The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill Read online

“You don’t own it yet, but you ought to,” Cadi teased. “It suits you so well.”

  From the road outside came the sound of a horn blast. Jane casually stepped to the window and watched the yellow Mercury turn onto the drive and rumble through the archway. She noticed the coachman in his many-caped coat, the guard on the back, and several outside passengers. And inside the stagecoach, a face pressed near the window. A face Jane recognized with a start. Thora Bell—her eyes locked on Jane.

  Panic flowed through her. “I have to change this instant.”

  “What? Why?”

  Jane stepped back, heart pounding, praying Thora had not seen her. Or at least—what she’d been wearing. “I don’t want my mother-in-law to see me in this.”

  Cadi followed her into the bedchamber, face pale. “I’m sorry, ma’am. Had I known she was coming today, I never would have urged you to put it on. You should have said something.”

  The young woman hurried behind Jane and began undoing the lacings and tiny pearl buttons with trembling fingers.

  Jane’s hands were not steady either. “I had no idea she was coming. I am as surprised as you are.”

  Jane told herself Thora would probably go inside the inn first, talk to Mrs. Rooke, and freshen up in her old room before seeking her out—or at least she hoped so.

  The lavender fabric slid from her hips, and Jane stepped out of it. Cadi carried the dress into the sitting room and tried to force all that material back into its box.

  “Put the lid on,” Jane hissed.

  Cadi scrambled to comply, then hurried back to help Jane into the black bombazine. But before she could, a sharp knock sounded on the lodge door. Both women gasped. The material shook in Cadi’s hands.

  “It’s too late.” Jane swiped up her dressing gown and slid her arms into the sleeves.

  “Shall I answer it?” Cadi asked.

  “No, you stay here,” Jane said. She knew her mother-in-law would not approve of her conscripting one of the staff to open her door for her. Nor did she want Cadi to get into any trouble with Mrs. Rooke.

  Smoothing her hair, Jane walked to the door, hoping to appear at ease. She opened it and faced John and Patrick’s mother, Mrs. Thora Bell. The woman wore a plain gown of unrelieved black wool. She must have been uncomfortable in it on this warm spring day.

  Thora’s bonnet was as dark as her look—though the cap underneath was customary white lace. Beneath the cap her black hair showed no hint of grey. She stood of average height, but her confident bearing made her seem taller. Her features, like her figure, were strong. Stern lines framed her mouth and eyes—striking blue eyes that made people look twice.

  Those suspicious blue eyes now swept Jane top to toe and back again. “You look terrible.”

  “Thank you, Thora.” Jane forced a smile. “Good to see you as well. We didn’t expect you.”

  “Evidently.” Thora surveyed the sitting room, her gaze lingering on the gown box. “I thought I would visit and see how you were getting on.”

  “I am well. Thank you.”

  “Are you?” Thora eyed her haphazardly tied dressing gown with raised brows.

  “Yes. Won’t you come in and sit down?”

  “No, thank you. I shan’t stay long.” Her mother-in-law had never spent more time in the keeper’s lodge than absolutely necessary, and had barely set foot in the place since John’s death.

  Thora asked, “Where is Talbot? I was surprised he did not meet the coach.”

  “Talbot is gone.”

  “Gone?” Thora pressed a hand to her chest.

  “Not dead,” Jane hurried to clarify. “He simply left our employ, about four months ago now.”

  Thora frowned. “Why would he leave after all this time?”

  “He has taken over his family’s farm.”

  “Walter Talbot—farming? I cannot credit it.”

  “The old homeplace is his now that his brother passed away. And his sister-in-law is quite ill, I understand.”

  Thora’s brow furrowed. “Bill died? I had not heard. Poor Nan. . . .” For a moment she seemed lost in thought, then drew herself up. “Who is managing the inn in Talbot’s stead?”

  “Well, I recently hired Colin McFarland, but—”

  “McFarland?” Thora’s face stretched in incredulity. “Why on earth would you do that?”

  Jane shrugged. “Mercy told me he needed the work. Asked me to give him a chance to prove himself.”

