The Ladies of Ivy Cottage
Page 33
“I understand.” All too well, Rachel thought and gently squeezed her hand. “Thank you for telling me.”
“We have our next meeting Monday night,” Mercy reminded her. “Perhaps the ladies might help us solve both our problems?”
Rachel managed a smile. “This may be beyond even the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society.”
Mercy returned her smile and left the room, closing the door behind her.
Rachel stood there, doubts and fear descending. How was she to support herself now? A prayer sprang to her lips but wilted there unspoken. Was she still too proud to ask God for help?
She thought again of Nicholas Ashford. Should she accept his offer of marriage? Especially now, when she was about to lose her livelihood?
Rachel picked up the silk nosegay Nicholas had given her before the concert. From a distance, it looked lovely. Almost real. The flowers carried with them a poignant reminder of her mother, and her beloved rose garden at Thornvale. It could be Rachel’s rose garden if she married Nicholas. . . .
Of long habit, she brought the flowers to her nose but smelled only the vague scent of ironed linen. Close up, the artificial petals were less realistic. Lifeless. But the silk bouquet would not fade or wilt like the real thing.
She opened her mother’s Bible and extracted the single rose she had pressed between its pages—saved from the bouquet Timothy Brockwell had given her eight years ago, a week after her coming-out ball. The petals, once peach-colored, had dried and darkened to a sherry hue.
Which was better, she asked herself. One real, glorious rose, long faded but never forgotten? Or a tempting substitute that promised to last forever?
Saturday nights at The Bell were usually slow, so the ostlers sat in the stable yard playing music together as they often did when their duties allowed. Tall Ted played his fiddle, and Tuffy, his old mandolin. The two tried to cajole Colin to join them on his pipe, but he mumbled an apology and said he had an errand to run. Even though Colin had finally confessed to Jane that he was being tutored by Anna Kingsley, he was still not eager for the other fellows to find out.
Jane went out to the stables to look in on Athena, then lingered outside to listen to the men play.
The side door opened and Hetty tentatively stepped out of the inn, a pipe in her hand and Betsey on her hip. “May I join you?”
Tuffy raised his shaggy eyebrows in surprise. “’Course you can.”
Hetty looked at Jane. “That is . . . if you don’t mind, Mrs. Bell?”
“Not at all. You’ve been working hard, Hetty—you deserve a little leisure. But I didn’t know you could play.”
The girl shrugged. “It’s been a long time, so don’t expect too much.”
Jane reached out her hands to hold Betsey for her. The little girl settled into her arms without complaint, and Jane relished the warm comfort of holding the sweet-smelling toddler.
Hetty sat beside Tuffy. Ted played a familiar old folk melody on his fiddle while Tuffy strummed along on his mandolin. After a few sharp notes, Hetty began drawing a sweet harmony from the pipe, adding depth to the tune. They finished the song, and Jane and Betsey applauded.
“Well done, lass.” Tuffy nodded in approval. “You play as well as Colin, and are a sight prettier. But don’t tell him I said so.” He winked.
“Do ya know this one?” Ted launched into another tune.
Patrick came out to join them, taking Betsey in his arms and bouncing her about in a little jig. Seeing it, a bittersweet lump rose in Jane’s throat. For a moment in the fading twilight, Patrick looked so much like John that she could imagine it was him, dancing with their own child in The Bell yard.
Soon after, a post chaise arrived, pulling the ostlers from their music. Hetty thanked them for including her, then held out her arms to Betsey, taking her back from Patrick.
He looked at her, clearly impressed. “Where did you learn to play like that?”
“My father taught me as a girl.”
“Is he a musician?” Jane asked.
“Not really. He dabbles in this and that.”
“Do you play other instruments as well?”
“No, though he did. The tenor serpent was his favorite. He wanted us all to play something. Playing together passed the time and, em, people seemed to like it.”
“A musical family,” Jane mused. “How delightful.”
