The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  She noticed Mrs. Ashford working her way through the crowd, making sure Nicholas was introduced to as many eligible young ladies as possible. He even danced the first with Miss Bingley herself.

  Rachel greeted dour Lord Winspear and several other old friends of her parents, and danced with jovial Mr. Bingley. When he escorted her back to the side of the room, she was surprised to find herself face-to-face with Nicholas Ashford.

  He stammered, “Miss Ashford. Good evening. I . . . hope you don’t mind. Mother insists I at least try to meet other young ladies.”

  “She is quite right. I am glad you are here and enjoying yourself. And it was good to see you dancing. You appear to be rather skilled.”

  He nodded. “I have taken a few lessons from a dancing master. It has done wonders for my confidence.”

  “Well done.”

  “I hope you know I am not trying to . . . to make you feel jealous or quickly replaced or anything like that.”

  “Of course not.”

  He held her gaze. “I have come to understand that long-held affections are not easily replaced by new ones.”

  She gave him an apologetic look. “I know I disappointed you, but I hope you meet someone you can love with all your heart. A woman who deserves you.”

  He managed a lopsided grin. “And who, ideally, returns my affections.”

  “Yes, wholeheartedly.” She pressed his arm. “You deserve every good thing life has to offer, Mr. Ashford.”

  “As do you, Miss Ashford.”

  Rachel left him with a smile and walked over to the punch table for a small glass of negus.

  She noticed Mrs. Ashford talking to a reserved Lady Brockwell. When Nicholas’s mother turned her smile on Lord Winspear, Rachel took a deep breath and approached Lady Brockwell. She reminded herself that the woman had been wronged, whether she knew it or not. And whether Rachel liked it or not, this was the mother of the man she loved.

  “Good evening, Lady Brockwell.” Rachel curtsied.

  “Miss Ashford.” The woman’s gaze swept over her form, and Rachel held her breath.

  “You look lovely, I must say.”

  “Thank you. You do as well. I . . . wanted to apologize for the unkind way I spoke to you in the library. I know you were worried about your son.”

  Lady Brockwell inclined her head in acknowledgement. “And I have something to say to you as well.”

  Rachel steeled herself for a blow.

  “Timothy tells me I was wrong to speak to you as I did, and he . . . is right.”

  Rachel blinked in surprise.

  “He also tells me he will brook no more criticism or objections where you are concerned.”

  “Did he?” If only he had said that to me.

  “Yes. Old ways die hard, but I am determined not to meddle further in his life—this conversation notwithstanding.”

  She gave Rachel a self-abasing grin. For the first time, Rachel saw a resemblance to Justina, and felt her heart begin to thaw toward the woman.

  “Is he . . . not coming tonight?”

  “He has not told me his plans. I assumed he would tell you?”

  Rachel shook her head.

  Something across the ballroom caught the woman’s attention. “Well, if you will excuse me, I think I shall remind Justina to save a dance for Sir Cyril in case he comes.”

  Rachel nodded and watched her cross the room to Justina and whisper in her ear. Apparently, Lady Brockwell’s resolve to stop meddling did not extend to her daughter.

  Rachel walked over to Mercy and took her aside. “He’s not coming.” She sighed. “I feel rather foolish now that I raised my hopes. Ah well. I hope you and Matty enjoy yourselves.”

  “I am sorry, Rachel. Perhaps he was delayed and might yet arrive. I saw you talking to Lady Brockwell. What did she say?”

  “She doesn’t know his plans.”

  “Perhaps Justina might.” Mercy turned toward Justina and Miss Bingley, who now stood talking and giggling nearby.

  “Justina?”

  The two close-in-age friends walked over eagerly. “Good evening, Miss Grove. Miss Ashford.”

  “Hello, girls. Are you enjoying yourselves?”

  “We are.” Miss Bingley nodded enthusiastically. “Though we wish there were a few more gentlemen in attendance. Ideally single gentlemen possessing good looks and a good fortune.”

  With a subtle glance at Rachel, Mercy asked Justina, “And will either of your brothers be coming to help our numbers?”