  Thora waved an expressive hand. “He’ll prove something all right—that it was a mistake to hire him. Besides, he can’t be more than, what, nineteen?”

  “Four or five and twenty, I believe. And hopefully he will learn in time. In the meanwhile, Patrick is here and helps wherever needed.”

  Thora blinked. “Patrick is here?”

  “Yes. . . . I’m sorry, I assumed he would have written to you.”

  “How optimistic of you. He has never been one to write letters. You two share that trait, apparently.”

  Jane ducked her head. “I am sorry. I should have written, I know.”

  Thora frowned. “I thought Patrick was sailing around the world on a merchant ship.”

  “He was. He returned a month or so ago.”

  “Why?”

  Jane shrugged. “He heard about John and came back to help. And he is more than welcome.”

  Jane noticed the woman’s gaze fix on something, and turned to see what had caught her attention. A lavender cuff poked its tongue from under the box lid. Oh no.

  But on second look, Jane realized that was not what had arrested her mother-in-law. Instead, she was staring at the small portrait of John he’d commissioned for Jane as a wedding gift.

  Jane picked it up and handed it to her.

  Thora took a cursory glance and briskly handed it back. “How young he looks.”

  Jane regarded the painting. She had almost forgotten how young and handsome John had been when they married. At that age, he had resembled Patrick more than she realized.

  Replacing the portrait, Jane asked, “How is your sister?”

  “She is well enough, thank you. A bit daft, but otherwise in good health.” Thora squared her shoulders. “Well. I shall leave you. I am sorry to hear about Talbot’s brother. I shall go and pay my respects soon. That is, assuming I am invited to stay?”

  “Of course, Thora. Stay as long as you like.” Jane hoped she would not live to regret the offer. She added, “Your old room is much as you left it.”

  “Is it indeed?” Thora’s eyes snapped in disapproval. “What an impractical waste of space.”

  Thora left her daughter-in-law and crossed the courtyard. A stew of conflicting emotions churned in her stomach, but she determined to show none of them.

  The place had certainly not improved in her absence. Nor her relationship with John’s wife.

  Out front, the vacancy sign hung at an unsightly angle on a single chain. Why had no one repaired it? And why was there any vacancy on a Tuesday—typically a busy day indeed. The inn had needed new paint when she left, and that fact had become more evident—bare wood showed here and there through peeling paint, especially on the window trim. The flowerpots on either side of the door did look well, she begrudgingly acknowledged. Jane’s work, no doubt. And the stable yard itself, although too quiet, appeared perfectly neat. That was something. Perhaps Mrs. Rooke had exaggerated when she’d written about the sorry state of the place.

  The cook-housekeeper stood waiting for her in the hall, as broad in the hips as her considerable shoulders. “In her boudoir, as usual?”

  “Yes.”

  “At this time of day?” The stout woman tsked.

  With Talbot gone, Jane ought to have been greeting coaches and overseeing the staff, not sleeping late or trying on new dresses or whatever she’d been doing.

  “She isn’t the landlady you were, Mrs. Bell. She’s of no earthly use that I can see. Do you know, the butcher reduced my last order, on account of money owed!”

  “No
.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. Rooke insisted. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, I don’t mind telling you. Now you understand why I wrote that letter.”

  Thora nodded. She knew she should not tolerate criticism of her daughter-in-law, but instead gave in to the temptation to add to it. “No wonder the place is falling into disrepair, with no innkeeper to oversee it or welcome guests.”

  A young maid passing by with an empty basket said, “Mr. Bell has gone to Wishford, madam, or he no doubt would have met your coach.”

  Mrs. Rooke scowled at the girl. “Get on with your work, Cadi. No need to speak unless spoken to.”

  The maid hurried up the stairs and out of view.

  Thora didn’t recognize her. She asked quietly, “What happened to Mary?”

  “Ran off with a bag man.”

  “Ah.” Thora turned to the stalwart retainer. “I wonder you did not mention Patrick was back.”

