An Ivy Hill Christmas

by Julie Klassen

  “I’d hate to put him at risk, sir. A rat is lots bigger and meaner than a mouse. If anything were to happen to your dog because of me, I’d never forgive myself.”

  You, dear boy, are far more important than any animal, Richard thought. But he said, “Wally here would gladly lay down his life for you. Never doubt it. But it won’t come to that. Now, enough naysaying. You don’t want to steal his confidence. Lead on.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  Jamie led him up one pair of stairs, then up a set of steep narrow steps more like a ladder than a staircase.

  Richard picked up Wally and carried him, using his free hand to steady himself on the rungs above.

  When they reached the garret, Richard saw the boy had not exaggerated in his description. The roof was in far worse state than Honeycroft’s. The smell of mold and damp permeated the air. A small pallet bed without pillow—blanket neatly folded—had been pushed to one side, as far from the gaping hole as possible.

  Richard looked around the room’s dingy confines. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I don’t usually see him till dark.”

  Wally began wriggling in Richard’s arms. He hoped the dog didn’t have to relieve himself, now of all times. But when he set him down, the animal quickly began to sniff the floor, posture alert, on the scent of something. He dodged into a dim corner, and with a sudden lunge and violent shake, he wrenched the neck of something lurking there before Richard had even laid eyes on the thing.

  Wally gave it a final sniff and then, satisfied the rodent was dead, happily trotted around the room, then laid down again, this time at Jamie’s feet.

  Richard tentatively approached the still form.

  It was perhaps not the stuff of legends. Jamie may have exaggerated its size slightly—for fear and darkness and chewed bedclothes will do that. But the thing was certainly bigger than a mouse, bigger than several mice. Imagine trying to sleep just waiting for that thing to come nibbling at you? Richard shivered.

  Then he knelt before Wally to give him all the honor due him, stroking his fur and promising a steak from Mrs. Nettleton’s larder. When she wasn’t looking, of course.

  As Jamie approached, his eyes widened with awe. “He did it! I can’t believe he did it. Just like that! You were right, Mr. Brockwell. He is small but ever so brave.”

  Richard’s gaze remained on the child who had already endured so much, thinking, Yes, he is.

  Back at Brockwell Court, Richard sat down and wrote an impassioned article about the plight of apprentices, hoping Murray would want to print it in his magazine. He had already sent a scathing letter to the charity’s board of governors, who had sentenced Jamie to his fate. But who knew if or when he would receive a reply. Hopefully the article would prove more effective.

  Later that afternoon, he let Wally outside, and as the dog bounded off to water a topiary, Richard wrapped his arms around himself against the chill. Brrr. The day had turned biting and crisp and smelled of snow. He wondered how cold it must be inside Honeycroft on such a day, and the worst of winter was yet to come.

  When the family carriage returned to Brockwell Court, Richard laid aside his pride and went to ask his brother for help with Honeycroft. He found Timothy in his office—their father’s old office, where Sir Justin had once performed the magisterial duties that his eldest son now carried out. He knocked and gingerly let himself in. Oh, the unpleasant memories of reprimands and lectures that still echoed within its walls.

  Timothy sat bent over paper and ink and held up an index finger. “Give me one minute, please.”

  While he waited, Richard looked at his older brother and noticed his dark side-whiskers were threaded with silver, though he was only two and thirty. Their father had also greyed early. Richard’s own hair was still as dark as ever.

  His brother blotted the paper and looked up. “Thank you for waiting. What is it, Richard?”

  Richard sat down but hesitated. His brother interlaced his fingers over his appointment diary. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. I hate to ask, but I need help.”

  Timothy’s eyes flattened. “Richard, I hope you are not going to ask for money. We have talked about this before.”

  “Not for me. You know Susanna, our new nurserymaid?”

  “Oh no. Tell me you have not wronged her already.”

  “Thunder and turf!” Richard leaned back heavily in his chair, stunned. “You really do think me a reprobate!”

