The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 2

  Jane had not seen his brother in years. “But no friends?”

  He shook his head. “If you think about it, there is a dearth of men my age around Ivy Hill.”

  “I never really considered it. I had Mercy and Rachel, but you had few friends close by.”

  “I didn’t need more friends.” He sent her a sidelong glance. “I had you.”

  Their gazes met and held, and Jane felt a poignant ache beneath her breastbone.

  He lightened the moment with a wry grin. “Oh, don’t feel sorry for me. Horace Bingley wasn’t too far away, but I saw more than enough of him at school.”

  “Feel sorry for the lord of the manor?” Jane teased. “Hardly.” Although she did, a little. His life, his family, his responsibilities were not always easy.

  He looked down, then asked, “Did you and Mr. Bell ride together? I never saw you, if you did.”

  She looked at him in surprise. He almost never asked about John.

  “No. My father sold Hermione while I was away on our wedding trip, and John was always too busy with the inn.”

  “Then I am glad you have Athena now. She suits you.”

  Jane stroked the mare’s sleek neck. “Yes. I am grateful to have her.”

  She thought of Gabriel Locke, who had given her Athena. His ruggedly handsome face shimmered in her memory, along with the feel of his strong, callused hands holding hers.

  Timothy’s gaze swept over her again. “It is good to see you out of mourning, Jane. Are you . . . over the worst of your grief?”

  She considered that. “I am, yes.” At least where John is concerned.

  “Will you ever marry again, do you think?”

  Jane coughed at the question.

  “Dust,” she mouthed, but knew he wasn’t fooled. She swallowed and said, “I don’t know. Maybe. In time.”

  He winced. “Tell me truthfully, Jane. Did you marry Mr. Bell because you wanted to or because I disappointed you?”

  Jane drew in a sharp breath and stopped her horse. Timothy had never broached the subject so directly before.

  He reined in close by. “Had I not hesitated. Had I not—”

  “Fallen in love with someone else?” she supplied.

  Again he winced, but he neither confirmed nor denied it.

  He didn’t need to. At Rachel Ashford’s coming-out ball, Timothy had looked at her with a powerful admiration beyond anything Jane had ever noticed directed at herself. He’d begun treating Rachel with formal deference, almost like a stranger—an intriguing, beautiful stranger. It had stung at the time. Jane knew Timothy had felt himself honor bound to her, so he had hesitated to act on that attraction. But Jane had not wanted him to marry her for duty’s sake. For simple loyalty or the expectations of others. What woman would? Perhaps if John Bell had not pursued her with such singular determination, she might not have noticed the warm devotion missing from Timothy’s eyes.

  “I cannot deny that turn of events influenced my willingness to be courted by John.” Jane looked at him. “Timothy, why did you never marry? I had wed someone else. You were free to marry as you liked.”

  “Free? Ha. You know why I did not marry.”

  She saw the anguish in his eyes, and her heart went out to him. He referred to more than his obligation to her, she guessed. His family had high expectations.

  She said gently, “You know how much you mean to me, Timothy, don’t you? And how grateful I am that our friendship is on better footing again?”

  “I value our friendship as well, Jane. That is why I need to ask. You are not waiting for . . . anything more from me, are you? I know how presumptuous that sounds, but God help me, I don’t want to disappoint you again.”

  Jane took a deep breath. “You did disappoint me—I can’t deny it. But that was a long time ago. You have every right to marry someone else.” She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Truly. I want you to be happy.”

  “Thank you. I am glad we agree. I wanted to be certain before I . . . do anything else.”

  They rode on. Jane hoped Timothy had not waited too long to act now that Nicholas Ashford was on the scene. Or was he thinking of someone besides Rachel?

  With that in mind, she added, “However, I hope you will marry for love, not family duty.”

  He frowned. “I don’t know that I can separate the two. It has been ingrained into me since I was a child: Marry the right person for the family’s sake, and love and happiness will come in time.”

  “Like our own parents did?”

  “Yes. Mine barely knew each other.”

  “Were they happy, do you think?”

