An Ivy Hill Christmas

by Julie Klassen

  Richard awoke as dawn began painting the sky. Thunder and turf. What was happening to him? He never rose this early, and certainly not after a late night. But toss and turn as he might, he could not fall back asleep.

  He realized it was the first of January, the day many people began the new year with a thorough cleaning. A time for “Out with the old, in with the new.”

  Could Richard do the same to his heart, his ways? He hoped so. God in heaven, give me strength. Help me become a better man.

  Giving up on sleep, he rolled from bed and quickly dressed himself in the nearest clothes at hand—a plain grey coat, and the trousers and shirt he had worn for repairs, freshly returned from the laundress.

  He opened his door. The house was quiet, too quiet. Even Wally slept on.

  Grabbing his greatcoat from its peg, he slipped downstairs and out the rear door, then walked behind the house and around the church, not turning up the path to Honeycroft as he often did, but instead continuing on to Bramble Cottage.

  He found an old tree stump and sat down, looking at the cottage and searching his heart.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw himself at twelve, bending to see through the partially opened window. Cupping his hand to the glass and witnessing his father embrace a stranger.

  The familiar voice had slipped through the opening. “My darling, Georgiana. What heaven it is to come here after hours trapped in a house with a shrewish wife and rebellious son.”

  The scene changed, and he was standing before his father’s desk years later, his father as livid as he had ever seen him. “I cannot believe a son of mine has been sent down from Oxford. And now this incident with the housemaid? Is this how we’ve raised you, to be a lascivious, immoral wastrel?”

  “That’s rather hypocritical coming from you, is it not? Like father, like son, and all that.”

  His father grew still, his fury freezing into something hard and flintlike. “What are you talking about?”

  “You know very well. The ladybird you keep in your little love nest in Bramble Cottage. Your darling Georgiana.”

  Sir Justin’s face turned purple, his lip curled and his hand fisted. Richard thought his father would strike him—indeed he believed the older man barely resisted. Instead, he locked the door and said, “Shut your mouth, you impudent, ungrateful boy. If your mother finds out, it will break her heart and ruin our marriage, and that will be on your head.”

  Richard held his gaze. “No, Father, it will be on yours. I am not the one who has been unfaithful to her.”

  The sound of footsteps now startled him. Richard turned and saw Susanna approaching up the road.

  Her face fell. “Oh. Richard. I thought you were someone else.”

  He glanced from her cape to her gloved hands. “You’re up early. On your way to Brockwell Court, I imagine?”

  She nodded. For a moment, she said nothing more. Just came and stood silently beside him, near but not too close. Then she gestured toward Bramble Cottage. “I suppose you are remembering your father.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever forgiven him?”

  He shook his head. “Right now, I’m more concerned about you forgiving me. I let things go too far. I knew better, knew you trusted me. Afterward, you had every reason to expect an offer of marriage, but instead I simply returned to university. I hated myself for what I’d done. I did come back to apologize a few months later, when my conscience caught up with me. Did your mother tell you of my visit? I wanted to make sure you were all right. Instead, I was stunned to learn that you had married and gone to live on the coast. I felt terrible. First your mother lost her son, then her daughter married and moved away, and I was partly to blame for that. I know your life has not been easy either. Your husband dying and leaving you with two children to raise on your own.”

  Susanna nodded. “Thank you. I can’t deny it’s been hard.” She opened her mouth to say more, then changed her mind and turned to the road. “Well, I had better hurry, or I’ll be late.”

  Richard rose. “May I walk with you?”

  “I . . . suppose.”

  They walked back the way Richard had come. A thread of tension hung heavy between them. He could tell she was still angry with him. Was she waiting for him to make amends? To apologize again? Or something else? Something . . . more?

  They reached the manor’s side garden, then rounded the back of the house. They were almost there. He didn’t have much time.

  He paused beside the topiary house. “I truly am sorry, Susanna. I know I failed you in the past, and I am trying to make things right. When I told you I was sorry before, you didn’t seem to believe me. But I am.”

