An Ivy Hill Christmas

by Julie Klassen

  Richard stared at the silent house. His father’s hypocrisy was at least partly why he wrote satire lampooning those who set themselves above others, when they were really sinners like everyone else. He was no saint either, of course, but he didn’t pretend to be.

  Richard looked at his brother. “But I kept my promise to never tell her. Has Mamma somehow learned of it?”

  “Not as far as I know. Certainly not from me. I decided it would only hurt her unnecessarily.”

  “I agree.” Richard would not break his mother’s heart if he could help it. Nor break his promise to his father and thereby live up to all the negative things Sir Justin had said about him.

  A dark cloud passed overhead, and rain suddenly pelted down. “Come,” Timothy said, pulling on one rein. “Let’s go home.”

  Together they galloped back to Brockwell Court. Reaching the stables and seeing no groom about the place, they removed the saddles and rubbed down the horses themselves.

  Over the top of the adjoining stall, Timothy said, “I am sorry, Richard. But I’m afraid none of this changes our financial situation. Our decision to sell the townhouse still stands.”

  The words stole any remaining morsel of hope that Richard could return to his former life. The life he’d thought he wanted. He considered arguing. But how could he argue that he deserved the townhouse, when he knew he deserved nothing? Simply for keeping his father’s secret, which would have humiliated his family and himself in the bargain? He had extorted years of free and easy living from that knowledge. It was more than enough.

  He nodded to his brother and continued grooming the horse. Inwardly, disappointment gave way to a fear of the unknown. How would he support himself? Where would he live? Could he face himself in the mirror if he simply remained in Brockwell Court, living off his family’s largess?

  Heaven help him, it would be even more difficult to ask for Arabella’s hand without his own home. Timothy had been right when he’d said, “What sort of life could you offer her?” Richard realized anew that he was not good enough for Miss Awdry. Never had been and was certainly less so now.

  Even so, he decided he had to try.

  Richard led David Murray up the High Street to a small property between the lace maker’s and the circulating library. A For Let sign stood propped in the window.

  Richard asked, “What would you think of a property like this? Would it suit you? Would your printing press fit?”

  Murray’s eyes shifted to his in surprise.

  Richard explained, “I hope you don’t mind, but Susanna mentioned your interest in remaining in the area.”

  “Yes, she assured me you wouldn’t mind if I . . . if we . . .”

  “I don’t mind. I couldn’t be happier for you both.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” Murray looked again at the shop, leaning closer to peer through the window. “I wonder how much a place like this rents for here?”

  “I don’t know.” Richard pointed a few doors away. “The property agents are just down the street. We could ask.”

  Murray hesitated, then shrugged. “There is no point. Whatever it is, I can’t afford it. Not now.”

  Richard studied his friend’s profile in concern. “What’s wrong? You mentioned the magazine is not as profitable as you’d like. Has something else happened?”

  Murray nodded. “I received a letter from my lawyer and financial backer. Apparently, we have declared bankruptcy. And by the time the creditors are through selling off my equipment and furniture, there will be almost nothing left and nothing to go back to.”

  Shock and sorrow washed over Richard. “You often joked about bankruptcy, but I did not realize things were as bad as all that.”

  “You’re not the only one who hides behind humor.”

  Richard squeezed his shoulder. “I am sorry, old friend. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “Don’t worry, Richard. I am not asking for help. I know you are facing your own predicament. Only unburdening myself.” Murray chuckled, though it was a desolate sound.

  Richard inwardly agreed. He faced his own predicament indeed.

  CHAPTER

  Fifteen

  When Richard entered the breakfast room early the next morning, Miss Awdry was just leaving. He had seen very little of her the day before, and during shared meals, she seemed to be avoiding eye contact. Was she angry with him for the glib, foolish words he’d spoken in the coach? He certainly regretted those words now and hoped a heartfelt proposal would be better received.

  He abandoned his coffee and followed her out.

  “Miss Awdry. Arabella. May I speak with you a moment?”

  She ran her tongue over her lips, her eyes darting to his and away again. “I am rather busy, Mr. Brockwell. If—”

  “Please.”

  She sighed. “Very well. For a few moments.”

  He led her into the library, his favorite room in any house.

  “I kno . . .” He attempted to clear the nervous lump blocking his throat, then repeated, “I realize I have given you reason to doubt my character and my intentions in the past. But you also said you believe a man can change. I hope you believe I have changed. We may have spent less than a fortnight together this Christmas, yet we have known one another for years. I think you are wonderful. And I . . . I love you. Yes, I said I had no intention of marrying, and you have said the same. You, Miss Awdry, have utterly changed my mind. Have I any chance of changing yours?”

  She blinked. “Are you sincerely asking me to marry you?”

  “Very poorly, no doubt. Nevertheless, I am perfectly sincere.”

  An incredulous little laugh passed her lips, but she endeavored to compose herself. “Then I am sorry to disappoint you.”

  The blood in his head began to pound. This was not the reaction he’d hoped for.

  She entwined her fingers and spoke formally. “In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express gratitude for the offer, so I thank you. However, I cannot accept. I am sorry to occasion pain to anyone and hope it will be of short duration.”