  “Daily evidence to the contrary, Mother claims they were. She was devastated when he died.”

  Jane nodded. “I am sure she was. And you were too, no doubt. I’m sorry I was not there for you. Again, I am glad our friendship is on better terms now.”

  “Me too.” He smiled at her, but it was a sad smile. A smile of farewell.

  Would she have been happier if she had pretended not to notice his feelings for Rachel, rebuffed John Bell, and married Timothy anyway?

  Jane shook off such futile second-guessing. Timothy was master of Brockwell Court and must have an heir to leave it to, which was beyond Jane’s abilities.

  They stopped to let the horses drink from a clear stream. Jane inhaled deeply, then exhaled the final lingering remnants of what might have been. With a determined smile, she said, “Now, let’s not spoil our ride with any more gloomy talk. I have to return to The Bell shortly to greet the one o’clock stage.”

  He nodded. “I agree. Shall we . . . race back?”

  Her smile became genuine. “With pleasure.”

  As they galloped home, once again that question went through her mind: Would she have been happier if she had married Timothy? If she had forgone marriage to an innkeeper, the death of that innkeeper, and taking his place at The Bell?

  No . . . she realized, oddly startled at the revelation, and at the peace that flowed over her as she pondered it. She would not give up where she was today, and who she was today, to go back in time and marry Sir Timothy Brockwell.

  Chapter

  two

  The next morning, Rachel sat down to breakfast with the Miss Groves and asked Mercy how her campaign was going. Her friend’s goal was to open a charity school to educate many, if not all, of the parish’s girls and boys—regardless of ability to pay. As it was, Ivy Cottage could house only about eight pupils.

  “Not well,” Mercy explained as she buttered her toast. “Lord Winspear has not yet replied to my request for a meeting. And yesterday I learned Lady Brockwell is against educating the poor. Sir Timothy said he might support the project in future but for now has other obligations to attend to. Apparently the almshouse needs a new roof and the church has a long list of pending repairs. And Mr. Bingley says that if the Brockwells and Winspears agree to put money toward the cause, he will as well, but not before.” She ended on a sigh.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t worry, Rachel.” Matilda patted her niece’s hand. “Mercy will not give up. She will succeed in the end.”

  “From your lips to God’s ear, Aunt Matty.”

  Later, as they finished their meal, the Groves’ manservant brought in the post and handed Rachel a letter. She thanked him, and Mr. Basu left the room as silently as he’d come.

  Recognizing her sister’s handwriting, Rachel excused herself to read the letter in private.

  Dear Rachel,

  Greetings, little sister. I hope this letter finds you happy in your new home. Do you remember how we admired charming Ivy Cottage as girls? I admit I imagined living there myself when I was young and secretly admired George Grove. Thankfully I did not break my heart over him. I might have done, until I learned he planned to pursue a career in India. Yes, I think I can date my recovery to that precise moment.

  I do hope the Miss Groves are treating you well. Have they banished you to the attic, or pressed you into service like
Cendrillon, the poor orphaned stepsister? Are you sharing a bed with four wriggling schoolgirls with odiferous feet and worse breath? I hope not. Or perhaps girls do not produce as many foul odors and sounds as boys do. I am sure we never did, as ladylike as Mamma raised us to be. Speaking of foul, do you ever see the she-dragon who now lives in our old house?

  Rachel shook her head, a wry twist to her mouth as she read the rest of her sister’s letter. Then she moved to the desk in the sitting room to write her reply.

  Dear Ellen,

  Thank you for your letter. Rest assured, I am content here in Ivy Cottage. Of course the Miss Groves are as kind as could be. More kind than I deserve.

  And no, they have not put me in the attic. I have my own bedchamber here. It isn’t grand, but it is comfortable. I believe it was the boyhood room of George Grove, before he left the country.

  It was thoughtful of you to send a coin under the seal and offer to send more, but that is not necessary. I have a little money left and have been able to make small contributions to my upkeep, which eases my mind about accepting what would otherwise be charity.