  She stopped and turned to him, eyes round with incredulity. “Words are too easy, especially for a man like you. You want to make things right. How? More than ten years have passed. Your chance to do your duty, to do right by me, have passed too. Unless . . .” She lifted her chin and sent him a challenging look. “Are you saying you would marry me now?”

  His heart thudded. Weight pressed on his chest, making it hard to breathe.

  Would he? It would mean disappointing, even alienating his family. It would mean giving up his own hopes and desires. Giving up Arabella.

  Was this what God wanted him to do? Was this the way to forgiveness? To redemption? Yes, he would always love his old friend, yet everything in him wanted to say no.

  Instead, he dropped to one knee.

  Looking up, he dragged his gaze to hers. She waited, searching his face, eyes intense.

  He opened his mouth to say the words.

  “Stand up, Richard,” Susanna said. “You don’t want to marry me, and I don’t want to marry you. It’s all right. I don’t want to live in the past anymore. We are both different people than we were all those years ago. I am growing fond of someone else now, and so are you.”

  She extended her hand and helped him up. He rose on legs that felt rather unstable.

  “But thank you for being willing,” she added. “You can go, conscience clear. You offered; I said no. You are free.”

  “Are you sure? I do care for you, Susanna, though I know I hurt you. Disappointed you.”

  “Yes, you did. I can’t deny it.” She sighed. “I don’t blame you for what happened between us, wrong though it was. We were both grieving Seth’s death and trying to comfort one another. But I did not expect you to run off afterward. That did hurt me. Thankfully, the pain did not last long. You won’t like hearing it, but God used you in my life. After you left, Mr. Evans and I fell in love, and we had several happy years together.”

  “I am glad.”

  “I lost him, but that is not your fault.” Susanna took a deep breath. “I . . . forgive you, Richard. I should have forgiven you long ago, but I do now. With my whole heart.”

  “I don’t deserve it, but I appreciate it.”

  “Perhaps it is time you forgave your father . . . and yourself too.”

  “Sounds like something your mother said to me.”

  “Not surprising.” She managed a wobbly grin. “She is a wise woman.”

  He took her hand and held it to his lips for a long moment.

  “God bless you, Susanna.”

  Tears glinted in her eyes. “And you, Richard.”

  A door opened nearby, and Susanna took a step back. Both of them turned toward the house. David Murray had come outside, looking uneasily from one to the other.

  Susanna waved to him, then raised an index finger, gesturing for him to wait one minute.

  She explained, “Mr. Murray has taken to greeting me when I come to work and sometimes walks me home afterward. When I first saw you outside Bramble Cottage, I thought you might be him. Mr. Murray is . . . Well, he shows every sign of becoming attached to . . . the area. Though he worries you won’t approve.”

  “How can I not? David Murray is superior to me in every way that counts, except sartorially.” Richard managed a weak grin, though his emotions were muddled.

 
“I should argue with you,” she said. “But as I am smitten with Mr. Murray, I have no wish to. And now you are free to court that pretty Miss Awdry who so clearly admires you.”

  He shook his head. “She would not have me.”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “Well, not directly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I broached the topic, but she said she would never marry a man who would not be faithful to her.”

  “Can’t blame a woman for that. So be faithful to her.”

  “She wouldn’t give me that chance.”

  “You don’t know that. You have always been good with words, Richard. Tell her how you really feel. Write it down if you have to.”

  When he said nothing, she squeezed his hand once more. “I want you to be happy, Richard. And I want to be happy too. And with your friend, I think I have every chance of being so.”

  “Has he proposed?”

  “Not yet. He is not exactly in a position to marry presently. Financially, I mean. His business is struggling. But I hope, eventually, we may marry.”

  “So do I. He’s a good man. And a blessed man, if he has won your love.”

  Susanna leaned up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Then she smiled at him—the prettiest smile he had ever seen.

  “He has indeed.”

