles. I’ve got a wife to think of now and a child on the way.”
“I . . . understand, Tom, of course.”
After he left, Jane lingered, trying in vain to soothe her horse.
“I know, girl. I know,” she whispered. “I miss him too.”
The former gifts she’d offered Athena—carrots or a slice of apple—no longer appealed to the thoroughbred. She was off her feed, and Jane’s worry grew.
Should she write to Gabriel Locke and ask him to come and see Athena? Or at least ask his advice? Yes, she decided, she would. For Athena’s sake. And for her own.
Dear Gabriel,
Athena isn’t herself without you. She is unhappy and unsettled. She kicks and shies away from your replacement. She nips at other horses and is disrupting the whole stable yard. She has already injured herself by rearing up inside her stall. And she will let no one near her, except me, and I don’t know how to help her.
I am sure you are busy with your uncle’s horses, but if you might send along any advice or instructions our new farrier might try, we—I—would be most appreciative.
Sincerely,
Jane Bell
Would he respond? Jane thought of the argument they’d had before the coach contest. She had been so angry when she learned John had gambled away the loan money and put The Bell in jeopardy, and angry with Mr. Locke for keeping the truth from her. Before that discovery, she’d been on the cusp of trusting Gabriel. The harsh words she’d thrown at him repeated themselves in her mind, and she winced to recall all she had said in the heat of anger. . . .
“You should have told me the truth. Instead you lied and pretended to be someone you’re not. A simple farrier with his own Thoroughbred, a fine watch, and a bank account in Wishford? . . . I don’t want a man I can’t trust living on my doorstep.”
He’d ridden away after that, but she had gone after him to apologize. She had not been prepared to fully trust the man, but she had hoped that would change, given time. Instead, he left again after helping The Bell’s team win the coach contest—although they had parted amicably, she’d thought.
Would he help her now? She hoped so. Because she and Athena needed someone they could trust.
After her meeting with Mr. Drake, Mercy remained in a state of disconnected denial for a few days, as though nothing had changed in her plans to become Alice’s guardian. It was wishful thinking, of course, but it allowed her to teach her classes and get through the days until she could get away and inform Mr. Coine of recent developments. Now she could put off reality no longer.
She rode into Wishford again with the carter and planned to walk back when she finished, assuming the clouds on the horizon did not portend a storm.
Mrs. Burlingame sent her a few curious glances as they rode along, but Mercy did not explain the reason for her trip.
When they arrived on the High Street, Mercy thanked the woman, smoothed her skirts, and walked into the law office.
Mr. Coine’s usual smile was absent. “Miss Grove. I meant to drive over to see you later today. You have saved me a trip.” He led her into his office and closed the door. “I am afraid another claimant has come forward in the case of young Alice.”
“Already? That is what I came to discuss with you.”
“I’m sorry. No doubt it’s a shock. Though less than it might have been, as I gather you and Mr. Drake have already discussed this.”
“Only . . . a preliminary discussion. No specifics have been decided.”
“You know he claims to be Alice’s natural father. He presents compelling evidence, including the fact that no Alexander Smith is listed among the crew of the downed ship Alice’s mother claimed took her husband’s life. But of course most convincing is the letter, written by Mary-Alicia Payne herself, referring to her daughter’s father as JD. When paired with other correspondence he provided in which several people address him by those initials, I believe most would find it sufficient evidence. He told me he is prepared to take his case to the Court of Chancery, if need be.”
“I see.” Did Mr. Drake really want Alice, Mercy wondered, or had she unintentionally created a competition with a man who could not resist a challenge? She inwardly groaned at the thought. Oh, Lord, please protect Alice.
She asked, “Just out of curiosity, what if I had never found that letter?”
“His claim would have been more difficult to prove. But with him a respectable, successful man of business able to summon character witnesses, if need be . . . ? The end result might have been the same.”
“What about Mr. Thomas’s wishes?”
“If there was no evidence for Mr. Drake’s paternity claim, Mr. Thomas’s wishes, as verifiable next of kin, would be paramount. But a father has a stronger claim than a great-grandfather.”
Mercy exhaled a sigh.
He studied her face. “Have you some reason to be concerned about the man’s character or intentions?”
Had she? Or was she only disappointed for herself? Mercy shook her head. “No. Not really.”
