An Ivy Hill Christmas

by Julie Klassen

  The dog however, strained against his master’s hold, clearly eager to keep walking.

  She glanced from man to man, Richard clearly uncomfortable and Mr. Murray quickly becoming so as the moments passed. Relenting, Arabella said, “Never mind. We’ll all go back.”

  Both men looked relieved.

  Richard had inwardly scoffed at Murray’s flattering attentions to Arabella. Though could he blame the man? Pretty and intelligent and well spoken . . . It was enough to tempt any man of letters. His earlier description of her as a “silly, giggling thing,” seemed completely unjust now. Had she changed so much, or did the fault lie with his own perceptions? His mother had told him he would find Miss Awdry much improved. And although it would gall him to admit it to anyone, she had been right. But intrigued with her as he might be, it was another female who stubbornly clung to Richard’s thoughts for the rest of the day.

  He tried to distract himself by playing billiards with Murray, who beat him handily for the first time in their long friendship. He even risked a visit to the nursery, hoping to see his nephew, only to be scolded by Nurse Pocket for speaking too loudly while Master Frederick napped.

  Next he tried to lose himself in an old favorite book, but when an hour had passed without turning a page, he gave up and went and found his sister-in-law.

  “Rachel, with your library and connections with village women, you probably know most everyone in Ivy Hill nowadays.”

  “Not everyone, but many people, yes.”

  “Then I have a question for you. How would one go about helping someone who doesn’t want to be helped? Or rather is too proud to accept help . . . at least from me?”

  Her blue eyes widened with interest. “Ah. And is this someone a female?”

  “Why would you assume that? Never mind, yes. I see that gleam in your eye, sister, but I assure you this woman is an elderly widow, the mother of an old friend who has fallen on hard times. Her grown daughter and grandchildren have come home for Christmas, and I gather she is struggling to make ends meet for herself, let alone provide for three others.”

  “How old is this woman?”

  “She must be five and fifty by now.”

  “I meant the daughter.”

  “Oh. My age. A recent widow with two children.” He studied her face. “I see what you are thinking, but I promise you I have no nefarious designs on this woman, and she wisely wants nothing to do with me.”

  “How old are her children?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “It matters.”

  “I am no good at estimating ages, but if I had to guess, I would say the boy is about eight and the girl perhaps four or five.”

  “And could the older woman watch the children, so her daughter could work?”

  “I assume so. Though apparently her mother’s health is not all it should be at the moment.”

  “And their names?”

  When he hesitated, she planted her hands on her hips. “How can I help someone if I don’t know whom we are talking about?”

  “Very well, but don’t tell them I sent you or they’ll rebuff you. And tread lightly. If the daughter gets a whiff of charity being offered, she’ll dig in her heels. She is proud, as I said.”

  “As someone who used to refuse help for pride’s sake, I understand completely and will proceed with utmost discretion. Their names?”

  “Susanna Evans—that’s her married name. Her mother is Mrs. Reeves.”

  “The beekeeper?”

  “That was her husband’s trade, primarily. After his death, Mrs. Reeves carried on as best she could until recent ill health prevented her.”

  “I see.”

  “Honeycroft is the name of their small property. Do you know where it is?”

  Rachel squinted. “I am not certain.”

  “What about . . . Bramble Cottage?”

  Rachel stilled. “Yes, I do. Though I am surprised you know of it.”

  For a moment they held one another’s gazes. Then he looked away first. He said, “From there, you cross the road and walk through a grove of plum and cherry trees. I’d say you can’t miss it, but you can. I stumbled upon it only by accident years ago. Though at this time of year, you can see the roof through the mostly bare tree branches.”

  “Very well,” said Rachel. “Leave it to me.”

  On Monday evening, Rachel left her houseguests in Timothy and Justina’s care, donned her coat and bonnet, and went downstairs. As she lingered in the hall to pull on her gloves, Miss Arabella Awdry approached her.

  “And where are you off to, if that is not prying?”

  “Not at all. I am going to the meeting of our local women’s society.”