  The cook lifted a beefy shoulder. “I’ve no bone to pick with Master Patrick.”

  “Using my name in vain again, Mrs. Rooke?” Patrick said as he swept inside and removed his hat. He beamed at Thora. “Mamma! I thought I heard your voice. What a surprise.”

  “Hello, Patrick.” Thora stiffly received the kiss he planted on her temple. When he stepped back, she studied her son, relishing the sight of him. How handsome he was—like his father. Taller than she remembered. His dark hair so much like hers. His blue eyes, too. Her heart softened as flickering images of her little boy ran through her mind. His hand in hers. Little arms around her neck. . . . But then she steeled her heart. “What are you doing here?”

  Those blue eyes glinted, and he gave a wry grin. “What am I doing here? I grew up here, as you know better than anyone. I’ve returned to help now that John is gone—and you as well.”

  He opened the office door and held it for her.

  Thora nodded to Mrs. Rooke, then followed him inside. “Why?”

  He shrugged easily. “I missed it. Innkeeping is in my blood, after all.”

  “Like sailing was in your blood a few years ago, and importing before that?”

  “Touché, Mamma.” He spread his hands, dimples blazing. “But the prodigal has come home.”

  “This is no longer our home since John died.”

  Patrick sat at the desk and leaned back in the chair. “Oh, but it is. My sister has made me very welcome.”

  Thora narrowed her eyes. “What are you after?”

  He raised both hands. “Not a blessed thing. Though a bed that doesn’t sway with each roll of the sea makes a welcome change, I don’t deny.”

  She searched his face, and he steadily held her gaze. Was he in earnest? She wanted to believe him. “How long have you been here?”

  “A month and a half.”

  “And yet the place is not exactly thriving.”

  “Not yet. I am still finding my land legs, as it were. And you, Mamma? I thought you were off enjoying life with Aunt Di.”

  “I was. I am only here . . . for a visit. I heard things were not going well and thought I should call.”

  He raised a brow. “Your spies alerted you, did they? Mrs. Rooke, no doubt. Or perhaps Blomfield himself?”

  Why would the banker write to her? Thora wondered, but she did not reveal her source. Instead she looked around the cluttered office. “What a mess! I still can’t believe Talbot left. Tell me she did not force him out.”

  “Force him out? Jane? Hardly. It was his decision. And why not—he inherited his family’s property when his brother died.” He added pointedly, “As I once thought I would.”

  Thora chose to ignore that. “And did you not warn Jane about hiring Colin McFarland?”

  Patrick shrugged. “He was already here when I got back. A fait accompli.”

  “And you said nothing? Don’t you remember your father banning McFarlands from The Bell?”

  “Liam McFarland, maybe, but that was—what—ten years ago now?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Well, apparently Colin hadn’t a sixpence to scratch with, and Jane wanted to give him a chance.”

  Thora gestured toward the disorganized desk. “And I see how well that is going.”

  “It’s not all his fault,” Patrick defended. “Mrs. Rooke said that after Talbot left, no one set foot in this office except to toss more unopened bills on the desk. It seems Colin found it too overwhelming, and let the paperwork continue to pile up. He has been mostly acting as porter and helping in the yard. He has a lot to learn, but he is working hard.”

  Thora doubted that. She shook her head, lips tight. “A McFarland in The Bell . . . Your father is turning in his grave.”

  Patrick grimaced at that and rose to his feet. “I will go and let Jane know you’re here.”

  “Warn her, I believe you mean. Don’t bother. I have already spoken to her.”

  “She was no doubt happy to see you.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic. You know she and I have never seen eye to eye. John made it clear she did not want me here.”

  “Did he? That surprises me.”

  “It surprised me at the time as well, considering she’s never shown any interest in acting as innkeeper or housekeeper herself.”

  “Perhaps John exaggerated or you misunderstood.”

  “I hate to think I uprooted myself based on a mere misunderstanding.”

  “I thought you left because you wanted to experience life beyond these walls at long last?”

