The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  “No. But let me introduce you. Miss Mercy Grove and Miss Rachel Ashford, may I present Mr. Gabriel Locke.”

  He bowed. “How do you do.”

  “We are celebrating Jane’s birthday,” Rachel blurted.

  “Is it your birthday, Jane?” He looked at her warmly. “I wish you joy.”

  “I shall need it. I am afraid I’ve crossed the thirty-year mark.”

  “I did that myself a few years ago—and lived to tell the tale.”

  “Where are you off to?” Jane asked. “I have never seen you so formally attired.”

  “I have been invited to dine at Brockwell Court, if you can believe it.”

  “Really?”

  He nodded. “I happened to meet Sir Timothy and another gentleman. Another sir. Sir Cecil, or . . .”

  “Sir Cyril?”

  “That’s right. We rode together and they invited me to shoot with them, and dine as well.”

  “I am surprised,” Jane breathed.

  “Are you?’

  “I only mean . . . you are not well acquainted.”

  “I have met Sir Timothy a time or two. Most recently when I bought a horse from his stables, though I dealt primarily with his manager.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Sir Cyril is a racing enthusiast and was eager to talk about horses. I think Brockwell invited me out of deference to his guest.”

  “I see.” Jane gestured to Rachel. “Miss Ashford has recently become engaged to marry Sir Timothy.”

  “Has she indeed? That is excellent news. Allow me to offer my hearty congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” Rachel tried but failed to restrain a toothy grin.

  “May I congratulate him as well when I see him, or is it a secret?”

  “You may.”

  “Then I will indeed. Enjoy your celebration, ladies.”

  Jane thanked him. “And enjoy your dinner. Although I’m afraid our simple fare here will pale in comparison after you dine at Brockwell Court.”

  “The Bell has other charms to recommend it.” His smile lingered on Jane’s face. “Well, good night.”

  “Good night.”

  As he walked away, Rachel whispered, “Is he a guest here, Jane?”

  “He is now.”

  “No insult to Mr. Locke,” Mercy began, “but I wonder what Lady Brockwell will say to a farrier coming to dinner.”

  “He is more than a farrier,” Jane replied. “But I agree—not her usual dinner guest.” She looked fondly at her old friends. “The world really is changing, and the three of us are proof of that.”

  For a moment, they joined hands around the table.

  Then Rachel said, “Don’t worry about Mr. Locke. Lady Brockwell won’t have a chance to say much of anything with Cyril Awdry at the table.”

  They all shared a smile at that, and the last of the puddings.

  Gabriel invited Jane to ride again, this time on Athena, while he rode Sultan. He declared she was ready, nearly healed, and needed more exercise. A spirited Thoroughbred was not meant to be kept tethered; she needed freedom to run.

  They rode out to old Sarum—or “Stonehenge,” as some called it—about nine or ten miles away. A brisk wind made Jane’s eyes water and her cheeks tingle with cold. Athena cantered along, her dark mane flying up, her gait strong. Jane had needed this too.

  They ascended the raised mound and rode toward the stone circle within. From a distance the stones had looked large. Up close, they were massive—some more than thrice their height on horseback. The stones shone golden in the late afternoon sunlight. Several stood atop one another like children’s blocks, while others lay on their sides as if toppled by a giant toddler.

  “I have not ridden out here in years,” Jane breathed. “I’d forgotten how magnificent they are.”

  Gabriel nodded. “It’s no wonder there are myths and legends about this place.”

  His words stirred a memory for Jane. “Sir William Ashford used to tell a story about coming here as a young man hoping to find the words to woo Rachel’s mother. He had heard an old legend that if you spent Midsummer’s Eve here, you would gain the powers of a great poet. But it rained all night, and he caught a chill and all but lost his voice. He returned to Ivy Hill the next day sopping wet and ill, and proposed to her in a barely decipherable croak. Thankfully, she accepted him anyway.”

  Gabriel chuckled. “I wouldn’t mind a little help finding the right words myself, and the right time to ask you—”

  Jane interrupted him. “Those clouds look ominous. We had better head back.” She turned Athena’s head and urged the mare into a trot.

