The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 19

  “We’re expecting a large party shortly, or I would go to Bramble Cottage with you. But don’t go alone, all right? Take Mercy or Mr. Basu—just in case whoever broke in the first time decides to come back.”

  Rachel shivered. “I admit the prospect of going in alone is a little daunting.”

  Jane held the door for her. “No wonder, seeing the state of the place. Ah. There’s Timothy. I am sure he will help you on your mission of mercy.”

  Rachel looked over sharply. Sure enough, there came Sir Timothy toward them, only steps away.

  “Mission of mercy?” he echoed, looking from Jane to Rachel. “Of course I would be happy to help, if I am needed.”

  “That is all right,” Rachel demurred. “You needn’t come with me.”

  “I think it would be a good idea,” Jane insisted. “An empty house and all.”

  “An empty house?” His face puckered in confusion.

  “She is going to Bramble Cottage to bring a gift to Mr. Nesbitt.” Jane tapped the dish for emphasis.

  “Who?”

  Rachel gave him an apologetic look. “I shall explain on the way.”

  Together they walked up Ebsbury Road until they reached the cottage. There, Rachel found the key in the pot, unlocked the door, and opened it. She had expected the sour smell of cat or worse, but instead a pleasant aroma of dried flowers and spices greeted them.

  Rachel was relieved to see Mrs. Haverhill had restored some order to the room, at least picking things off the floor and righting the furniture, though a pile of papers still lay in a jumble on the sofa, a few drawers remained open, and an old wardrobe, apparently used as a coat closet, stood ajar, a wad of cloaks, shawls, and muffs shoved back inside and not quite closing. Rachel did not explain the disarray. She would not incriminate young Molly Kurdle and betray Mrs. Haverhill in the process.

  “Rather cluttered,” he observed, hands clasped behind his back. “Looks like she was trying to find something in a hurry.”

  Rachel murmured a noncommittal “Mm-hm.”

  They walked slowly, quietly, around the ground level, ostensibly looking for the cat. The main room held a fireplace, sofa, and armchair on one side, and on the other, a modest dining table, chairs, and sideboard. A mourning wreath hung on the wall.

  Rachel noticed a pair of masculine spectacles on an end table beside a thick book, though perhaps they were Mrs. Haverhill’s. In one of the open drawers, Rachel saw a finely carved pipe. In another, a single leather glove that looked too large to be a woman’s. Following the direction of her gaze, Timothy asked, “And what do we know about Mr. Haverhill?”

  “I did not ask. I believe she has been on her own for a long time.”

  She waited, but he said nothing further. She wondered if he still suspected she might be Carville’s paramour.

  At the back of the cottage they found a small kitchen and larder. Rachel noticed a bowl on the floor containing dregs of water and an empty dish next to it. But still no sign of the cat.

  She replenished the water, then looked into the adjoining room. The servants’ bedchamber, Rachel assumed, for inside were two narrow beds, neatly made. An old doll sat propped on one, and several childish drawings, now yellowed and curling, were tacked to the walls.

  Beside her, Timothy’s gaze lingered on the drawings. “Has she children?”

  “Not that I know of. She mentioned her former maid had a daughter and that they both lived here for many years.”

  “Where are they now?”

  “The mother, Bess Kurdle, died last year. Her daughter left only recently. Fell in love with the wrong man, apparently. The old story.”

  His head snapped toward her at that, but she kept her gaze on the doll, and whispered a prayer for Molly Kurdle, wherever she was.

  He said, “Bess Kurdle . . . I know that name. But how?”

  She glanced over, saw his brows furrowed in thought. She explained what Mrs. Haverhill had told her, about one of the magistrates sparing a widowed Mrs. Kurdle the workhouse and arranging the position for her here at Bramble Cottage.

  “Ah . . .” He lifted his chin in recollection. “I remember hearing that story. Lord Winspear wanted to take a hard line as he had with her husband. A poacher, was he? But Father took pity on her.”

  “Yes. Very kind of him,” Rachel murmured, her own thoughts in a tangle. She wondered about Sir Justin’s motives but did not want to cast doubt on his father’s memory.