  The pretty woman’s eyes lit up. “And what sorts of things does the society do? Is it a church charity guild?”

  “Not exactly. It is called the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society, and is attended mostly by women involved in local businesses of one kind or another.”

  The interest on Miss Awdry’s face faded. “Tea and knitting? How—” she struggled for a word—“pleasant.”

  Rachel grinned. “It sounds rather mundane, I know. I hesitated to attend myself at first, and now don’t get to as many meetings as I would like since having Frederick, but I promise you they do far more than needlework and drinking tea.” Rachel paused. “Would you like to come along? Guests are welcome, and you might find it interesting.”

  “I would like to see what a meeting is like. The others are playing whist, but I don’t care for cards. And I confess, idleness makes me restless. Give me just a minute to find my cloak.”

  Together, they walked up Potters Lane and into the village hall a short while later. There, Rachel introduced Miss Awdry to her dear friends, Mercy Kingsley and Jane Locke.

  “Ah yes, I remember you both,” Arabella said. “A pleasure to see you again.”

  “And you, Miss Awdry,” Jane said. “You were only a girl when last I saw you, and now you are a lovely young woman.”

  “Thank you. Though not so young anymore. I am six and twenty.”

  “As ancient as that?” Jane teased. “Oh, to be so young again.” She tilted her head to the side in thought. “Actually, that’s not true. I am happy as I am and wouldn’t trade my life for all the youth in the world.”

  “Nor I,” Mercy agreed.

  Rachel said, “Mercy and her husband operate a charity school between Ivy Hill and Wishford.”

  Arabella’s face brightened. “Oh! We passed it on the way to Brockwell Court. I noticed the sign.” She quoted, “‘The Fairmont Boarding & Day School. Pupils accepted, regardless of ability to pay.’”

  Mercy smiled. “Very good.”

  “I think it is wonderful what you are doing, Mrs. Kingsley.”

  “Thank you. We are enjoying the school immensely, though managing it is not without its trials and challenges.”

  Arabella nodded. “As is the case with any worthwhile endeavor.”

  “True. We feel blessed to be able to educate children, especially those who would otherwise not be educated at all.”

  “I applaud you,” Arabella said earnestly. “I have little experience, but is there anything I could do to help while I am here? If you ever need a volunteer for anything, please do let me know.”

  “That is very kind of you, Miss Awdry.”

  “If only one of us had a harp,” Rachel said. “Arabella plays beautifully. She might have given a little Christmas concert for the children.”

  “I did not bring ours along, unfortunately,” Arabella said. “It is rather cumbersome to transport.”

  Mercy’s eyes brightened. “Actually, I discovered an old harp in the Fairmont attic.”

  “Is that old harp still there?” Jane asked.

  Rachel explained to Arabella, “Jane grew up in Fairmont House.”

  Jane nodded. “The harp was my grandmother’s. I am not certain what its condition would be after all this time, but she always took excellent care of it.”r />
  “Well, I will ask Joseph and Mr. Basu to bring it downstairs,” Mercy said. “You are welcome to come over and see what you think of it. If it won’t suit, you could always read to the younger children instead. They are learning to read themselves, of course, but it is so good for them to be read to, I believe.”

  “I would happily do so. Just name a time.”

  “Perhaps some evening after dinner, if you are free.”

  “Gladly.”

  Seemingly eager to shift the attention from herself, Mercy turned to Jane. “And Jane and Mr. Locke are the owners of a prospering horse farm on the outskirts of Ivy Hill.”

  “Oh?” Arabella’s fair brows rose. “I thought I heard you were an innkeeper?”

  Jane chuckled. “I was, indeed. But my former brother-in-law fills that role now. I love horses and working beside my new husband, so it is a mutually beneficial arrangement all around. Our son, Jack Avi, is growing up to be quite the horseman as well.”

  “Congratulations. I am afraid I know little about horses,” Arabella said, “but my brother and sister do. In fact, my sister mentioned being eager to visit Locke stables, though I didn’t realize your connection to the place. Apparently, she and my brother are interested in a pair of hunters.”