  He rode after her. “Jane, what’s wrong? Why are you putting me off?”

  She shook her head, not trusting her voice.

  “John has been gone more than a year, but if you need more time . . .”

  Again she shook her head.

  “Is there someone else? Mr. Drake or . . . ?”

  “No!”

  “Then, what is it?” He quickly surveyed their surroundings. “Come, let’s stop awhile. The river is just there. We’ll water the horses.” They rode a little farther to the bank of the River Till. There he dismounted, tethered his horse near the water, then helped her down. “Now, tell me what’s upset you.”

  She pressed her eyes closed. Throat tight, she managed two words. “Your farm.”

  “My farm? Why?”

  “You want a farm of your own. Of course you do. You want something to pass down to a . . . son or daughter. It’s only right you should. Only natural. But I cannot—” Her voice cracked, and she blinked back tears.

  “Hey, take it easy. Take your time.”

  Jane longed to be loved and cherished and held. But how could she destine another man to childlessness? She shook her head.

  “Jane . . .”

  “John and I were married for seven years, Gabriel.”

  “I know that.”

  “We had no children. It was my fault. I cannot carry a child to term.”

  “John mentioned once that you’d lost a child. Was it more than one?”

  She nodded and lifted her hand, five fingers splayed.

  “I am sorry.”

  “You see?”

  “Jane, I am very sorry for your losses,” he repeated. “But I am not . . . shocked. I knew there was some sort of problem. And I don’t think myself such a superior man that I could somehow accomplish what John could not.”

  “Not John. Me.”

  “Jane. I have never been married, but I thought God planned it so the two become one—one body. So not your fault. You and John could not have children—together. And if we cannot have children together, we will be all right.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “I promised to tell you the truth from now on, remember? So you must believe me. No, I cannot pretend I don’t want children. But believe this as well—I don’t want to lose you over it. I would rather have you by my side than a dozen children.”

  “You say that now. But someday you’d regret it. When you’re older and need help. Or want someone to leave the farm to when you die.”

  “Already planning my old age and even my death, hm? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Jane.”

  She shook her head. “Marry someone else. Someone younger who hasn’t been married before. Or a widow with lots of children.”

  “While you sacrifice your own happiness and mine and go through life alone?”

  “I may marry again . . . someday. I thought perhaps an older widower, who’s already had his children.”

  Gabriel raised a wry brow. “Who is this widower? I hate him already.”

  She knew he was trying to cheer her, but her heart remained heavy.

  He took her in his arms. “Jane . . . I am three and thirty, and you are the first woman I’ve ever felt this way about. Do you think I’m going to wait thirty more years in hopes of finding another woman I might love half as much? Even in my gambling days, I would ne
ver have taken such a risk.”

  She managed a grin at that, and he leaned close and pressed a warm kiss to her cheek.

  Chapter

  forty-four

  Mercy sat at her desk in the sitting room, which would not be hers much longer. December was upon them. Mr. Hollander had asked for her decision by Christmas, still a few weeks away, but there was no point in putting it off any longer. She knew what her answer would be, and fairness dictated that she deliver it sooner than later, to give him time to find somewhere else to live. Meanwhile, she was resigned to go on living in Ivy Cottage as her brother’s unpaid housekeeper and, most likely, future nurserymaid.

  Resolved, she pulled out a piece of stationery, dipped her quill, and began writing. When she finished her few lines, she blotted the letter and sealed it, sealing her fate as well.

  Later that afternoon, Mercy was washing down the slate in the schoolroom when Aunt Matilda came to find her, her expression unusually somber.

  “Mr. Drake is here to see you,” she announced, watching her face in concern.

  Mercy’s stomach cramped. So soon? She had thought preparing a room for Alice at The Fairmont would take more time.

  She nodded bravely to her aunt and then started down the stairs. As she walked, she recalled the awful scene when she’d taken him that letter—his cutting remarks as well as her unjust assumptions and desperate arguments. Indignation and mortification washed over her yet again.