  Justina shook her head. “Definitely not Richard. He rarely leaves London. I don’t know about Timothy. I thought he would be here, but I haven’t seen him.”

  Rachel looked down to hide her disappointment, and noticed something out of place—a length of ribbon hanging from her waistline.

  “Oh no. The new trim is pulling away from the fabric here. Heaven help me if I try to dance a jig in this old thing. It will probably fall to shreds.”

  Miss Bingley peered closer. “It’s not too bad. But yes, better have it seen to before the tear widens. I know! Go up to my room. My lady’s maid is up there, and she could easily repair that for you in no time.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Perfectly. Tell her I sent you. She won’t mind—she’s a dear. Up the stairs, second door on the right.”

  “Thank you.” Rachel excused herself and went upstairs.

  A quarter of an hour later, trim repaired and pleasantries exchanged with Miss Bingley’s maid, Rachel made her way back down the stairs. She wondered how long Mercy would want to stay, and if Mr. Bingley would offer to send them home in his carriage, as they had arrived. She hoped they could leave soon.

  A gentleman looked up as she descended, and her breath caught. He had come after all.

  “Sir Timothy.”

  How tall and dashing he looked in evening clothes—black tailcoat, brocade waistcoat, light cravat, and breeches.

  “Rachel . . . Miss Ashford. There you are. Council business detained me. I was afraid you had left.”

  “Not yet.”

  She felt his steady gaze as she descended the remaining stairs, her pulse accelerating with each step nearer to him. Worried she might trip, she gripped the railing with one hand, and with the other held her skirt. Reaching the bottom, she looked up and found him staring at her, lips parted.

  Belatedly, he bowed, and she curtsied. “Good evening.”

  Candlelight from the nearby candelabra reflected in his dark eyes, and perhaps a touch of humor as well. “I feel as though I have lived this moment before. . . .”

  She chuckled softly. “Me too, though I am surprised you remember.”

  His gaze held hers. “Are you really?” He slowly shook his head. “You stunned me then. And you stun me now.”

  She looked down, self-conscious, and plucked at the skirt. “This dress is old. But I have always liked it.”

  “You are beautiful in it. But then, you always are.”

  She looked up again and saw warmth in his eyes brighter than any candle flame. “Thank you. And thank you for the book you gave me.”

  His gaze flashed to hers. “Did you read it?”

  “Every word.”

  He watched her carefully, expression measuring. “Miss Ashford, are you at liberty to dance with me? Or are you . . . otherwise engaged?”

  “I am not engaged. I am free.”

  “I am surprised but relieved to hear it. I . . .” Noticing the people milling around them, he said, “Will you step into the library with me so we might talk more privately?”

  She nodded, heart beating hard.

  He gestured for her to precede him across the hall. When they were alone among the many books, he said earnestly, “I deeply regret the way I spoke to you that night in front of Ivy Cottage.” He shook his head. “Had I learned nothing in eight years? Again I voiced my parents’ concerns, instead of expressing my own feelings for you. My . . . love for you. Discovering my father’s hypocrisy has had one benefit. No longer w
ill I be ruled by foolish family pride. I hope you will forgive me.”

  “I will.”

  His eyes widened at her quick response, and he stepped closer. How tall he was. How broad his shoulders. How appealing the strong lines of his handsome face.

  “When I heard you were moving your father’s books out of Ivy Cottage, I thought you were marrying and moving back to Thornvale. I was in torment. From all accounts, young Mr. Ashford is a good man and would make some woman a good husband. But not you, Rachel. I cannot abide the thought that anyone should have that honor except me.”

  “You are right; he is a good man. But I’ve told him I cannot marry him.”

  He nodded, countenance grave. “Rachel, if your feelings are still what they were that night, tell me so plainly. I want to marry you now more than ever.”

  Rachel felt shy and brave at once. “My feelings are . . . the same as they have always been, truly. I did not mean what I said that night we argued. I have always loved you, Timothy Brockwell. And I always shall.”