  “Well . . . Rachel told me you knew her in the past, and that you wanted to help her, so—”

  Richard raised a hand to stop him. “I have treated her with the utmost propriety since my arrival, I promise you. Yes, I disappointed her in the past. Years ago. But that is not what this about. Well, I suppose it is, in a way. I want to make recompense. She and her brother and parents were very good to me when I was young. And I’d like to return the favor now.”

  Timothy frowned. “I knew you and Seth were friends, but I did not realize you spent that much time with the family.”

  “I did. You know I did not get on with Father. Barely better with Mamma. Mr. and Mrs. Reeves were there for me when I needed them. They were like a second family to me.”

  Timothy’s expression darkened. “I am sorry to hear your first family was insufficient to the purpose.”

  Richard raised a palm. “I am not here to lay blame or complain. Thing is, Honeycroft has fallen into disrepair since Mr. Reeves died. It needs some work to shore it up for winter. I went to see the Kingsleys, but they haven’t the time, and even if they did, the estimate is beyond my means.”

  “And no wonder, as you have lived beyond your means for years.”

  For a moment the two brothers glared at one another, then Timothy sat back, changing tack. “By the way, it’s no secret Mamma hopes to instigate a match between you and Miss Awdry, but if you think I am in on it, you are mistaken. I have cautioned her against it, and I caution you as well.”

  Richard frowned. “You don’t think I am good enough for her?”

  “I didn’t say that. But as it is, what sort of life could you offer her?”

  “I am not offering her anything. I doubt she would have me at any rate. Too clever by far. And you know I am a determined bachelor.”

  “Not as determined as you once were. I have seen how you look at her.” Timothy sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I had planned to wait to raise the topic until later, but since we are discussing money, I have to tell you that after reviewing the estate finances, I agree with Mamma that it simply does not make fiscal sense to keep the London house open year-round simply so you can continue your separate life there.”

  “What?”

  “You are one person. And you have a valet and cook-housekeeper at your disposal, not to mention kitchen and housemaids.”

  “It is a far smaller staff than we once had.”

  “Yes, when we all spent time in London. These days we rarely go for the season, let alone any other time. We have an excellent house here with sufficient staff and more than enough room for us all. You are nearly thirty years old, with no independent means. It isn’t as though you have a situation or responsibilities to keep you in Town and justify the expense.”

  “I have my friends. My . . . club.” Richard swallowed the phrase “my work.”

  “That is hardly going to strengthen your case. At all events, Mamma and I are in agreement. We plan to sell the townhouse in the new year.”

  Richard sputtered, “But . . . but that is my home!”

  “This is your home. Why Father ever consented to letting you live in London and footing the bill, I’ll never know.”

  “No, you don’t know. But he had his reasons for wanting me gone, and I had mine for wanting to be anywhere but here. That has not changed.”

  “But it has. Father is gone. He may have verbally offered you use of the London property, but there were no bequests in his will. We need to think of the future. I am
managing the estate now, and I have to do what is best for the entire family, not just one member.”

  “You do like to lord that over me, don’t you? The eldest son and heir, Sir Timothy, trying so hard to fill Sir Justin’s shoes. I hope you don’t emulate all his ways.”

  Timothy stared hard at Richard. “What do you mean?”

  Richard hesitated. “Never mind.” He huffed a sigh. “Look, I did not come in here to argue with you or to ask for money for myself. I came to ask for help with Honeycroft. For all his faults, Father would have helped.”

  A muscle in Timothy’s clenched jaw pulsed, and his nostrils flared. Then he sighed. “You’re right, he would have. Very well. Let’s go take another look at the place together. Our farm manager has some building experience, and we have plenty of lumber and slate in the outbuildings. Perhaps between us, we can patch up the place.”

  Mrs. Reeves answered the door, shawl around her shoulders, a look of unease on her face. “Richard, what are you doing back so soon? Is Susanna all right?”

