The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  In reply Betsey smeared a wet kiss on her eyebrow.

  Thora looked at Hetty. “You have a good day at the inn, Hetty. Talbot and I are planning to have supper with Jane, so we’ll bring Betsey a little earlier, if that’s all right.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  Thora turned and set the girl on a rug on the floor, near a pile of wooden blocks she’d brought back from The Bell. She knelt beside her and began helping Betsey build a tower. “See how careful she is!”

  When Hetty made no move to leave, Thora looked at her in question. “We’ll be all right here. Never fear.”

  Face tense, Hetty clasped her hands, pulling on her fingers.

  “What is it, Hetty? Is anything wrong?”

  “No. That is . . . you are not doing anything wrong. You’re being incredibly kind, actually. Kinder than we deserve.”

  “Nonsense. It’s my pleasure to watch her.”

  “I know. But . . . I worry. Worry you’ll be disappointed. Patrick is not—He has not . . .”

  “He has not what? Asked you to marry him?”

  Hetty looked down, flushing. “He has hinted at it. But only because of Betsey, I fear.”

  “Is she not a good enough reason?”

  Again Hetty looked down.

  “Forgive me. I am too blunt, I know. I do understand that young women prefer to marry for love. And now that I am married to Walter Talbot, I understand why. But I do think my son is fond of you. More fond than he has ever been of anyone. Will that not lead to love in time?”

  “I hope so.”

  “And do you care for him in return?”

  “I do, yes. He knows I do.”

  “Well then, I don’t see the problem. If it’s only me you’re not fond of, then—”

  “No!” Hetty exclaimed, brow furrowed. “That is not true. You used to scare the wits out of me when I worked for you, but now I’m scared for a different reason.”

  “What reason?” It was on the tip of Thora’s tongue to ask the question they’d all been tiptoeing around long enough—if Patrick was Betsey’s father or not.

  Hetty opened her mouth. “I . . .” She looked away, unable to hold Thora’s gaze. “Never mind. I shall sort it. Thank you again.”

  Suspicion washed over Thora. She steeled herself. “Hetty, if there is something you need to tell Patrick, then tell him and get it over with.”

  Hetty nodded, fear shimmering in her eyes. “I shall.”

  Beside her, Betsey gleefully slapped the wooden tower, and all the blocks went crashing to the floor.

  Chapter

  thirty-nine

  The next day, Jane spent a little time in her flower garden, clearing the dead stalks and fallen leaves that had accumulated over the autumn. Then she went into the keeper’s lodge to remove her work gloves, wash her hands, and tidy her hair. As she did so, she noticed the men’s glove box on the side table and remembered the errand she’d been planning. She decided to take care of it that very day.

  She returned to the inn, found Colin at the desk, and told him she was leaving for a few minutes. He promised to watch over things while she was gone.

  Jane walked to the churchyard to bring the gloves to the sexton, Mr. Ainsworth. She had noticed his old, threadbare gloves when he’d moved her flowers, so she had decided to give him a better pair—a pair of John’s, in excellent condition. She didn’t see the man anywhere about, so she laid the glove box just outside the door to his work shed.

  Turning away, Jane paused, surprised to see a man standing before a recent grave—Mrs. Thomas’s grave, she believed. He wore a grey frock coat and dark trousers, hat in hand, head bowed. She decided she would quietly retreat and leave him to mourn in peace. But then the man shifted and she glimpsed his profile.

  James Drake.

  Concerned, she walked toward him. Her half boot scuffed an uneven paving stone, and he looked up at the sound, expression stricken.

  “James? Are you all right? If you prefer to be alone, I’ll go. But if there is anything I can do . . .”

  “Stay a minute, Jane, if you would.”

  “Of course.” She stood beside him. “I did not realize you were acquainted with Mrs. Thomas.”

  “I never met her. But still I felt drawn here. To apologize.”

  “Apologize?”

  He nodded. “It was my fault she became estranged from her granddaughter. My fault Mary-Alicia died. She contracted a fever after the birth of her child—our child—and never fully recovered.”

  Her heart went out to him. “James, you did not know.”

  “I did search for her. But she’d changed her surname. If I had found her, I would have helped her.”