  “They are welcome to visit at any time.”

  Several other women came forward to greet the newcomer, the Miss Cooks admiring the lacework on her sleeves, and Mrs. Klein, who mentioned she regularly tuned the Broadmere pianoforte, respectfully greeted the young woman, passing along her compliments to her family.

  Then Mercy called the meeting to order. They discussed plans to bring Christmas cheer to the almshouse and a few other struggling families. The vicar’s wife gave a report on the church charity guild and her family’s plans to host a buffet meal for anyone without somewhere else to go on Christmas Day. Several women offered to help prepare food or serve.

  When Mercy asked for any other business, Rachel stood. “It has come to my attention that Mrs. Reeves is not in good health and is struggling to get by, especially at this time of year.”

  Mrs. O’Brien said, “I thought her daughter came home for Christmas?”

  Rachel nodded. “She has come home, perhaps permanently. Her husband died, and she has two young children to care for. It makes sense for Mrs. Reeves and her daughter to pool their resources and share a home, but apparently Honeycroft has fallen into disrepair.”

  Mrs. Burlingame said, “She sold no honey at market this year. Mrs. Craddock had to go to Salisbury to buy some for the bakery.”

  Mrs. Snyder tsked. “So no income and poor health. No wonder Mrs. Reeves is in decline and her cottage too.”

  “Has anyone heard of any positions her daughter might take on to help support the family?” Rachel asked.

  Around the room, heads slowly shook in the negative.

  “I have been thinking of hiring a nurserymaid to assist our nurse,” Rachel said. “Miss Pocket is rather elderly and has not a lot of energy for keeping up with Frederick. I don’t know if Susanna Evans would be interested in such a situation, but I thought I might offer it to her, if any of you might vouch for her character?”

  “Oh yes, Susanna was always a good girl,” Mrs. Burlingame said. “Though I have not seen much of her in recent years, after she married and moved away.”

  “You might ask your brother-in-law, my lady,” Mrs. Snyder said. “He was a friend to Seth Reeves, Susanna’s brother.”

  “Was he indeed? How unusual,” Charlotte Cook said. “Wouldn’t expect a Brockwell to befriend a Reeves. Pray do not be offended, my lady.”

  “I am not.”

  “If you have not met her,” Mrs. Barton said, “I wonder how you learned of her situation?”

  Remembering Richard’s plea to keep his name out of it, she said, “We saw Mrs. Reeves on St. Thomas Day, and she looked rather peaky. I heard the rest in passing.”

  Becky Morris asked, “If Susanna finds work, will her mother be in fit condition to care for the children while she’s away? Would you require Susanna to live in?”

  “As Nurse Pocket lives in, I think we could manage perfectly well with a nurserymaid’s help during the day.”

  Mrs. Burlingame nodded. “Perhaps some of us might make up a schedule to call on Mrs. Reeves regular-like. Make sure she and the children have all they need while Susanna’s away at the manor. The little ’uns ain’t so little anymore, and the boy’s old enough to keep an eye on his sister, should Mrs. Reeves need to rest or whatnot. I can stop by on my route.”

  Charlotte Cook said, “Judy and I can pay a call on Monday afternoons. Our shop is closed then.”

  Around the room, other women offered to visit weekly or biweekly as needed, and the rotation was agreed upon.

  Rachel smiled at one and all. “Thank you, ladies. I will call on Susanna Evans tomorrow and offer her the post. I will let you know if she accepts.”

  Later, when Rachel and Arabella walked home together, Rachel asked her, “What did you think of the meeting?”

  “Very interesting. I like how the women help one another, especially those less fortunate. It reminds me of my Aunt Genevieve’s work in London. She is most philanthropic and is personally involved with two charities while giving money to several others. I want to be like her, and join her in her work one day, if I can.”

  “Commendable.”

  Arabella looked at her, likely studying her face for censure. “I don’t say it to impress you or to boast. Heaven knows I have done nothing worth boasting about in my life so far. Oh, the constraints placed on gently bred females!”