  A smile transformed his serious expression. He held out his hands to her, and she placed her gloved hands in his.

  “Were your father alive, I would ask for his blessing.”

  She grinned wistfully. “You have always had it.”

  “Now I have only to regret wasting all this time.”

  Rachel shook her head. “Let’s not. Instead, let’s make the next eight years the best of our lives.”

  He held her gaze. “With all my heart.”

  He stepped closer still, enveloping her in the spicy aroma of his shaving tonic. She relished the warmth of his eyes looking deep into hers, and the awareness that he was going to kiss her at last. He lowered his head with tantalizing slowness, his mouth drawing near. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks. Her chest tightened in breathless anticipation. Then he touched his lips to hers, softly. Deliciously.

  Footsteps approached. Timothy pulled away before she had a proper chance to kiss him back.

  Disappointed, Rachel looked over.

  Justina stood in the doorway. “Timothy!” she squealed, hurrying into the room. “There you are. You promised me a dance, remember. Oh . . . ! Rachel. Well, never mind. You two must dance instead. I will find another partner. Sir Cyril dances this set with Miss Bingley, but no matter.” She grasped Rachel’s and Timothy’s hands and pulled them back into the ballroom, where they nearly collided with Nicholas.

  “Ah, Mr. Ashford, hello.”

  “Good evening again, Miss Brockwell.”

  Rachel spoke up, “Mr. Ashford, perhaps you will dance with Miss Brockwell? She is in need of a partner.”

  “Oh. Yes, with pleasure.”

  Following after the two younger people, Rachel and Timothy took their place in line together. The music had already started without them, but there were still many steps to dance, and many happy refrains to come.

  Sitting in the lodge the night of the ball, Jane heard faint music coming from the courtyard, The Bell’s musicians practicing together again to pass the pleasant evening. Jane pulled a shawl around herself, went outside, and sat on her front step to hear them better. Kipper came and rubbed against her skirt, begging her to pet his ears. She obliged him, her foot tapping in time with the melody. Through the archway, she could see the men and their instruments illuminated by lamplight. Tall Ted with bow and fiddle, Colin playing pipe, and Tuffy plucking on his old mandolin. Hetty, she guessed, was probably busy putting Betsey to bed.

  Gabriel stepped out of The Bell and, seeing her, walked across the drive. It was strange to see him coming and going like a regular guest, but rather pleasant too.

  “Hello, Jane. Beautiful evening.”

  “It is, yes.”

  He raised a thumb toward the inn. “Your brother-in-law is in high spirits. Announcing to everyone that he is an engaged man. That is good news, is it not?”

  “It is, yes.”

  He studied her face and his brow furrowed. “What is it? You look sad. Is something wrong?”

  “No. All is well.”

  He did not look convinced. “I was in Wishford earlier. Lots of carriages on the road, heading toward Stapleford. Something going on tonight?”

  “The Bingleys are hosting a ball.”

  One dark brow rose. “You didn’t want to go?”

  Jane shrugged. “I was not invited.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He sat down beside her on the step and Kipper began butting his arm, looking for affection. “I see you are still spoiling this stable cat.” He stroked his fur, then said, “Are you terribly disappointed?”

  “No. Nor surprised. It’s not the sort of event an innkeeper would be invited to. I used to be in the Bingleys’ circle, but that was when I was Miss Fairmont, a gentlewoman.”

  “You are still the same person, Jane. And have the same worth in God’s eyes and to anyone else worth calling a friend.”

  “Thank you. I knew what I was giving up when I married John. I am just feeling a little sorry for myself. I would have enjoyed spending the evening with my friends.”

  “They were invited?”

  “Oh yes. Rachel and Mercy. And Sir Timothy, of course.”

  “Of course,” he murmured.

  “Don’t worry. I am all right.”

  A corner of his mouth lifted. “I was not invited either, if that makes you feel any better. And I hope you count me among your . . . friends.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “And our music is no doubt as good.” He gestured toward the trio of amateur musicians. “Well . . . not bad,” he corrected.

  She smiled.