Patrick joked, “A regular family music troupe, were you? The Pipers perform on their pipes . . .”
“I did not say we were a music troupe,” Hetty snapped. “What an idea.”
“I was only teasing.”
“Oh. Sorry,” Hetty murmured, chagrined over her reaction.
“Where is your family now?” Jane asked gently.
“I don’t know. That is . . . I have not been in contact with them, since . . . since Betsey was born.”
“They must worry about you.”
“I did write. To tell them I was well. And not to worry.”
“Good. But you must miss them.”
“I do. Especially my sister.”
“Your sister?” Patrick blinked in surprise. “You never mentioned a sister.”
“Did I not? I suppose it’s because I . . . haven’t seen her in a long time. But it’s for the best this way.”
Patrick’s brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Goodness. It’s past Betsey’s bedtime. She’ll be peevish for Thora tomorrow, and we don’t want that. Come, my lamb. Time for bed. Good night, Patrick, Mrs. Bell.”
“Good night.” Patrick reached out and smoothed a ginger curl from Betsey’s brow, then watched mother and child disappear inside.
Jane observed him with interest. “Patrick, you are clearly fond of Hetty, as well as Betsey. Why don’t you marry her?”
“I am tempted, believe me. She is more . . . everything . . . than I remembered or realized. She is well-read too. Shakespeare especially. Not what one would expect.”
“She wasn’t always in service, apparently. What did she do before she first came to The Bell—do you know?”
“No.”
“Where was she from originally?”
He shrugged. “You heard her dodge your questions. She doesn’t like to talk about her background or her family.”
“Yes, so I’ve gathered.”
He shook his head. “I’ve thought of proposing, but what kind of life could I offer her? When I am your, what . . . assistant? And she a chambermaid?”
“Perhaps she wouldn’t have to work if you two married.”
“Then what—she and Betsey would live in my dank little room belowstairs?”
“Perhaps we might give you one of the two-room apartments, like the one your mother used to occupy?”
“And lose income? We’re at capacity a lot more often now than we used to be.”
“Hmm. I’d have to think about it, but perhaps you could move into the lodge, and I could—”
“No, Jane. Absolutely not. I will not put you out of your home.”
She looked up at him from beneath her lashes. “Did you not try to do that very thing not so long ago?”
“Not your home. Just the inn itself. Besides”—he winked—“I’ve matured a lot since then.”
Chapter
thirty-five
On Sunday, Rachel sat through the church service in a bit of a daze, reciting the responses and prayers by rote, her mind distracted and conflicted as she thought of her recent conversation with Mercy, and the conversation to come with Nicholas Ashford.
Partway through the sermon, Mr. Paley’s words broke through her fog and began to register.
“God offers every fallen human an incredible gift. He offers salvation and eternal happiness freely through Christ, by faith in Him, if we will but receive it. Grace costs us nothing, but it was purchased with an incalculable sacrifice, the Son of God himself, who appeased God’s justice in our place. We can never deserve or repay this gift. We can only accept with praise and thanksgiving. . . .”
Nicholas walked Rachel home from church. He clearly noticed her subdued manner and sent her worried, sidelong glances.
She led him into the library, empty on a Sunday. There, Rachel swallowed and forced herself to meet his gaze.
“I am sorry, Mr. Ashford. But I think it is only fair to release you.”
“You refuse my offer?” He blinked. “You don’t want more time?”
The pain in his eyes lanced her heart.
“I am fond of you. And I am glad to count you as friend as well as family. I sincerely hoped we might be more than that. . . .” She shook her head, throat burning. “But my heart will not be swayed.”
He looked down, turning his hat brim in his long pale fingers. “I think I’ve known what your answer would be for some time now. It still hurts though.”
A lump rose in her throat. “I am truly sorry.”
He winced. “Please stop apologizing, Miss Ashford.” He swallowed. “Has Sir . . . Has someone else made you an offer?”