  “I know you would have.”

  “I wish I could apologize to Mary-Alicia as well. I went to Bristol to find where she was buried but learned she was given a pauper’s burial—and an unmarked grave.”

  Jane’s chest tightened. She knew how that felt. “I am sorry.” Jane held out her hand to him. “Come with me.”

  She took his hand and led him to the west wall. “Mrs. Thomas needed a place to mourn Mary-Alicia as well, and the sexton gave her one.”

  She showed him the place, the loaf-sized stone lying near the wall. Someone had left a small potted chrysanthemum. Mr. Ainsworth, perhaps?

  “I know it isn’t the same, but her own grandmother poured out love and tears here, and laid flowers on this spot. You might want to do so as well.”

  He nodded. “Thank you, Jane.”

  Jane squeezed his hand, and left him to mourn alone.

  When Jane returned to The Bell, she found Patrick standing in the office, hands on the desk, head bowed.

  “Patrick? What is it? What’s happened?”

  “Close the door, Jane.”

  She did so, concern growing.

  “Hetty finally told me the truth—about what happened to her before we met.”

  “Oh?” Jane held her breath, dread filling her.

  “Remember what I told you before? How she made her willingness rather clear at first?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what I didn’t mention was that later . . . she cried. I asked her what was wrong, but she brushed it off, so I did too.” His jaw tightened. “Now she tells me there was another man, right before she came to The Bell. Hetty got involved with me as a precaution, in case she was already with child—in hopes I would accept responsibility. At least now I know why she cried. She was thinking of him, not me. The man had . . . ill-used her.”

  “Oh no. Poor Hetty.”

  She recalled Hetty’s determination not to blame Patrick. Her bravado about Patrick’s charms, when all along, she’d been hiding a painful secret.

  Patrick ran a hand over his face. “She can’t be sure . . . but it’s likely this other man is Betsey’s father.”

  Jane winced. “As awful as it is, it wasn’t her fault. It doesn’t have to change things between you.”

  Patrick looked at her, expression bleak. “Does it not?”

  Hetty and Betsey did not come to the farm the next morning. Mrs. Burlingame passed by without passengers and without stopping. Thora instantly began to worry. Was the little girl ill? Or had something else happened?

  A short while later, Colin arrived in the inn’s gig. He told Thora that Jane would like her to come to The Bell as soon as possible.

  “What is it about?” Thora asked.

  “I don’t know for certain. Something about Mr. Bell, I take it.”

  Oh no, Thora thought. Now what had Patrick gone and done?

  Thora grabbed her shawl, left a scrawled note for Talbot, and followed Colin out to the waiting gig.

  The ride had never seemed so long.

  When they reached the stable yard, Thora saw Hetty sitting on the side porch, chin in her hands. Jane stood behind her, holding Betsey.

  Thora looked from one somber face to the other. “What is it? What’s wrong? Colin said something about Patrick?”

  Hetty
said flatly, “Patrick is gone.”

  “Gone? Where?”

  “I don’t know.” Hetty shook her head. “He didn’t say. He just . . . left.”

  Thora turned to her daughter-in-law. “Jane?”

  “Ted told me he saw him leave on the southbound mail. He carried a valise.”

  Thora winced. No, no, no. Not again. Oh, Patrick! Her heart ached. She had really hoped this time was different.

  “Let’s look in his room,” Jane said. “Unless you don’t think we should?”

  “It’s your property, Jane. I think we are justified, in this instance.”

  Jane led the way downstairs. Hetty and Thora followed wordlessly behind.

  There, Jane handed Betsey to Thora, used the master key to unlock the door, then inched it open.

  Thora looked over Jane’s shoulder into the small, dank room. No wonder Patrick hadn’t wanted to invite Hetty and Betsey to share it. Thora took visual inventory—books on the shelves, clothes on pegs and in the wardrobe, left ajar.

  Jane sighed in relief. “He left his things. He must intend to come back.”

  Thora shook her head. “He left his room like this once before and didn’t return for more than a year—sure we would keep his room and belongings waiting for him, if and when he decided to return. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” She ran a hand over the heavy wool greatcoat on its peg. “His favorite frock coat is gone, but he left his winter coat. So perhaps he doesn’t mean to stay away long this time.”