  “Your mother does not support your charitable leanings?”

  “No. She does not approve of her sister’s bluestocking ways either. And in turn, Aunt Gen thinks my mother a vain and silly woman more interested in impressive marriages for her children than in helping the poor.”

  “I see.” Rachel personally believed a woman could be a dutiful wife and mother and help the less fortunate at the same time, but she resisted the temptation to lecture. Instead, she took the young woman’s arm and said kindly, “Well, I believe you will find Christmastide in Ivy Hill to be most . . . enlightening.”

  CHAPTER

  Seven

  The next morning, Rachel and Timothy prepared to set off for Honeycroft together, he wearing his greatcoat and she a fur-trimmed mantle. Recalling Richard saying Susanna was too proud to accept charity, she decided not to bring any gifts of food on this occasion.

  Since she did not know exactly where the cottage was, and Richard said the way passed through a lonely wood, Timothy had offered to accompany her. Rachel feared a baronet’s presence might make Mrs. Reeves and her daughter uncomfortable, but Timothy reminded Rachel that Frederick was his child too, and he had a vested interest in interviewing the potential nurserymaid who would share the care of his dear son.

  “Very well, my love.” Rachel ran her hand over his lapels. “But do try not to look so . . . tall and handsome and intimidating.”

  “I shall do my best.” He grinned and kissed her cheek.

  “And I don’t know if she will even want the post. She might see it as beneath her. She isn’t exactly a young girl. Are you sure you have not heard of any other available positions?”

  “Nothing except for a fishmonger’s assistant in Wishford. And I trust a place in Brockwell Court will be more appealing than that.”

  “True.”

  Together they drove in Timothy’s curricle down the Brockwell Court drive, past the inn, and up the High Street. Soon they left the village lanes behind and neared Bramble Cottage, where their relationship had been tested and strengthened before their marriage.

  “I wonder how Mrs. Haverhill is getting on in Brighton,” Rachel mused.

  “I assume she is doing well and plans to remain there,” Timothy replied, “for the agent told me she intends to sell Bramble Cottage outright, when she only let it out before.”

  “I see. Well, I miss her, but I am
glad she is doing well.”

  “As am I.”

  Per Richard’s directions, they passed Bramble Cottage, then turned off the road and followed an overgrown path through a grove of bare-branched trees.

  Soon Rachel saw a broken chimney, thatched roof, and garden wall. Timothy alighted first, secured the horses to a post, and helped her down. Entering through the listing garden gate, they walked on a path bordered by brown grass and weeds, past beehives in disarray, and followed the sound of wood chopping to the back of the house. There they found a dark-haired woman in her late twenties, axe in hand, splitting logs, a wool muffler wrapped around her head and a pair of worn gloves on her hands that were clearly too big for her.

  She turned at their approach and slowly lowered the axe, body and expression tightening as if anticipating bad news.

  “Good day,” Rachel began. “You are Mrs. Evans, I assume?”

  She nodded, eyes wary.

  “We are Sir Timothy and Lady Brockwell.”

  The woman’s gaze rested on her husband. “I would know you anywhere, sir.”

  Timothy hesitated. “Have we met?”

  “Not formally.”

  Rachel let that pass, guessing the woman referred to Timothy’s resemblance to his brother. She said, “We were hoping to talk to you about a possible situation. If you are willing to consider it?”

  She frowned. “Did Richard send you? I told him we don’t need help.”

  “Actually, we are the ones in need of help,” Rachel gently explained. “We need a nurserymaid for our young son, Frederick.”

  “I have two children of my own.”

  “Yes, so I’ve heard.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I am a member of the local Ladies Tea and Knitting Society. Mrs. Burlingame and Mrs. Snyder speak highly of you and your mother.”

  The back door opened, and an elderly woman, shawl around her shoulders, appeared on its threshold.

  “Susanna, invite our guests inside, for heaven’s sake. It’s too cold to stand talking out here.”

  “Oh. Forgive me. Would you like to come inside? It’s a little warmer in there.”