  On a happier note, you will be glad to learn that Jane Bell and I have reconciled. I missed her friendship even more than I realized and am grateful to have her back in my life. Although she is busy with the inn, we find time to talk every week—either she stops by Ivy Cottage or I walk to The Bell and have coffee with her there.

  You asked about the new residents of dear Thornvale. I see Mrs. Ashford only in passing. She remains aloof, but her son is very amiable, and his warmth makes up for her coolness. People here hold Mr. Ashford in high regard already. Some tease about his awkward ways, but it is not unkindly meant. Mrs. Ashford, however, shows no interest in befriending anyone except the Brockwells and the Bingleys.

  That is the news from Ivy Hill for now. I hope you continue in good health, especially as your confinement nears. Give my love to Walter and William.

  Fondly,

  Rachel

  Rachel folded and sealed the letter. Writing it had reminded her that she had not yet contributed to her room and board for the month. She went upstairs to remedy that oversight.

  In her room, she retrieved her reticule from the side table. She shook the contents onto her palm, but only a few ha’pennies and a button tumbled forth. The button had fallen off her blue spencer at church, but she had not remembered to sew it back on.

  Pennies would not be enough, so she opened her trunk at the foot of the bed. From it she retrieved her knitted coin purse. She had a little money from a small annuity she’d inherited from her mother. But the dividend would not last long. Rachel extracted a coin, then looked again at the loose button. She should sew it back on then and there. Do something productive. After all, needlework was one thing she was good at.

  Instead, she dug deeper in the trunk. She moved aside the winter clothes stored there along with the one dress of her mother’s she had kept. Near the bottom, she peeled back a layer of tissue, and there it was—the pink gown she had worn to her coming-out ball eight years ago. Seeing it, thoughts of buttons and spencers fled.

  She spread the fine, rosy-pink gown across the bed and admired it anew. She supposed it was foolish, but she could not bear to part with it.

  She remembered how she’d felt wearing it. When Rachel had looked in the mirror that night, she had, for the first time in her life, liked what she saw. The graceless adolescent was gone. The gown flattered her figure and complemented her coloring. In it, she felt feminine, grown up, and attractive. And based on Timothy Brockwell’s reaction, he had thought so as well. She could still see him standing wide-eyed at the bottom of the stairs as she descended and hear him stammer, “You look . . . astounding—that is, beautiful. Astoundingly beautiful.”

  Rachel’s chest tightened at the memory. That night had been almost perfect, and yet—

  Someone knocked and Rachel jumped. Hand to her chest, she called, “Yes?”

  Anna Kingsley popped her head in. “Pardon me, Miss Ashford. Alice and Phoebe are not in here, are they? We are playing hide-and-seek, and I can’t seem to find them.”

  “No. Have you checked the linen closet? They hid there the last time.”

  “Good idea.” Anna’s attention was captured by the pink gown. “Ohhh . . . what a pretty dress,” she breathed.

  Rachel glanced over her shoulder. “Thank you. I have always liked it.”

  Anna backed from the room. “I’ll go look in the closet now. Thank you for the clue.”

  Alone again, Rachel repacked her trunk. Her gaze fell on her mother’s Bible on the nearby side table, but she did not open it.

  Instead Rachel went to find Mercy and stoically confessed her situation. “My meager funds will not last long, I’m afraid. The only things I have of value—a few remembrances of my mother, and my father’s books—I cannot sell. Nor have I any talent for teaching, as you no doubt realize by now, though of course I am willing to help however I can. I can sew, but I’ve already caught up on all the mending. I must find another way to contribute.”

  She expected Mercy to deny her poor assessment of her teaching abilities, or insist Rachel not worry about contributing.

  Instead Mercy nodded thoughtfully. “You are right. There must be something more you can do. I know I would not like to feel as if I were not being useful. God has given us all gifts to use in serving others, Rachel. We shall have to try harder to find yours.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “Pray for wisdom and direction, of course.”

  “Um-hm . . .” Rachel murmured noncommittally. She felt uncomfortable asking God—asking anyone—for help.

  Mercy added, “Beyond that, the counsel of friends is a good way to start.”