  “Let’s hope that’s true. But where did he go? And why did he leave without saying anything?”

  Hetty’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s my fault. I told him. Told him everything. And now he’s gone.”

  Thora and Jane exchanged a look. With a pointed glance at Betsey, Thora said, “You told him he might not be . . . someone’s father?”

  Shamefaced, Hetty nodded. “There was only one other man. I was running away from him when I first came to Ivy Hill. He . . .” Tears swamped her eyes, and she couldn’t continue.

  “Oh, Hetty,” Jane murmured sympathetically.

  Thora slipped a finger beneath Hetty’s chin. “Now, chin up, my girl. I’d say Patrick might very well be Betsey’s father. Just look how beautiful and charming she is, and how she wraps us all around her little finger!”

  Jane looked at her in surprise, and Hetty’s mouth gaped at Thora’s willing suspension of disbelief.

  “And Patrick loves you. I know he does.” Thora’s tone grew husky. “Lord willing, he’ll realize that too. But even if he leaves the country again, he’ll be back. In the meantime, you and Betsey will always have a place here in Ivy Hill. With Jane, or with me and Talbot.”

  “Thank you, Thora,” Hetty hoarsely whispered, tears filling her eyes anew.

  Rachel received a note, hand-delivered to the library by a dark-haired young woman. “From Mrs. Haverhill, miss.”

  “Thank you.” Rachel accepted it, then studied the young woman. “Are you Molly Kurdle, by any chance?”

  “I am, miss,” she tentatively replied, clearly anticipating a negative reaction.

  Instead Rachel beamed at her. “I’m so glad you’re back, Molly. And Mrs. Haverhill is as well, no doubt.”

  The girl smiled shyly in return. “Me too, miss.”

  The note asked Rachel to meet Mrs. Haverhill at The Bell the following day. No reason was given. Rachel sent the girl an inquiring look, but she shook her head.

  “I’m not to say more. But will you come?”

  “I’ll come.”

  The next day, shortly before the appointed hour, Rachel walked down Potters Lane. When she reached the High Street, she saw Sir Timothy striding down the Brockwell Court drive.

  She raised a hand in greeting. “Hello, Sir Timothy.”

  His lips parted. “Miss Ashford, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  He walked in her direction, and she started toward him as well, until they met near the blacksmith’s.

  “I received a note from Mrs. Haverhill, asking me to meet her at The Bell today.”

  His eyebrows knitted. “So did I. I wonder what she wants to talk to us about?”

  “Perhaps she simply wants to thank you again, though why she included me, I don’t know.” Rachel hoped the woman had no embarrassing matchmaking scheme in mind.

  “Nonsense, she has much to be grateful for where you’re concerned.” The admiration in his eyes pleased and discomfited her.

  “I did very little, but thank you.”

  He rubbed his chin. “By the way, young Mr. Mullins asked me for work on the estate, when my manager had already turned him down. He told me you suggested he come and see me.”

  “I hope you don’t mind. His sister is a pupil at the school. I made no promises, though. I told him only that I knew you would be fair.”

  Timothy nodded. “He said as much. And he starts next week, helping with the harvest.”

  “Oh, Timothy! I am so glad. Thank you.”

  His gaze rested on her face. “I am glad it pleases you. I was happy to help.”

  Distracted by the warm way he was looking at her, Rachel stepped out into the High Street, not looking where she was going. Sir Timothy’s arm shot out and drew her back, just as a chaise raced past. Her hat went flying.

  “Oh! Thank you,” she panted. Her heart beat hard both from the narrow escape and being pulled against Timothy Brockwell’s side.

  He looked down at her in concern. “Are you all right?”

  “I will be. Once I catch my breath.”

  Keeping hold of one of her hands, he bent and picked up her hat. “Sorry about that. At least you escaped unscathed. I am not so sure about your hat.”

  “That’s all right.”

  He dusted it off and placed it back on her head. “There. No harm done. As charming as ever.”

  His hands lingered on the brim a moment, and sweet tension tightened her chest.