“Then for the girl’s sake, might not this be good news? Though a blow for you, to be sure. I am sorry, Miss Grove. I blame myself for not warning you to guard your heart against the possibility of another claimant. But even her own great-grandfather had no inkling. Who could have guessed?”
Mercy rose, a false smile fixed to her face. “Who could have guessed, indeed. Thank you for your time, Mr. Coine. And do send your bill. You spent time on this even if it didn’t turn out as we’d hoped.”
“I would not think of it.”
“As you wish. Good day.” She turned, willing her tears to wait. The time for denial had passed.
She made it to the street, on legs of melting wax. She grasped the side of a parked wagon for support. Please help me accept this, God. Your will be done. . . .
Without warning, Joseph Kingsley appeared, one strong arm bracing her back, the other holding her hand.
“Miss Grove! What is it? Are you ill? You look very ill. Shall I find a doctor?”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice.
He guided her down the street to a stair-stepped mounting block. She sat, and he lowered himself to his haunches before her, looking up into her face with concern.
“What’s happened?”
“I have had distressing news. I can bear losing the school, if I must. But Alice too?”
“I am sorry. Her kin changed her mind?”
Mercy hesitated, tears filling her eyes. “Another . . . relative . . . came forward.”
He winced and took her hand in his. “Is there nothing to be done?”
Mercy shook her head, chin trembling. She became aware of passersby staring at them and ducked her head.
Mr. Kingsley seemed to realize it at the same time. “Come, let’s get you home. Did you walk here?”
“No, but I planned to walk home.”
“My cart is just there, at the livery.”
Helping her up, he tucked her arm through his, held it close to his side as they walked, and led her through a narrow door into the livery—the rear door apparently, for she encountered no one except several bored-looking horses in their stalls.
“You wait here. I’ll be right back.” He pressed her hand, and his gentle care only fueled her tears all the more.
He made to release her arm, but for a moment she held fast. “Th-thank you, Mr. Kingsley.”
He took a step nearer and reached out his free hand, perhaps to offer a consolatory pat, she guessed. Instead, he wrapped both arms around her shoulders and held her close.
For a moment Mercy stood in stiff surprise. Then she leaned slightly into his embrace, relishing the warm comfort of being held. She was in the arms of a man for the first time in her life—a man she admired. A tingle of pleasure rose amid her sadness, but like a fragile flower in the wind, it quickly bowed. A horse stomped a hoof, and a door rumbled open on the opposite end, breaking the sweet spell.
She pulled slowly away, digging into her reticule for her handkerchief and avoiding his eyes. “Again, thank you, Mr. Kingsley. You are very kind.”
“I did nothing. I wish I could help you somehow.”
She managed a watery smile. “You have helped me. More than you know.”
Chapter
thirty-four
Later that day, Mercy walked to The Bell to confide in Jane. When she arrived, she saw Colin McFarland at the desk.
She managed a smile for the young man. “Hello, Colin. How are things here? The lessons helping?”
Colin darted a look toward the office. “Shh . . .”
Mercy stared at him in disbelief. “You mean you haven’t told Jane yet?”
Colin shook his head.
“Told me what?” Jane asked, stepping out of the office to greet her.
Mercy gave the clerk a pointed look.
Sheepishly, Colin explained, “I have been going to Ivy Cottage for tutoring in arithmetic.”
“Ahh. So that’s where you’ve been. I wondered. You should have told me.”
“I know. I meant to. I was . . . embarrassed.”
“No need. And you have improved so much already. Patrick and I have both noticed.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate your understanding. And your patience.”
Jane turned to her and teased, “Well, Mercy, what other secrets are you going to divulge today?”
Mercy did not smile in return.
“Uh oh.” Jane’s smile faded. “Shall we go to the lodge again?”
“If you can get away.”
“Colin has things in hand here. Don’t you, Colin?”
“I do, indeed. Finally.”
Jane led her to the keeper’s lodge, and once seated, Mercy told her about Alice and Mr. Drake.
Jane’s eyes grew wide. “Mr. Drake? Good heavens . . .”
“Well, the letter we found was addressed only to a JD, but apparently some people refer to him by his initials.”