  “Yes, perfectly well.” He turned to include his brother. “Have you met my brother, Sir Timothy?”

  She nodded. “A pleasure to see you again, sir. I trust your wee boy fares well?”

  “Yes, and he adores your daughter already.”

  “Good. Well, come in, come in. What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  Standing inside the main room, Richard saw his brother’s gaze shift from the boarded-up window to the buckets on the floor under a suspicious dark stain on the ceiling.

  “Actually, we are here to see what we might do about your leaking roof and broken window before Old Man Winter gives us his worst.”

  She grimaced. “I did have the Kingsley brothers out to give me an estimate, but I . . . decided to put it off. It’s not so bad.”

  As if to argue the point, another plop of soaking wet plaster fell from the ceiling and splashed into the bucket.

  “Mrs. Reeves, forgive me,” Richard said, “but it is like an icehouse in here, even with the fire burning.”

  She winced in apology. “I know. I feel bad for the children, though they don’t seem to mind the cold, busy running about and playing as they are. But I . . .” She pulled her shawl more closely about herself, and Richard noticed she wore gloves indoors. “I could not repay you.”

  Richard smiled. “Of course you can. You can repay us with a ready supply of Reeves’s famous honey in the years to come.”

  She worried her lip. “I am afraid our bees are not doing well either. The hives are not producing what they once did.”

  “We’ll sort that too. Won’t we, Timothy?”

  His brother looked less certain. “Oh, em, yes. If we can.”

  She shook her head. “It’s too much to ask.”

  Richard rested a hand on her shoulder. “Not a bit of it. It is the least I can do. It won’t begin to repay you for all the meals you fed me as a boy, nor all the pleasant hours I spent in your company.”

  “You did have quite an appetite,” Mrs. Reeves allowed.

  Richard smiled at her teasing, and his heart warmed to see the old twinkle sparking to life in her eyes.

  Later that afternoon they returned with the farm manager, Mr. Grayson, as well as their groundsman. The men inspected the roof and window and discovered broken gutters were contributing to the leaking windows.

  They decided on a plan of action and agreed to start early the next morning.

  CHAPTER

  Ten

  Pickering tentatively woke Richard early the next morning as he’d requested, but the old man was clearly surprised when Richard thanked him and all but sprang from bed and began washing.

  “Your best coat today, sir?” the valet asked.

  “No, my worst. I am going to be a workman today. Help me dress the part.”

  Pickering coughed. “I believe you are the first man in the kingdom to utter those words.”

  Richard chuckled. “Good point. I shall dress myself. But may I leave Wally with you? I don’t want him underfoot.”

  “Very well.”

  Richard and Murray wolfed down a quick breakfast and hastened to Honeycroft. Reaching it before anyone else, they were ready to help unload supplies when the Brockwell Court wagon rumbled up the lane, heavy with lumber, slate, and tools. Mr. Jones, the groundsman, drove, and beside him on the bench sat Mr. Grayson, the farm manager.

  “Morning, Jones. Grayson.”

  “Morning, sir.”

  “We’re here to help,” Richard said, hands on hips. “Put us to work.”

  The manager’s mouth fell open. “You, sir?”

  “Sarcasm does not become you. Yes, me.”

  “Very well. Let’s unload the lumber first.”

  As the morning progressed, more people joined them. As was often the case in a small village like Ivy Hill, word of the project spread quickly. Perhaps due to the Christmas season, Mrs. Reeves’s kindness, or the fact that the village’s leading family was involved, several came to help.

  Joseph Kingsley, who had married Rachel’s friend Mercy Grove, arrived, armed with his tool bag. He said he was sorry his brother had sent him away empty-handed. It was true they were busy, but he would offer his own time and expertise to help for the day.

  Richard thanked him.

  Later, the slater and stout Mr. Broadbent, the plumber, also joined them. While Murray held the ladder, Mr. Broadbent repaired the gutters, and the slater advised and assisted those repairing the roof. Richard kept busy carrying slate tiles from the wagon. Quickly growing warm from his exertions, he discarded his outer coat, working in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves.