  He cleared his throat. “Shall we try that again?”

  They looked both ways, and as they crossed the High Street together, he guided her with a protective hand to the small of her back.

  Reaching the other side, he opened the inn door for her and they stepped inside. Rachel glanced around the entry hall and into the coffee room but saw no sign of Mrs. Haverhill. They must have arrived before her. A moment later, Rachel saw the carter pass by the front windows, Mrs. Haverhill on the bench beside her and a young woman perched on the back of the cart. Mrs. Burlingame’s horse turned and disappeared from view through the inn’s carriage archway.

  “After you.” Sir Timothy held the side door for Rachel, and together they stepped out to meet Mrs. Haverhill in the courtyard.

  One of the ostlers helped her alight, and Mrs. Haverhill turned to face them, looking elegant in walking dress and plumed hat, while her young companion wore a simple carriage dress of striped corded muslin that Rachel had seen in Mrs. Shabner’s window only the previous week.

  Jane stepped out of the inn behind them. “Hello, Rachel, Timothy.” She turned to the woman. “Here you are, Mrs. Haverhill, two tickets for the eastbound stage. Colin, help Ted with Mrs. Haverhill’s trunk, if you please.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re leaving?” Sir Timothy’s brows rose in surprise.

  Mrs. Haverhill met his gaze. “Yes. I asked you here to thank you again and say good-bye. Your subtle hint was timely and taken.”

  Sir Timothy narrowed his eyes. “I deeded you the cottage, Mrs. Haverhill. How was that hinting you should leave?”

  “Well, perhaps not intentionally, but your bequests have given me the impetus and opportunity to spring the trap and fly away. It’s time to make my own life somewhere else. Molly is back, God be praised.” She put an arm around the young woman beside her. “She goes with me. Almost like a daughter to me, Molly is. The daughter I never had.”

  Tears brightened her eyes, and in them Rachel saw a reflection of the tender beauty Sir Justin must have seen in he
r.

  “What will you do? Where will you go?”

  “We go to Brighton. Many tourists flock there, I understand. Molly and I will carry on the soap-making business we began together. With the funds you’ve given me, I will set up a little shop and sell perfumed soaps and other things for the visiting ladies to take home with them. We always did mean to go to Brighton, but we never did.”

  She did not specify whom she meant by “we.” She did not need to.

  “In the meantime,” Mrs. Haverhill added, “I have engaged Mr. Arnold to find a lodger for Bramble Cottage. I may sell in time, but for now I will rent it to someone else.”

  Sir Timothy nodded his understanding. “I hope you will be happy, Mrs. Haverhill.”

  She chuckled dryly. “So do I.”

  The stagecoach arrived. They all stood aside as the horses were changed. Jane disappeared inside to welcome those passengers stopping at The Bell to transfer lines. The ostlers made quick work of the turnout, and the guard signaled a five-minute warning on his horn.

  Mrs. Shabner came hurrying into the yard, with a bonnet trimmed to match Molly’s new dress—a going-away present. Molly and Mrs. Haverhill exclaimed over the gift and thanked the dressmaker.

  Soon Mrs. Haverhill’s trunk and valises were loaded onto the stage. The guard opened the door and helped her and her young companion inside. Mrs. Haverhill sat near the window, and for a moment, her gaze held Rachel’s. She raised her gloved hand in sober farewell, then faced forward, without looking back.

  Mercy stood at the window staring out across the back garden and beyond it to her beloved Ivy Green, where children played on the late autumn afternoon. The children, especially one particular child, lay heavily on her heart.

  Knowing she was about to lose Alice, marriage and the possibility of children of her own beckoned like a pain-relieving elixir, just out of reach.

  Should she marry Mr. Hollander? She was not attracted to him and doubted he would ever finish a book, but he was not a bad man. In her secret heart, Mercy admitted to herself that if marrying him would allow her to keep her girls school, she would likely accept him.

  If Mercy said no to Mr. Hollander, she knew she would be saying yes to life as a spinster aunt in her brother’s house and under the thumb of George’s soon-to-be wife. Her Aunt Matilda had lived such a life, and she was happy. Or was she?