  “That was part of it. Diana asked me to come. She said she was lonely living alone.” But she is not lonely any longer. . . .

  Patrick crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. “How long can you visit? Or do you mean to stay on and help save us from destruction?”

  “I trust you exaggerate.” Thora looked again around the neglected office with its piles of bills. But perhaps not.

  Thora inhaled and answered truthfully, “I have yet to decide.”

  Chapter

  Three

  Thora entered her old suite of rooms—bedchamber and small sitting room—and for a moment stilled. In some ways she felt as if she had never left. In others, as though years had passed instead of only ten or eleven months. She set down her valise and crossed to the windows to open the shutters. A fine cloud of dust rose as she did so. That was another thing that had changed. Thora had always kept her living quarters spotless.

  She stepped to the long mirror to remove her bonnet, and winced at the reflection staring back at her. Her fifty-one years lay on her like a heavy yoke, weighing her down. Her apple cheeks were not as high and full as they once were. Her jawline not as defined. Creases like apostrophes punctuated the space between her brows, and the lines framing her mouth and eyes dug deeper. The ruthless plucking of silver hairs from black had become an increasingly time-consuming task. Her strength and stamina were not what they once were, either. Months of idle living with her sister had made her soft.

  And soft was not a word anyone had ever used to describe Thora Stonehouse Bell.

  Her sister, Diana, was only a few years younger, but looked several more. Diana took pains with her complexion, slathering on the latest creams advertised in La Belle Assemblée. Her maid dressed her hair in the latest styles and applied cosmetics deftly—a touch of powder and rouge.

  Thora had never fussed with any of it. She’d always been too busy for feminine falderals. Perhaps she should have found the time. Thora turned away from the mirror with a sigh. Over-concern with one’s appearance was a waste of time, she told herself. Especially at her age.

  For her first fifty years, living in this inn had been the only life she’d known. She had grown up here. Met her husband here. And together they’d run the place after her parents retired and then passed on. She’d raised their sons here. And even after Frank died, Thora had remained to help John fill his father’s shoes. It was her duty. But in recent years she’d become increasingly restless.

  Her sister had asked her to come and live with her
more than once, or at least to visit, but Thora had always been too busy to accept. But after John’s unexpected death—and his unexpected will—Thora had finally packed a valise and booked herself on a westbound coach.

  Her unmarried sister had inherited a modest townhouse from a spinster aunt, as well as a large enough annuity to live independently and comfortably in Bath.

  Thora had at first enjoyed genteel living. She went for long walks around the beautiful city. Took in the entertainments at the theatres and concert halls. And actually read a novel. Eh. It wasn’t for her. A bit of impractical nonsense in her estimation.

  Eventually the extended holiday began to wear on her. She was not bred for idleness. So she started coming up with projects. “Let us put up preserves and pickles for the winter. Why give the grocer so much of your money?” “Don’t put that petticoat in the rag bag. With a little careful patching, you could get another year of wear from that.” It had taken far less than a year for her to begin wearing on Diana’s nerves.

  “Thora. Stop bossing me about,” she’d say. “I am no longer the little sister in your command.”

  Thora was bossy—she could not deny it. The trait had served her well at the inn. She had managed cook, maids, and head porter with confident ease. But it was harder to manage her tongue.

  When her sister began keeping company with a retired sea captain, critical words and warnings immediately sprang to Thora’s lips. “Yes, the man is reasonably respectable. Spend time with him if you like. But don’t marry him. Not at your age. Why lose all your independence? Do you not know what happens when women marry? Are you ignorant of the law?” Thora had made certain her sister knew, whether she wished to be informed or not.

  An unmarried woman or a widow had the right to own property and make contracts in her own name. But unless certain settlements were legally arranged ahead of time, when a woman married, everything she owned instantly became the property of her husband. In essence, she became the property of her husband. A married woman owned nothing.

  It was a lesson Thora had learned when she married Frank Bell. A hard lesson.

  But her sister ignored her warnings and agreed to the captain’s proposal. Diana’s annuity and snug house now belonged to him.