A strangled little laugh escaped her at that.
“You are not engaged?” he asked.
“No.”
“Is it because of my mother?”
Rachel thought of Lady Brockwell. She could endure the most difficult mother-in-law for the right man. “No.”
His nostrils flared. “Apparently ‘no’ is your answer to all my questions.”
Guilt flooded Rachel, but she bit back another unwanted apology.
“Well.” He cleared his throat and avoided her gaze. “I wish you happy, Miss Ashford.”
“And I you, Mr. Ashford.” Rachel’s voice trembled. Her chest ached with the pain of hurting a fellow human being—one she cared about.
He left, leaving Rachel with a knotted stomach. Foolish or not, her heart was tied up with old affections and hopes, and she guessed it always would be.
Mercy remained after the service to talk with Mr. Paley. She lingered in the nave until the pews emptied and the vicar stepped out of the vestry after removing his cleric’s gown. Within a matter of minutes, he had given Mercy the latest and none too encouraging report about her request to use the church building to house her charity school. Then he walked out with her.
He opened the door and paused on the steps to bid her farewell. “Again, I am sorry the churchwardens refused your request, Miss Grove. I think they might eventually authorize use of St. Anne’s for Sunday school classes, but a charity school for general education?” He shook his head. “We have our work cut out for us there, I’m afraid. A noble goal, however. I applaud you.”
Mercy’s heart felt heavy, but she managed a smile for the kind man. “Thank you for trying, Mr. Paley.”
“At least you have your girls school, ey? That is something.”
“Actually . . . only through the end of the year.”
“Oh? I am sorry to hear it. Though now you mention it, your mother hinted about changes coming to Ivy Cottage. I don’t recall the particulars, but she seemed pleased.”
“Yes, well, I . . . ”
Something in the churchyard caught the vicar’s attention, and his face brightened. “Mr. Drake, hello!”
Mercy looked over, stomach falling. James Drake stood on the path nearby. It was the first time she had seen him since that ugly scene over the letter. What was he doing in the churchyard? Had he overheard their conversation? She felt embarrassed to have her failures discussed before this particular man.
Mr. Paley whispered in an eager aside, “You must excuse me, Miss Grove, but I have been most anxious to deepen my acquaintance with our new neighbor.”
Mercy nodded. “Of course.”
He hurried down the steps. As the clergyman approached, Mr. Drake looked uncomfortable.
“I was, em, just having a look around.”
“You are very welcome, sir! We have not had the pleasure of your attendance in divine services, I don’t believe. I do hope you will join us next Sunday?”
As the men talked, Mercy walked away, but she felt—or at least imagined—Mr. Drake’s gaze on the back of her neck.
The next day turned chilly, and Thora and Betsey spent a fair amount of time sitting together in the old armchair drawn close to the fire. The little girl liked to be read to, and Thora was glad for an excuse to catch up on some reading that interested her as well. They read several pages of The Care of Calves and Management of a Dairy she’d borrowed from the circulating library and then turned their attention to the newspaper.
Little Betsey on her lap, Thora read in a sweet voice, “‘A man has been tried at the county assizes for stealing a silver spoon, which he pretended to have carried off in a joke. The jury, however, happened to be too dull to understand such jokes, and the wit was sentenced to be transported.’”
Thora tsked. “Naughty man, ey, Betsey? You know, perhaps I shall buy you a silver spoon yet, my girl.” It was, after all, a traditional gift for a child, as well as practical.
She adjusted the paper and read another story. “‘A singular shooting match took place between Mr. Bingley of Stapleford and Sir Cyril Awdry of Broadmere, for five gold sovereigns, to shoot at twenty-five potatoes thrown up in the air, which were all hit by the sportsmen, and the wager consequently not decided.’” Thora shook her head. “And the nobility wonder why the people revolt.”
Talbot stepped in from the other room and looked at her aghast. “What on earth are you reading to the girl, Thora?”