  Richard wrapped his arms around her and held her close one last time, his heart bidding his old friend and the past good-bye.

  When Arabella folded back her shutters and looked out on a new day and a new year, she was surprised to see two people standing in the garden behind the house. Richard and the pretty maid, Susanna.

  The two were talking earnestly together by dawn’s light, then Richard raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, holding on far longer than customary.

  Arabella’s heart thudded, and her throat burned.

  Old friends, indeed.

  A moment later, Susanna leaned up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, beaming at him. Richard wrapped his arms around her and held her close in a tender embrace.

  Arabella’s head pounded dully. Stomach souring, she gingerly backed away from the window, praying he would not see her. How mortifying for them all!

  She’d been so close to believing a man could change. That he had changed. That he truly cared for her. She pressed a hand to her stomach, fearing she might be ill.

  But something else rose up as well. Anger, carrying a strong taint of rejection. So be it. It would take an angelic woman to put up with Richard Brockwell, and Arabella was not her.

  She recalled Richard saying, “She has not forgiven me, and I don’t blame her.”

  Well, apparently, Susanna had finally forgiven him.

  Richard had said, “I will always love her. . . . But I am not in love with her, nor she with me.”

  The scene she’d just witnessed belied those words.

  Arabella decided she should be relieved to learn the truth now, before it could too deeply hurt her. Before it could alter her plans and ruin her life. She should be grateful for this near escape, for this evidence that solidified her resolve.

  But relief and gratitude were not what she felt.

  Later that day, Richard found a private moment with his immediate family and said, “I don’t have anything for our guests, but I do have small gifts for each of you.”

  He handed the parcels around: a new novel for Timothy, sheet music for Justina, a decorative sewing box for Rachel, a children’s book for Frederick, and for his mother, a small brooch with dark and silver hair woven in a chessboard pattern beneath the glass.

  She looked up at him in surprise. “This hair . . . It’s not . . . ?”

  “Father’s, yes. Pickering had saved some. He used to cut Father’s hair, you know, as he cuts mine now.”

  Her large eyes filled with tears, and Richard’s chest tightened at the foreign sight. He’d not meant to upset her.

  He shifted from foot to foot. “The jeweler said we didn’t have enough for anything larger, I’m afraid.”

  “No, it’s . . . it’s perfect. Thank you, Richard. I don’t know what to say. I have nothing so thoughtful for you.”

  “I wish I could take all the credit for it, but it was Pickering’s idea. I did have it set, but only because he thought of it when I lamented over what to give you.”

  “I adore it. Thank you. I shall thank him as well. Thank you both.”

  Richard grew increasingly uncomfortable and patted her hand. “There, there, Mamma. Steady on.”

  In return, Justina gave him a box of writing supplies—paper, journal, and ink. And Timothy sheepishly handed him a novel—a copy of the same novel Richard had given him.

  Richard grinned. “We must think alike.”

  “Not surprising. We are brothers, after all.”

  “Yes.” Richard met his gaze. “We are.”

  As the impromptu family party broke up, Timothy asked him, “It seems a little warmer today. What say you to riding together?”

  Richard looked at him in surprise. “I would like that.”

  Half an hour later, the brothers were dressed in riding clothes and mufflers, and mounted two horses.

  As they trotted out of the stable yard, Timothy said, “Thank you for coming out. I’ve missed having a riding companion.”

  They rode around the church and over the packhorse bridge. Richard observed, “You used to ride with Jane when we were young.”

  “Yes, but she is happily married now, and so am I. Our days of riding together are in the past.”

  Turning a corner, Bramble Cottage came into view. Richard murmured, “Speaking of the past . . .”

  He’d not intended to be heard, but his brother stilled, looking at him intently. “You know something about Bramble Cottage?”

  Richard hedged, pointing into the nearby field. “Our sleigh ended up in the ditch over there, and since Miss Awdry had hurt her foot, we took shelter inside the place. I’d heard it was presently unoccupied and assumed our family still owns it.”