Jane nodded and said gently, “Yes. In fact, when Mr. Drake first arrived here and signed the inn register, he wrote his name as JD. He told me that was what most of his friends called him. Friends who would no doubt attest to that, if need be.”
“That is what Mr. Coine concluded as well.” Mercy looked up at Jane. “I was not sure if I should tell you. I know you and he are friends. But I needed to talk to you.”
“Of course you did; and I am glad you told me. I wonder if Miss Payne is what brought him to Ivy Hill in the first place? That would explain so much. But oh, Mercy, what a disappointment for you. I am somewhat surprised he wants to raise Alice. He recently told me he did not think he was cut out to be a father.”
“Evidently, he has changed his mind.” Mercy looked down. “I have been asking God why all this is happening to me. If I did something to deserve it, or . . . if there is something I need to learn from this. If so, I want to learn it quickly and be done. I never want to feel like this again. Or lose someone so dear to me.”
“If there is a lesson to be learned, then you would, of course, be the first to learn it and learn it well, but you are the last person to deserve something like this.”
Mercy shook her head. “No, Jane. I have my weaknesses. I was proud. Proud to be from the oldest family in Ivy Hill. Proud to be independent—mistress of my own school and home, or so I thought.”
“I am so sorry,” Jane repeated.
“I am sorry too. Sorry for myself, but now . . . I will stop.” Mercy sniffed and managed a wobbly smile. “Forgive me, Jane.”
Jane squeezed her hand. “There is nothing to forgive. I only wish there was something I could do.”
Jane paused, then added, “Mercy, I know you don’t want to hear this, but if Mr. Drake is Alice’s father, it is good that he wants to be a part of her life. It would be one thing if she never knew, if you let her believe for the rest of her life in a fictitious father who died at sea. But, Mercy . . . You are the most honest person I know. And you would have told her the truth, eventually.”
“I would have, yes. When she was old enough to understand. And then it would be up to her whether she wished to invite him into her life or not.”
Jane shook her head. “After how many lost years? She would resent him for abandoning her, and you for keeping him from her. It would be a different matter if Mr. Drake were unwilling or uninterested or some vile character. But he is none of those things.”
Mercy looked at her closely. “Do you still miss your father, Jane? Wish him back in your life?”
Tears sprang to Jane’s eyes, and Mercy instantly regretted the question.
Jane opened her mouth, closed it, and then said, “We are not talking about me. I was already grown when my father departed. Too old to feel . . . abandoned.”
It was not very convincing. Mercy didn’t know all the details about why Mr. Fairmont left, and Jane almost never talked about him.
Jane swiped at her eyes and changed the subject. “By the way, have you told Rachel her library is in jeopardy?”
Mercy grimaced. “No. But I must. I have put it off too long as it is.”
Rachel was preparing for bed that night when Mercy knocked on her door. Rachel invited her in, immediately noticing how somber she looked.
“What is it, Mercy?”
“Rachel, I have to tell you something. I should have told you before now. You remember hearing that George is engaged?”
“Yes.”
“My parents are going to offer Ivy Cottage to him and his new wife, unless . . .”
“Unless what?”
“I marry Mr. Hollander.”
“Oh, Mercy.”
She raised her hand. “I don’t want you to worry about a place to live. You will have a place with me for as long as you want one. But your library . . .”
Rachel blinked. “I see.” So what Timothy heard from his mother and Mrs. Grove had not been rumor or supposition after all. “And what about your school?”
Mercy shook her head.
“Oh no.” Rachel’s stomach sank.
“I am sorry, Rachel. You have only had your library for a short while. I feel terrible. I don’t think my parents will change their minds. Nor do I think George would agree to keep it here. If I marry Mr. Hollander, he might be amenable, but I have not yet decided what to do about him, and I felt it only right to give you fair warning that, after Christmas, the library may have to close.”
“Mercy, don’t you dare marry a man to save my library. I would never forgive myself. Truly. You decide what is best for you. Promise me.”
“I have been trying to decide what is best. I even made a list. What I would gain by marrying Mr. Hollander—a husband, possibly children, remaining mistress of Ivy Cottage—far outweighs what I’d give up. On paper the decision is an easy equation, simple to solve. But in here . . .” She pressed a hand to her heart and slowly shook her head. “Not simple.”
The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 32