  Her words stabbed him like a hot cut to his heart. He forced his face to remain impassive and his voice calm. “May I ask why? Is it because of my reputation or past behavior or concerns about my ability to support you?”

  Another mirthless laugh. “Such good reasons to choose from! Though I have other provocation—you know I have. I have every reason in the world to doubt your character.”

  Confusion puckered his brow. “To what do you refer? I am not the man I once was. I thought you admired me, at least a little. And I certainly admire you.”

  She shrugged, but he could see she didn’t believe him.

  Richard’s mind whirled, searching for a way to convince her, to soften the hard look on her face.

  “I know you struggle to believe I could and would be faithful to you. But I would be, Arabella. I promise you.”

  “How can I believe you? Against the evidence of my own eyes?” She shook her head. “No, I could not bear it. Always wondering. Every late night. Every look at a housemaid . . .”

  Indignation flashed. “Miss Awdry. Here you are unjust. I have never dallied with a housemaid in my life.”

  “Yes, you did. I was here when you were sent home from Oxford. I overheard your father berating you. For years now I have kept your base little secret. One of many, no doubt.”

  “Thunder and turf. That was years ago! Yes, I flirted with that maid, but that was the end of it. Father found her in my room and assumed the worst. I give you my word, nothing happened.”

  “I might believe you, if I had not seen you behave in similar fashion more than once since I’ve been here.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  She huffed. “Susanna.”

  “I told you. She and I are old friends. You are the only woman in Ivy Hill, in all of England, I want to marry.”

  “I don’t know what your intentions are toward other wome
n, and I don’t care.” She held up her palm. “It is none of my business. I had already decided to remain unmarried before I came here, and though I admit to being briefly tempted by you, I will not exchange my independence for a marriage sure to result in betrayal and heartache. I am sorry if that hurts you, but I trust you will recover quickly. In the unlikely event I see you at some London charity event, you will no doubt be with some pretty widow and will have forgotten all about me.”

  “Impossible.”

  “That you would attend a charity event? Yes, I know.”

  “No, I meant—”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Brockwell. We are going home early. I am already packed. I realize we were invited to stay through Twelfth Night, but as things are . . . Cyril and his new bride are due home any day, and we want to be there to welcome them. As soon as I can make travel arrangements, I will be moving to London. Better late than never. I doubt our paths will often cross there.”

  “I doubt it too.”

  Surprise flickered through her eyes, but he did not explain. She hesitated, then lifted her chin. “Perhaps that is for the best.”

  Walking in a dejected daze, Richard returned to the empty breakfast room in great need of coffee. The footman came in and handed Richard a letter. He inwardly groaned. What now? Another rejection or another bill from his tailor? The handwriting was not familiar. Richard glanced at the seal, not recognizing the insignia.

  He peeled it open, and a slip of paper fell out. He bent to pick it up, expecting an enclosed invoice or past-due notice. Glancing at it, he blinked and looked more closely. It was a bank draft for one hundred pounds, made payable to him and signed by a London banker.

  Stunned, he turned his attention to the letter.

  It was from the final publisher to whom he’d sent a copy of his book. Richard had all but given up hope of hearing back from the man, let alone of receiving an offer.

  We are pleased to publish your novel and consider a second, if our terms are agreeable to you.

  It was not as much as an aspiring novelist might hope for. He had heard of authors paid far more for their novels, but he had certainly heard of others paid far less. For an untried author, it really was a very good offer, and more money than he had ever earned in his life. With this much money, he could afford to live in London for another year—in a small pair of rooms, perhaps. and with fewer visits to his tailor, yet it could be done. Perhaps life as he knew it was not over.

  For several moments, Richard stared at the letter and bank draft, feeling as though he were trapped in a dream. Fearing any moment he would wake up and both would dissolve in his hands, and all his hopes with them.

  Arabella was relieved to return home to Broadmere, but when she broached the subject of London again, her mother groaned.

  “Not that again, Arabella.”

  “Mamma, please. You know how long I have wanted to go to London. Aunt Gen wants me to work with her and has invited me to stay as long as I like.”

  Lady Lillian looked at her, then sighed, slouching into the sofa without her usual ramrod-straight posture.

  “Oh, my beautiful, accomplished daughter. Is your beauty to be all for nothing?”

  “Mamma. Remember, ‘favour is deceitful and beauty is vain.’”

  “Yes, yes. I know. Still . . . I had hoped. Things seemed to be going so well with Richard Brockwell.”

  Arabella shook her head. “I have turned him down, Mamma.”

  “He did propose?”

  “Yes, though I could not accept him.”

  “Oh no.” Her mother sighed again. “Well. That’s that. Now that you have turned down the last Brockwell, and Mr. Bingley has chosen your sister, you may as well go to London. There is no one left for you here.”

  “Mamma, you should be happy Penelope is engaged.”

  “I am! I gather Mrs. Bingley hoped Horace would turn his attentions to you. However, I cannot say I am truly sorry. I doubted Penelope would ever receive an offer of marriage, and one from a Bingley? It is more than I could have hoped for. I trust his mother will warm to Penelope in time.”