  They returned to the main room, where a narrow stairway led to the upper story—to Mrs. Haverhill’s bedchamber, she guessed. It would feel like an invasion of privacy to ascend those stairs, Rachel decided, so she did not. Instead she called, “Mr. Nesbitt?”

  She felt foolish calling for a cat by a man’s name, but it was effective. The cat came padding down the stairs at last, groggy from a nap, or shy at the sound of strangers in his abode. Rachel unwrapped the dish of kipper and set it on the floor. His reserve dissolved, and he ate greedily.

  Straightening, Rachel noticed a framed miniature portrait on the side table and picked it up. “It’s Mrs. Haverhill. How young she is in this. How lovely.”

  She held it out for Timothy to see. He gave it a cursory glance and nodded his agreement.

  “It is easy to see why Carville might admire her.”

  “Or any man,” she added, still not believing Mrs. Haverhill had ever felt anything but disdain for Mr. Carville.

  She replaced the portrait, and his eyes lit upon a book beside it.

  “I remember this book.” A soft smile lifted his face. “My father had a well-worn copy. Byron’s first book of poetry. It was not well received, but he liked it.” He ran his finger over the cover, that nostalgic smile lingering on his mouth. Then he picked up the book, as if recalling the weight and feel of the volume in his hands.

  “Now, here is a book you ought to have in your library.” He handed it to her. “Do you?”

  She returned his smile. “I don’t know, I shall have to check.”

  She idly opened the cover . . . and felt her smile fall away. For a moment she stood there, staring down at the flyleaf.

  To Georgiana. With love always, J.

  J could be almost anyone, she told herself, wanting to protect Timothy, and herself. She would not be the one to show him this.

  Noticing her stillness, he asked, “What is it?”

  “Hmm? Oh, nothing.” She closed the book and set it back down. “I will review my inventory as soon as I get back.”

  Apparently satisfied, he looked again around the small but well-furnished cottage, taking in the quality upholstery and fine glassware and china displayed in a corner cupboard. At least the thief or thieves had not smashed or stolen those as well.

  Was he wondering who had paid for it all?

  Rachel mused, “Apparently, Mrs. Haverhill was once well-off. But I don’t believe that is the case any longer. She has taken to making and selling soap in the Wishford market. And I think hunger, as well as fatigue, played a role in her collapse.”

  He nodded. “Thankfully, she has you and Jane to help her.” He cleared his throat. “Speaking of hunger . . . have you eaten?”

  She shook her head and glanced at the mantel clock. “I have missed dinner at Ivy Cottage—we eat early. But I shall sneak something from the kitchen when Mrs. Timmons isn’t looking, never fear.”

  “Then come to Brockwell Court for dinner tonight.”

  She blinked up at him in surprise.

  Her reluctance must have shown, for he said, “I know you were not as warmly received last time as you deserve, but Justina is eager to see you. And I would enjoy your company as well.”

  “But your mother . . .”

  “Leave her to me.”

  Rachel glanced down at her walking dress. “I would have to change.”

  “We can stop by Ivy Cottage on the way.”

  Hope and dread knotted her stomach at once. Foolish creature, she thought irritably, reminding herself to keep her expectations low.
“Very well.”

  He smiled at Rachel as though she had given him some great gift, and gestured for her to precede him out the door.

  Chapter

  twenty

  “Rachel!” Justina squealed and threw her arms around her. “How lovely to see you again. You are staying for dinner this time, I insist. I shall not take no for an answer.”

  “Your brother has invited me, so yes.”

  “Has he indeed? Well done, Timothy.” She cast a dubious glance over his blue coat and tan trousers. “You had better go and change before Mamma sees you. I shall keep Rachel company in the meantime, never fear.”

  “Very well. Don’t abuse her ears while I’m gone, Justina.”

  “No promises.”

  He ascended the stairs, and Justina led Rachel into the drawing room. “Come and tell me everything.”

  The two sat and talked, Rachel describing all she was learning about books, managing a business, and the many Ivy Hill residents she was becoming acquainted with through the library.

  Justina’s eyes sparkled. “May I ask about Mr. Ashford, or would that be prying?”