She looked at him over the tops of her spectacles. “Oh, she doesn’t know the difference at her age. She just likes to be read to.”
“You know, we could find more appropriate reading material for her. Perhaps Miss Ashford has some at her library.”
“Maybe. That reminds me. I saved a few children’s books, along with some of the boys’ baby clothes and toys, and stored them in the inn’s attic. I think I’ll go and fetch them this afternoon.”
“Shall I go along to help you?”
“No, I’ll manage, if I may have the cart.”
“Of course you may.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You, my love, may have anything you want.”
She playfully pushed him away. “Go on with you, you old Romeo.”
He smiled, then looked from her to Betsey and sobered. He pulled the chain with its blue heart from his pocket. “By the way, I fixed this. I reinforced the link so she can’t pull it off again. I think it’s too big for her to choke on, but just in case. . . .”
He laid it in her palm.
“Thank you, Talbot. I plan to give it to Hetty for Betsey to have when she is older.”
“Thora . . .”
He looked down, considering his words before speaking, she guessed, and tensed in anticipation.
“Don’t mistake me, please,” he began. “I enjoy seeing you with Betsey. I see how much pleasure she gives you—even when she gives you headaches and wears thin your patience. You are good with her. And she likes you. But . . . guard your heart. At least a little. We don’t know how long she’ll be here. How long Hetty will be at The Bell. And when, or even if, Patrick will ever . . .”
“You don’t think he’ll marry her,” Thora realized. “You think he’ll run off again instead of taking responsibility.”
“I don’t know. I hope not. I hope for the best, as you do. But we can’t ignore the past, or make assumptions about the future. I would never tell you to withhold affection from the girl. Just . . . be careful.” He placed his hand over hers, closing her fingers over the chain. “I would hate to see you get hurt.”
Thora took Sadie into town with her because she was eager to get supplies from Prater’s and the greengrocers. Thora drove the cart while Sadie held Betsey on her lap, pointing out the cows and sheep as they passed.
They delivered Betsey to her mother earl
y. Hetty beamed at the girl, kissed her profusely, and thanked Thora for caring for her angel.
There is an angel in The Angel once again, Thora thought wistfully, thinking of the inn’s former name and her father’s old pet name for her. How strange that at one and fifty she missed her parents more than ever.
Jane looked up from the desk and greeted her with a smile. “Good day, Thora.”
“Hello, Jane. Do you mind if I go up into the attic? I stored some things up there and thought I would take them back to the farm with me.”
“Of course I don’t mind. What sort of things? Clothes and such?”
“Yes. And . . . such.”
“Make yourself at home. I hope that goes without saying. I have to finish these orders, but if you need someone to carry things down, I could ask Colin.”
“No need. I’ll manage on my own.”
Thora went upstairs and then up the narrow, ladderlike steps into the attic. Weak autumn sunshine streaming through small windows on either end of the garret illuminated the musty space.
She found the trunk and opened the dusty lid, wanting to review the contents before deciding whether to take the entire trunk or merely select a few things. The interior was a shadowy cavern, so she dragged the trunk toward a rickety bench near a window. There Thora sat in a shaft of sunlight and began sorting through the items inside.
On her lap, she laid articles that might be useful for Betsey. Some the girl had already outgrown, like baby booties and a christening gown. Still Thora fingered the fine fabric and tiny stitches, feeling an ache in her chest for her infant sons, both long gone one way or another. Tears stung her eyes. What she wouldn’t give to cradle their small soft bodies once more. To see their gummy smiles and the unconditional love shining in their innocent little eyes . . .
Feeling foolish, she sniffed and set the booties aside and thought of Jane. Here Thora was, crying when she’d had her chance to raise two boys to adulthood, since she had not lost John until past thirty. Poor Jane had lost all of her babies. Had never even had the chance to hold them once . . . Thora’s heart twisted anew for her daughter-in-law.