  Mr. Jones, as groundsman, had some experience with beehives and did what he could to set them to rights. He said, “However well made the skep may be, it is important to protect them from rain and snow. A dry hive in winter is essential.” To cover the hives. he made new conical straw hackles, which would shed water like the thatch of a barn.

  Mrs. Reeves brought out honey-sweetened tea for the men, lamenting that she had not more refreshment to offer the volunteers. As if in answer to her prayers, women from the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society arrived with baskets of food for the workmen—freshly made rolls, butter and cheese from the dairy, along with pies and sweets left over from Christmas dinners all across the village. They spread several boards across two sawhorses to create a makeshift banquet table.

  The Brockwell Court barouche-landau arrived, top up against the cold breeze. Richard saw Timothy inside, holding a bundled-up Frederick, Rachel next to him, and beside her, Susanna herself.

  Stepping down first, Timothy held his son with one arm and offered his free hand to help the ladies descend.

  Rachel looked at the spread of food and lifted her basket with a chuckle. “And here I thought you might be going hungry.” With good humor and warmth, she greeted her friends from the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society and added food from the Brockwell larder to the other offerings.

  Susanna looked around at the workmen and assembled neighbors with an expression of amazement. For a moment her gaze locked with Richard’s, and then she walked nearer and said, “Thank you.”

  He shrugged. “I have done precious little indeed. You know I am good for nothing.”

  She slowly shook her head, eyes warm. “That is not true. It wasn’t true when I said it, and it is not true now.”

  He nodded gravely. “I hope you are right.”

  Susanna turned to include David Murray in their conversation. “My thanks to you as well, Mr. Murray. I’m guessing you did not count on being put to work here. I hope this doesn’t spoil your Christmas.”

  “Not at all. In fact, I am enjoying myself immensely.”

  Susanna smiled at Murray. “I am glad to hear it.”

  Richard had almost forgotten how beautiful she could be when she smiled.

  While the Brockwell brothers, Rachel, and Mr. Murray were busy at Honeycroft, Arabella and Justina went to the Fairmont School in the Awdrys�
�� coach. In her reticule, Arabella carried an embroidered handkerchief Rachel had made for Mercy but had not had a chance to deliver with all the busyness of the house party.

  With a glance at her companion, Arabella said, “Thank you for coming with me, Justina.”

  “My pleasure. I look forward to seeing the school myself.”

  Justina had brought a leather portfolio with sheet music inside, so she might accompany Arabella on the school’s pianoforte. Or if the old harp was in no fit condition, Arabella would sing while Justina played, and perhaps lead the children in a few songs.

  Reaching the former Fairmont House, the two ladies alighted and crossed the half-circle drive to the front entrance.

  Mercy Kingsley met them at the door.

  “Welcome, Miss Awdry. Justina. How good of you to come.”

  Justina said, “I thought I might accompany Arabella on your pianoforte, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all. Mrs. Klein keeps it in tune for us, though I have no idea in what state you will find the harp. It looks all right, but I know nothing about the instrument.”

  Arabella smiled. “Let me take a look—and a listen.”

  From the vestibule, Mercy led them through a reception room and into a large common room, with game tables, shelves of books and games, and clusters of chairs and sofas. A harp had been positioned near the pianoforte.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful . . .” Arabella breathed, running her hand over the ornate carving of the single action pedal harp. “Must be a hundred years old.”

  Arabella sat down on the stool Mercy had provided and plucked experimentally at the strings. “It sounds better than I imagined after being stored all these years.” She began playing a piece by Mozart, who had written such beautiful harp music.

  As if her playing were a siren call, children began streaming into the room, coming from all directions, drawn by the sound. Soon a dozen children of varying ages were gathered around the instruments, sitting on the sofas, chairs, or floor.

  “We have more students, but some have gone home for Christmas,” Mercy explained.