  “Oh no.” Rachel shook her head. “I have been talking for the last ten minutes at least. It is your turn. What was your mother hinting about when last I was here? About your being marriageable and needing your own lady’s maid now?”

  Justina blushed and shifted. “Mamma pretends I am as good as engaged, but as I said, nothing is settled. I am, however, being encouraged to accept a certain man.”

  “And do you like this man?”

  The girl shrugged. “I hardly know. He does not seem a bad man. It would be easier to protest if he were rude or ill-favored. But he is not.”

  “What is his name, if I may ask? Would I know him?”

  “I don’t think so. His name is Sir Cyril Awdry.”

  The name rang a faint bell in Rachel’s memory. She recalled a cheerful, sporting man who talked too much and laughed too loud. A man of good character but a little too much of the rattle.

  Justina went on, “I think he’s too old for me—perhaps five and thirty. Though he is boyish in his way, so he seems younger.”

  “Has he proposed?”

  “Not formally. Timothy has convinced him I am too young and to wait until my next birthday.”

  “Good. Then you shall have time to allow your acquaintance to deepen before you must decide.”

  Justina nodded, her eyes downturned. “Oh, Rachel, I miss you. You were like a big sister to me. I once thought you or Jane would marry Timothy and be my sister forever.”

  Rachel ducked her head, immediately self-conscious. As did I.

  Justina took her hand. “What happened, Rachel? I have always wondered. I was only eight or nine at the time, so I wasn’t privy to all the details.”

  “I was not either, so don’t ask me.” Rachel forced a smile. “Now, that is enough about the ancient past.”

  Lady Brockwell swept into the room, regal in an emerald-green dinner dress, and drew up short at the sight of Rachel there.

  “Miss Ashford, I . . . did not know we were expecting you.”

  Sir Timothy entered after her, and Rachel’s heartbeat quickened. No man wore evening clothes like he did. The well-tailored coat emphasized broad shoulders and narrow waist. The high white shirt collar accentuated a masculine jawline and cleft chin. His dark hair and side-whiskers drew her gaze to his strong cheekbones and thickly lashed eyes. Eyes that held hers in warm reassurance before turning to his mother.

  “Mamma, I asked Miss Ashford to join us for dinner. I know you will make her welcome. She is my guest.”

  Lady Brockwell’s gaze swept over Rachel’s simple but appropriate attire. “Of course I will. But you ought to have asked me first, Timothy. You forget we may be expecting visitors this evening.”

  “If you mean the Awdrys, Sir Cyril simply mentioned he might call on his way to the Salisbury races. The man is a horse-racing enthusiast. His will only be an informal visit, if it happens at all.”

  “Nonsense, Timothy; you particularly invited him to come shooting with you.”

  “That was you, Mamma,” Justina interjected. “You said, ‘Do come to Brockwell Court and shoot as many birds as you please.’”

  “Justina, I do not appreciate being mocked.”

  “I am sorry, Mamma,” the girl placated. “But please don’t be cross. If he does come, I would like Rachel to meet him.”

  Lady Brockwell lifted a stony chin. “I am not cross, merely reminding you of a previous engagement.”

  “That is all right, Justina,” Rachel demurred, growing increasingly uncomfortable. “I am sure I shall meet him at some point, when . . . all the villagers do.”

  Carville entered and announced, “Sir Cyril and Miss Awdry.”

  Lady Brockwell shot Timothy a look, then turned to smile at the newcomers.

  The man who entered was slim and of average height, with wavy brown hair, bright eyes, and a ready smile in his tanned, boyish face.

  The woman beside him matched his height but was large boned, with none of his fine, almost delicate, features. She stood, her frock a few inches too short, her half boots showing beneath her hem, shoulder-width apart in mannish stance.

  The gentleman bowed and beamed at Lady Brockwell. “A thousand apologies, madam, for appearing unannounced at such an hour. I see that you are already dressed for dinner and looking uncommonly well, I must say. I hope you will forgive us for taking the liberty. We had hoped to arrive earlier, but Mr. Bingley invited us to call. Pleasant fellow and so obliging. He showed us his new hunting rifle. Excellent gun. You are acquainted with the Bingleys?”