  “Are you sure I should be here?” Rachel whispered to Mercy, nervous at the prospect of attending that evening’s meeting of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society.

  “Of course,” Mercy assured her. “Any woman is welcome to visit.”

  They had arrived at the village hall early, and Rachel helped arrange chairs while Mercy heated water for tea on the room’s corner stove.

  Soon others began to enter, chatting to one another as they came. Several sent curious looks her way.

  Rachel was acquainted with the dressmaker, Mrs. Shabner; Mrs. Klein, the piano tuner; and Mrs. Burlingame, who had helped move her belongings from Thornvale to Ivy Cottage two months before. She recognized the lace women, the Miss Cooks; the laundress, Mrs. Snyder; and a few others as well. Did they know who she was and look down on her for her father’s failings, as many did?

  A woman with reddish-brown hair and fair eyes introduced herself as Mrs. O’Brien, the chandler. Rachel smiled and gave her name in return, silently wondering, Miss Ashford, the . . . what?

  Jane Bell entered, and Rachel’s heart lifted at the sight of her.

  “Rachel! Welcome.” Jane embraced her. “I am glad to see you here.”

  “Are you? Good.” Rachel exhaled a relieved breath. “I feel so out of place. But then, I feel that way everywhere since leaving Thornvale.”

  “I understand. I felt out of place at my first meeting as well. Here, sit by me.”

  Rachel did so, and Mercy sat on her other side. Bookended by two old friends, Rachel felt better already.

  A stocky woman with a ruddy complexion drew up short at seeing Rachel. “Good heavens. Another one?”

  Jane said, “Mrs. Barton, this is Miss Ashford, who is visiting us for the first time tonight.”

  “I know who she is. Who’s next—the royal princesses?”

  Judith Cook sighed wistfully. “Ohh, the princesses. Wouldn’t that be grand?”

  Mrs. Barton rolled her eyes, then turned to Mercy. “I heard Miss Ashford was helping out at your school. But does she fancy herself a woman of business now too?”

  Rachel spoke up. “I don’t know what I am, truth be told. All I know is I need to find a way to support myself.”

  Mercy amended, “Miss Ashford h
elps us at Ivy Cottage in several ways. But she longs to secure her own livelihood, now that her family home has gone to her father’s heir. I thought we might help her think of something suited to her abilities.”

  “Did your father leave you and your sister nothing?” Charlotte Cook asked. “That young man got it all?”

  Rachel’s face burned. “My sister received a few things passed down from our mother. And I inherited my father’s collection of books.”

  One young woman whistled, impressed. “Well, that’s something.”

  “Is it?” Rachel wasn’t convinced.

  Mrs. Snyder nodded. “Books are dear, indeed. Worth a fair sum, I imagine.”

  Rachel shook her head. “Not when his will stipulates that I cannot sell them but must keep the collection intact.”

  Judith Cook gave another wistful sigh. “A whole library of books for your own use . . . I should never get any lace made were they mine.”

  Mrs. Klein added, “I’ve taken to visiting the circulating library in Salisbury when I travel there. But that’s a long way to go to return a book.”

  Rachel shrugged. “You are welcome to read any of my father’s you like. I’m afraid I am not all that fond of books myself. They will receive precious little attention from me.”

  “How many books have you?” Mrs. Burlingame asked.

  “I don’t know. Hundreds. My father’s heir has allowed me to leave them in Thornvale for the time being, since they would not fit in my bedchamber at Ivy Cottage.”

  “Mrs. Klein has given me an idea,” the chandler said. “How about starting a circulating library here in Ivy Hill? Is there anything in your father’s will to prohibit that?”

  Rachel stared at Mrs. O’Brien, stunned. What a notion! She tried to recall the lawyer’s wording. “No, not that I remember.”

  “Well then, there you are. That’s settled.” Mrs. Barton leaned back against her chair with heavy satisfaction. “Now I would like to talk about my cows.”

  “But . . . !” Rachel sputtered. “Nothing is settled. Far from it. While I appreciate the suggestion, it is entirely impractical. I could not presume to open a circulating library in Thornvale, which is not my home any longer.”