  “She will, Mamma. Who could not who truly knows her? Pen will make him an excellent wife and hunting companion. I don’t even ride.”

  “True. Well, I shan’t prevent you, but I cannot spare our lady’s maid, and naturally you cannot travel alone. So if you are determined, write to your aunt and see what she suggests.”

  “Very well, I shall. Thank you, Mamma!” Arabella kissed her mother’s cheek and hurried up to her room. She quickly wrote to her aunt with the news that her mother had finally relented. Arabella was ready and willing to journey to London at her first opportunity.

  CHAPTER

  Sixteen

  Preparing for the outing to come, Richard dressed himself in his most professional coat and tied his cravat into a plain barrel knot. No frippery. No falderals. Pickering watched with silent interest and a touch of concern. Wally, too, made do with a simple warm woolen waistcoat. His dandy days might be over, but it was still winter.

  A short while later, Richard wheeled down the drive in the curricle borrowed from his brother, Wally perched happily beside him. As they turned onto Ivy Hill’s High Street, Richard glanced at The Bell Inn. It would be so easy to go there and buy passage on a coach that would return him to London.

  Instead, he looked away and rode down the hill and eastward into Wishford, his thoughts on Jamie Fleming, David Murray, and the printer Francis Knock.

  What sort of system sentenced a vulnerable youth to seven years of bondage to a cruel abuser? Changes were needed. Perhaps it was time he used his writing skills for a higher purpose than lampooning the monarch or other politicians. Richard still had received no reply to the letter he’d written to the organization. If only Murray had not gone bankrupt and his magazine out of business. Richard had waited too long. Was that not the story of his life? He’d squandered the years he’d been given and wasted so many opportunities.

  In Wishford, Richard left the horses and curricle in the livery and walked to the print shop.

  The burly printer was just returning from his midday meal at the Crown.

  “Mr. Knock. I see your For Sale notice is still up. No offers?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “I suppose printing is not as profitable as it once was?”

  “That’s right. Times are hard, especially in a small town like this.”

  Richard nodded. “As well as in London. In fact, a publisher I know from there has just been forced to declare bankruptcy.”

  “Poor sap. That’s a pity.”

  “I agree. How long has your place been for sale?”

  Knock blew out a breath. “Oh, nigh on two years now.” Mr. Knock strode inside and Richard followed him. Wally waited outside, none too patiently.

  “So an offer is unlikely at this point?” Richard asked. He sent a subtle smile to Jamie, busy with a broom.

  “Yes, but one can still hope. I’d like to sell out. Tired of slaving away for the few coins that come my way. And what thanks do I get? Ink-stained fingers and an ungrateful apprentice eating me out of house and home.” He gestured toward Jamie.

  The boy did look more hale—thanks more likely to the provisions Mrs. Nettleton had sent back with him than any generosity on Mr. Knock’s part.

  He kept his tone casual. “What are you asking for the place?”

  The man told him, and Richard kept his face serene, even though the amount was far too high.

  “Though had I a cash offer on the line, I might consider accepting less,” Knock added.

  Richard nodded sagely, then grimaced at the shop’s peeling paint and sagging ceiling. “The building is not in the best trim.”

  Knock looked around him, scratching his head, as though this were news to him.

  Richard asked, “And where would you live were you to sell?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Have not thought that far. Depends on if a new owner wanted to live in or not.”

 
Richard took a deep breath. “I will give you ninety pounds for the equipment, type, and furnishings. Customer lists and accounts. Paper stock. The lot of it.”

  The man’s eyebrows rose to his scalp. “You, Mr. Brockwell? And what would you do with it?”

  “Print something, I imagine.”

  Knock shook his head. “Ninety pounds is not enough.”

  “Very well.” Richard shrugged and turned toward the door.

  “Wait. Let’s talk this over. Where would I live?”

  “You can keep the building. Such as it is. Perhaps you could let out the lower floors and sleep in the rotting garret you consigned your young apprentice to.”

  “Then where would you set up shop?”

  “You leave that to me.”

  The Ivy Hill property agent had offered him the vacant shop on the High Street on very easy terms.

  Knock’s brow puckered. “Do you know anything about printing?”

  “Very little. Thankfully, I shall have Jamie here to help me.” Richard nodded at Jamie but kept his expression detached.

  Knock stood possessively beside the lad, chest out. “The apprentice is mine. I’ve got the papers. It’s all legal-like. Seven years.”

  “You shall not need an apprentice. Unless, what, do you fancy a houseboy or a bootboy? Oh yes, you would like a bootboy, I don’t doubt. Even so, you shall not have this one, for he is part of my bargain. Take it or leave it.”

  Lifting a pugnacious chin, Knock said, “You can’t do that. I have a contract. In my name.”

  Jamie looked as miserable as a boy could, but Richard endeavored to keep his cards close to his chest.

  “Well, I’m sure we can find a magistrate to make the necessary alterations. My brother is one of the local JPs, and both Lord Winspear and Mr. Bingley are personal friends. But if you’d rather have the apprentice than an offer of ready cash, then . . .”