  “I suppose they will have fine food at this party? And dancing?”

  “I suppose.”

  He pulled a small parcel from his pocket. “Spiced nutmeats from Wishford. Cadi mentioned you are partial to them.”

  Little schemer. “Thank you.” Jane reached for them, but he set the packet on the top step and stood.

  “Later.” He extended a hand to her, his dark brown eyes glinting. “Shall we dance, Miss Fairmont?” he asked, using her maiden name in mock formality.

  She looked skeptically across the drive. “Here?”

  “Why not?”

  She listened to the music, realizing it was in three-quarter time. “I don’t know that this is the best music for a dance—it’s a waltzer, I believe.”

  “A turning waltz, then, unless you deem it inappropriate.”

  Anticipation tingled through her. “I think it will be all right. There is no one about to scandalize.”

  She put her bare hand in his and let him pull her to her feet, her shawl falling to the step.

  He took a step nearer and slowly pressed his other hand to her back. She felt the warmth of it through her dress.

  Drawing a shallow breath, she laid her hand on his upper arm, firm muscle readily evident beneath his coat sleeves.

  He tightened his grip on her right hand. She hoped he did not notice how damp it was.

  She confessed, “I am dreadfully out of practice.”

  He looked deeply into her eyes. “Just follow my lead.”

  She had difficulty holding his gaze in such close proximity and was thankful for the flickering light and shadows that hopefully hid her blush. She focused instead on her hand on his sleeve.

  He guided her through the steps. “One, two, three. One, two, three . . . That’s it. Now you step forward, now me. . . .” Soon they were turning in graceful circles around the drive.

  “You are an excellent dancer, Miss Fairmont.”

  “Only because I have an excellent partner.” She grinned up at him. “What other hidden talents does my former farrier possess?”

  He smiled, and the secret promises shimmering there made it difficult to breathe.

  Finally the music stopped, and spinning as she was, Jane wobbled on her feet, still dizzy. Gabriel held her a little closer.

  “Well done,” he murmured, his sweet breath warm on her temple, her
ear. His face was near hers. If she looked up, would he kiss her? Her heart pounded at the thought.

  She glanced toward the musicians and saw Colin looking their way.

  Self-conscious, Jane stepped away. “Th-thank you for the dance, Gabriel.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Now I had better say good night.” She retreated into the lodge and shut the door behind her.

  Chapter

  forty-two

  On Sunday afternoon, Mercy, Alice, and Phoebe went on a nature walk together. They strolled along Pudding Brook and then down Ebsbury Road, gathering bouquets of colorful autumn leaves: yellow-gold, orange, and russet.

  Alice climbed atop the low stone wall bordering one side of the road. Mercy took her free hand to steady the girl as she walked tightrope-fashion atop the wall, her little hand clutching leaves extended for balance.

  Mercy remembered doing the same as a child. She smiled approvingly. “You are quite the funambulist, Alice.”

  Her brow furrowed. “Fyoo what?”

  “It’s another name for a tightrope walker. It comes from the Latin funis, for rope, and ambulare—to amble or walk.”

  Phoebe giggled. “That’s a funny word.”

  Down the road, near Thornvale’s gate, a beech tree beckoned, its red-tipped leaves twirling to the ground in a gust of wind. The girls ran ahead to gather some for their leaf collections.

  Kelly Featherstone waved to her from near the almshouse, so Mercy paused a few moments to talk to the elderly man. She smiled at something he said, and then looked back to make sure the girls were all right. She felt her smile fall. A man stood talking to the girls.

  Mr. Drake.

  Her body tensed. What was he saying to Alice? She was torn between wanting to rush over to them and wanting to avoid the man.

  Mercy excused herself from Mr. Featherstone and walked with determination down the road, asking God to help guard her tongue—and her heart. Mr. Drake glanced up as she approached, and his own smile fell. Mercy instantly felt the tension between them.

  He avoided her gaze and looked at the girls. “Well, good-bye, Miss Phoebe. Alice.” He tipped his hat and slanted Mercy a glance. “For now.”