  “We are, yes. These many years.”

  “Right. Excellent.” He turned toward Justina and bowed once more. “Miss Brockwell. A pleasure to see you again.”

  She curtsied in reply. “Sir Cyril.”

  His gaze shifted away as quickly as it had landed, like a nervous butterfly. “Allow me to introduce my sister, Miss Penelope Awdry.”

  Lady Brockwell faltered. “But . . . we met your sister in London. A . . . different sister.”

  “That was our younger sister, Arabella.”

  “Ah.” Lady Brockwell sent Timothy another meaningful glance. “I was looking forward to seeing her again.”

  “Arabella does not enjoy the sporting life. She’s at home with our mother.”

  “A pity.”

  “But of course we are pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Awdry,” Justina added politely, and then she introduced Rachel to them.

  Rachel had briefly met the man in the past, but he did not acknowledge the acquaintance, so neither did she.

  Sir Cyril grinned at Lady Brockwell. “You may see Arabella again soon, if you wish, ma’am. For as I stand here, invitations are on their way to you via post. We are hosting a concert at Broadmere.”

  “Then we shall look forward to that, won’t we?” She looked from son to daughter, who both dutifully nodded and expressed their thanks.

  Sir Cyril turned to Timothy. “Now, you did offer to take me shooting, Brockwell, did you not?” He rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation.

  “We did, yes.”

  “I have brought my new fowling piece, and Pen has hers. She’ll best us both, if we are not careful.” He laughed, a bit more boisterously than the comment required.

  He looked up at his host expectantly. Did the man think they would go shooting then and there?

  “Tomorrow, perhaps,” Lady Brockwell suggested. “I am sure you would like to change and have dinner first. You will stay the night, I trust?”

  “Yes, if not an imposition. I do apologize for taking the liberty of arriving at Brockwell Court so—”

  “Nonsense. You have already apologized, and there is no need. We did extend a general invitation for you to call when next you were in the area.”

  “Very kind of you, madam. Exceedingly kind. Is she not kind, Pen?”

  His sister solemnly nodded.<
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  “Carville will show you to your rooms and see your bags delivered,” Lady Brockwell said. “My son’s valet will attend you, Sir Cyril. And my daughter’s lady’s maid will help you change, Miss Awdry.”

  The woman looked down at her dress, and Rachel’s heart went out to her. She hoped Miss Awdry had brought another.

  Half an hour later, they were all seated around the long table in the high-ceilinged dining room with its silver candelabra, gleaming domed dishes, and a dazzling array of forks, knives, and spoons for various courses. Rachel had eaten alone and simply at Thornvale since her father’s illness. And meals at Ivy Cottage were informal affairs. But sitting there in an out-of-fashion evening dress and having to make light conversation with the Brockwells and their guests was altogether different. Eight years ago, she had been a part of their set, of this life. Did she still belong? Did she want to?

  Across the table, Sir Cyril regaled the company with an enthusiastic account of his sister’s victory at a recent archery tournament. He paused to ask, “How many rounds did you win, Pen—nine out of the ten?”

  “Seven.”

  He laughed heartily. “Seven. I began to feel sorry for the other competitors.” His smiling gaze landed on Justina, then shifted to Timothy. “I look forward to a good day of shooting tomorrow.”

  “I hope to oblige you, though if it storms, as the sky suggests, I cannot guarantee it.”

  “If that be the case, a set-to of rat hunting in the barn will serve as an excellent alternative.”

  Lady Brockwell’s expression curdled at the mention of rats at the dinner table, and she said abruptly, “Your father was much older than your mother when they married—is that not so?”

  Sir Cyril smiled at her, apparently not taken aback by the change of topic or prying question. “Indeed he was, God rest his soul. But hopefully Mamma will be with us for many years to come.” He turned to his sister for confirmation.

  Miss Awdry obliged him. “She is in excellent health.”

  “And had your parents been long acquainted before they married?” Lady Brockwell asked.

  “Yes! They grew up together.” Sir Cyril’s boyish face glowed with memory. “She was like a little sister to him for years, but then she blossomed before his eyes and stole his heart, or so he always told us. Quite the romantic, Papa was.”