  “We used to, yes. But why did you assume we owned it? From something in Father’s will?”

  “No.”

  “Were you . . . acquainted with the former tenant?”

  “Never met her.” A pause. “Saw her though.”

  Timothy studied his face, eyes glinting with questions and speculation. Richard hesitated. Oh, he was tempted. Tempted to knock the mighty Sir Justin off his pedestal and back to fallen earth. But at what price? It would be petty and beneath him to disillusion his brother. No good could come of it after all this time.

  Before Richard made up his mind, Timothy said, “I met her.”

  Surprise flared through Richard. “Did you?”

  His brother nodded. “But only a couple of years ago. Mrs. Haverhill has since moved on to Brighton.”

  Richard wondered how much Timothy knew. “And what did you think of her?”

  “I did not approve of her. Not at first. But Rachel convinced me to be more understanding.”

  Richard raised his eyebrows. “Rachel is acquainted with her too?”

  “Again, they met only recently. It was through her that I learned some . . . family history of which I was hitherto unaware.”

  Richard’s heart began to pound. “You know?”

  “Do you?”

  Richard studied his brother’s face. “If you are talking about what I think you are. But Father made me promise years ago never to tell, so I’d prefer not to speak first.”

  “I learned that he had bought Bramble Cottage for Mrs. Haverhill. And why.”

  “Why?” Richard asked, needing to hear him say it.

  “Because she was his . . . mistress.”

  Richard released a long breath, like a balloon under pressure.

  Timothy watched him and asked gently, “When did you find out?”

  “Years ago. I was twelve. On my way home from Honeycroft one day, I saw Father let himself inside Bramble Cottage. It’s how I knew where to find the key.
It made me curious, so I looked in the window. That’s when I saw him embrace a woman not our mother and heard him call her ‘my darling Georgiana.’”

  Richard didn’t repeat the other hurtful words he’d heard him say.

  Timothy slowly shook his head. “I am sorry, Richard. What a thing to learn about our father at such an impressionable age.”

  “I don’t imagine you enjoyed the revelation much better at thirty.”

  “No, but I had Rachel to share it with. What a burden to shoulder yourself. Did you never say anything about what you saw?”

  Richard shook his head. “I kept my mouth shut for years, watched him masquerade at home like the honorable squire, when all along I knew his dishonorable secret. My second year of university, however, I became involved with a local woman and was ignominiously ‘sent down’ from Oxford. Father was more livid than I had ever seen him, berating my character, and saying he was through paying for my education. He also accused me of trifling with a housemaid, but that was not true. At all events, he threatened to cut me off—force me to make my own way in the world and work for a living. I knew the time had come to lay down that ace I’d been saving.

  “When I told him what I knew, he asked me to swear on my honor to keep his secret. I said, ‘According to you, I haven’t any honor. But I am sure we can work out a mutually beneficial arrangement.’”

  Timothy raised his chin in sudden realization. “So that’s why Father allowed you to live in the townhouse and agreed to fund your London life. I tried to reason with him about the unnecessary expense before he died, but he held firm.”

  Richard nodded. “I could not get out of Brockwell Court fast enough. Yet his final words to me haunt me still. ‘You selfish schemer. You will be the death of me.’ Not long after that, he had the apoplexy. ‘The stroke of God’s hand,’ the doctor called it. But I knew it was my fault.”

  “No, Richard, it was not.”

  Richard shrugged. “You see now why I’ve avoided marriage. I’ve seen firsthand the farce societal unions can be. You know our parents were not happy, though Mamma would never admit it. And once he died, she quickly idealized him, forgetting all his neglect and coolness toward her, the many absences . . . The great Sir Justin, magistrate, so dutifully serving the board of governors for the almshouse, the village council, St. Anne’s . . . all the while betraying his family and his marriage vows. What a bag of moonshine. Rubbish, the lot of it. I decided if that’s what marriage was, they could keep it.”