  She whispered a simple prayer, “Help me,” and stepped into the sitting room.

  James Drake turned when she entered. “Thank you for seeing me, Miss Grove.”

  She stood there, hands clasped, her whole body tensed for another blow. “Mr. Coine has already been here and conveyed your plans.”

  “I know. That is not why I am here.” He cleared his throat. “I have come to apologize. I acted abominably. When I think of how I spoke to you . . . I am utterly ashamed of myself. Never in any other dealings—personal or business—have I behaved so rudely. I would like to try to . . . not justify my actions, but explain.”

  Too surprised to speak, Mercy nodded and gestured toward a chair.

  “I will stand, if you don’t mind. But please, do be seated, Miss Grove. You look pale.”

  Mercy sank into her aunt’s favorite armchair, hoping to draw comfort from its familiar embrace.

  Mr. Drake’s expression struck her as resolved yet turbulent—nostrils flared, jaw tense. He gathered himself, then began. “I realize you have cared for Alice these several months, but I have spent the last nine years regretting how I treated Alice’s mother, and that I let her slip from my life.

  “When I met her, I was not looking to form attachments; I was looking to buy a hotel, begin my enterprise, my future. But as the days passed with that sweet sunny girl, so refreshingly different from the women I knew . . . I became enchanted. And I believed the feeling was mutual. I knew Mary-Alicia was an innocent, and I should never have pressed my advantage. But the romantic coastal setting, the fine food and wine, the neglectful dowager . . . It was my fault, of course. I didn’t stop to think through the consequences. I should have proposed immediately, but I did not. I thought I had more time.

  “When I returned from my mother’s sickbed and found Mary-Alicia gone, I tried to tell myself her leaving was for the best. I was too young to tie myself down. I had enjoyed a few blissful weeks in the company of a beautiful girl, and she had left without demanding anything of me. I should have been relieved. But I was not. My regret over my cavalier behavior would give me no rest. I had left her vulnerable to consequences unimaginable to a privileged young gentleman but dreaded by unprotected women and their parents the world over.”

  He grimaced. “I did try to find Mary-Alicia and her employer, but without success. Lady Carlock traveled almost constantly, wherever her fancy took her. I wrote to the Bath address she’d given me, and when the dowager finally returned for the winter and responded, it was only to tell me that Miss Payne had left her employ without explanation. Again, I tried to find Mary-Alicia—I even searched Bristol. But I did not know she had changed her name to Smith. I had little to go on. She’d told me her parents had passed away. She had also mentioned grandparents, but for the life of me, I could not remember where they lived. Eventually, I had to give up the search. But her memory and the memory of my ungentlemanlike behavior were ever with me.

  “When I saw the name Ivy Hill on a turnpike survey map, it rang a bell in my mind. Then I remembered: Ivy Hill was the name of the village Mary-Alicia had mentioned, where her grandparents lived. So I came here, to take advantage of the opportunity to establish another hotel, yes, but also to see if I might discover what became of Mary-Alicia. To learn if she fared well, or if not, to somehow help her.

  “But here I met no Paynes. And I only recently discovered the Thomases were Mary-Alicia’s maternal grandparents. You were there when I learned of Mary-Alicia’s fate. . . .” He shook his head, a bitter twist to his lip. “If only I had been able to find her! Oh, the misery of knowing she died destitute and alone in a room over a milliner’s shop. A shop I had walked past not once but twice during my search years before.

  “Guilt and regret ate at me. I decided I must atone for my part in her death somehow. But there seemed nothing I could do to redeem myself, to right my wrongs.”

  “None of us has the power to redeem ourselves, Mr. Drake,” Mercy said gently. “Only Christ can do that.”

  He ran an agitated hand over his face. “I know that. Here.” He tapped his temple. “But in here?” He slapped his chest. “I had to do something. Try to make restitution. But how could I? Mary-Alicia’s grandfather wanted nothing to do with me, but I could help her daughter, I decided.

  “Then I met Alice, and everything changed. Her age, the story of Mary-Alicia eloping with an officer so soon after our relationship. Never bringing him here to meet her grandparents. The man’s career and death suspiciously similar to her father’s . . . That’s why I searched the records, and went to Portsmouth, and learned what I did.”

  He glanced up at her. “Even had you not found Mary-Alicia’s letter, I knew it in my heart when I looked at Alice. I saw her mother, yes, but I also see myself. I am her father, Miss Grove.”

  Mercy managed a slight nod. There was no use denying it.

  His eyes widened in appeal. “Don’t you see? I had been desperate for a way to make restitution. Only to learn I have a daughter—Mary-Alicia’s daughter! I am not a particularly religious man, but I do believe in God’s involvement with His creation. And never more than when I realized He had given me a second chance to do the right thing—to do my duty. Mary-Alicia deserved to be acknowledged and protected, and I failed her. But I could acknowledge and protect her daughter. Our daughter.

  “But then you . . . you got in the way of that. Of what I saw as my rightful, God-given responsibility. I don’t say you did so with any ignoble motives. I know you were not trying to take advantage of me, or extort money from me, though I know I accused you of those very things in anger. I was upset, as I have rarely been. But I have heard enough about your reputation and your character to know better than that, once the heat of the moment had passed. Only then did I stop to consider your feelings. What you stood to lose.

  “So again, I must beg your pardon for the things I said and the unjustified manner in which I spoke to you. I hope you will allow that it was a rare lapse from my usual behavior. I am, in general, a kind man. Though clearly not as self-controlled as I thought.”

  Mercy swallowed. Nothing he had said changed the fact that he would take Alice away and, with her, a large, jagged piece of Mercy’s heart. But she could not ignore that he had the decency to admit he’d been wrong, and to apologize.

  She forced herself to speak. “Thank you for explaining. For absolving me of selfish motives. Though I cannot claim that for myself, because selfishly I love Alice and don’t want to lose her. But I do understand, at least to some extent, as I would do anything to
protect her myself, if I could. But as you are her father, then that is your right, not mine, as much as I might wish otherwise. I know I should be glad you feel your responsibility so keenly. It would be even more difficult to give her up to some disinterested parent who would neglect her. But that, I see, you will not do.”

  “No. Never.”

  He released a breath and stepped nearer her chair. “Mr. Coine tells me you are willing to take care of Alice here until all is ready for her at the Fairmont.”

  “Yes.”

  “I appreciate that. I have to see my father’s lawyer about some other matters, which will take me out of town for a week or so. But upon my return, I shall be ready to move Alice to the Fairmont.”

  Mercy bit the inside of her cheek. “I see.”

  He shifted.“Miss Grove, I know much of what I have admitted today will not raise your estimation of my character, but even so, I hope you and I might spend more time together. And Alice, of course. I think it would help her to see that you and I are not enemies, but friends. You and Jane are good friends, as she and I are. Is it too much to hope you and I might be as well?”

  Torn between astonishment and politeness, Mercy faltered, “I . . . No . . .”

  “Good.” Mr. Drake drew himself up. “Well, thank you for hearing me out. May I call on you again when I return?”

  Feeling light-headed, Mercy nodded and rose.

  He stepped forward, hesitated, and then took her long hand in his. “Until then.” He pressed her fingers, then released her and swept from the room.

  Mercy stood there until the outer door banged shut. Then she dropped heavily into the chair. What had she just agreed to?

  The next day, Gabriel knocked on the door to the keeper’s lodge. That surprised Jane. He had not been inside since he’d helped her catch a mouse months before.

  He held her gaze. “May I come in?”

  “Yes. I . . . suppose.”

  Noticing her hesitation, he said, “We can leave the door open if you prefer, though I had hoped to speak to you privately.”

  She licked dry lips. “It’s all right.”

  He stepped inside, shut the door, and turned to face her. “I need to make a decision about Lane’s Farm. Clearly my plans to buy it make you uncomfortable. . . .”