The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Read online

  “I can spare a hen,” Miss Featherstone offered.

  “And I . . .” Mrs. Klein pronounced, like a benediction, “shall bring the tea.”

  Rachel expelled a breath she barely realized she’d been holding. Beside her, Mercy took her hand and gave a gentle squeeze.

  Mr. and Mrs. Grove insisted their daughter stay home the following day with Mr. Hollander, so Mercy offered to watch over the library while Rachel helped at Mrs. Haverhill’s.

  Rachel, Matilda Grove, and the schoolgirls left Ivy Cottage together the next morning, wearing old gloves and gardening aprons over their clothes. Matilda carried a plate of biscuits.

  Even though Mercy had to remain behind, she thought it would be a good lesson for the girls—not only in helping a neighbor but in showing them Mrs. Haverhill was not the witch some of them imagined her to be.

  When the ladies of Ivy Cottage reached Ebsbury Road, they met up with Julia Featherstone, who held a clucking but otherwise docile hen under her arm. Mrs. Burlingame rumbled up in her cart. Mrs. Klein sat in back, steadying the urns of tea nestled there, while Miss Morris sat beside her, holding onto a ladder.

  When they reached Bramble Cottage, they discovered Mrs. Snyder had arrived earlier and already had some of Mrs. Haverhill’s clothes laundered and hanging on the clothesline beside the house.

  Mrs. Barton was there as well, scrubbing away at the walls with short but powerful arms. One of her adolescent sons worked beside her, while another lad hauled the buckets Mrs. Bushby filled at the well.

  They all pitched in, scrubbing, dumping water, sharing the ladder or finding crates to stand on to reach higher places, and gathering the vegetable fragments, which could be fed to the McFarlands’ pig.

  Mrs. Haverhill poured tea and replenished food on a small table they’d set up for the purpose. They had Matty’s biscuits, Mrs. Bushby’s plums, and a basket of individual chicken-and-leek pies Jane had sent over from The Bell.

  Mrs. Haverhill began the morning stiff and wary, on her guard for cruel comments or anyone who’d come only to peek inside private Bramble Cottage at last. But she warmed as the morning progressed and all were kind to her—save for a few scowling adolescent boys. But even their scowls dissolved upon the arrival of the schoolgirls. Soon the tension began to visibly ease from Mrs. Haverhill’s frame.

  She provided soap and towels for the helpers to wash their hands before eating. And she sent each one home with her gratitude and a small bar of sweet-smelling soap she had made from Mrs. Snyder’s recipe. Later, as the cleaning “party” drew to a close and people began to depart, Matilda took Rachel aside.

  “Well done, my girl. Your mother would have been proud of you. I know I am.”

  Tears stung Rachel’s eyes at her tender praise, and she squeezed the woman’s hand. “Thank you.”

  Matilda and the pupils left to return to the schoolroom, but Rachel remained behind to help tidy up. Mrs. Haverhill put the kettle on, asking Rachel to stay and talk over the day before she left as well.

  As Rachel stepped back outside to gather the few remaining cups and utensils, she was surprised to see Timothy Brockwell walking up the path, his black horse tethered at the gate.

  “Miss Ashford,” he said formally and bowed.

  She instantly felt the tension between them and stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do, what to say.

  “Sir Timothy.”

  He held up his palm. “Don’t worry, I have not come to continue our last conversation, which so upset you. I have only come to call on Mrs. Haverhill, to see how she recovers.”

  Rachel dropped a spoon and bent clumsily to retrieve it. “That’s all right. I can be out of your way in a few minutes.”

  From behind her, Mrs. Haverhill said, “Rachel, would you mind staying?”

  She glanced over her shoulder to where Mrs. Haverhill stood in the open doorway. “I . . . don’t know that Sir Timothy wants me—”

  “Well, I do,” Mrs. Haverhill insisted.

  “I don’t mind at all if Miss Ashford remains,” Timothy said.

  Rachel pressed a hand to her prickly stomach. “Very well.” She preceded him back into the cottage.

  As they entered, Mrs. Haverhill looked warily up at the newcomer. “Good afternoon, Sir Timothy.”

  “How goes your recovery, Mrs. Haverhill? I hope you are in good health?”

  “I feel much better, thank you. Due in large part to Miss Ashford here, as well as Mrs. Bell.”

  His gaze flickered to Rachel, then away. “Excellent friends to have, I agree.” He cleared his throat. “I would like to ask you a few questions, if I may?”

  “You may, though I should warn you—you may not like my answers.” Her eyes held a shimmer of sadness.

  She and Rachel sat on the sofa together, and he took the chair opposite.

  Mrs. Haverhill folded her hands in her lap. “What would you like to know?”

  He held her gaze. “The truth.”

  “Very well. Ask what you like.”

  “You mentioned you have lived here for thirty years,” he began. “You came here when you were very young, then.”

  “I was young all right—not yet four and twenty.”

  “You moved to Ivy Hill after . . . Mr. Haverhill died?”

  She sighed. “There was no Mr. Haverhill. I never married. Only in my heart. We thought Mrs. would grant me an air of respectability.”

  His mouth tightened at that. “Were you and Mr. Carville acquainted before you came to Ivy Hill?”

  “No. Wait, that’s not exactly true. I believe I saw him in London once or twice. He went up with your family for the season back then.”

  “You were . . . friends, Carville tells me.”

  “Mr. Carville and I? No. He has never liked me. And in those days, I was not accustomed to keeping company with servants. I was a lady, if you can believe it. Not a rich one, but a lady all the same.”

  “But he told me you were an old friend, and that was why you paid no rent here.”

  “Tim . . .” She shook her head, her tone indulgently maternal. “Do you really still not know? I have never paid rent for this place, even before Carville inherited it from your father.” She looked at Rachel, eyebrows high in question.

  Rachel opened her mouth to answer but closed it again. What could she say? She doubted Timothy would have believed her even had she tried to tell him what she suspected.

  Mrs. Haverhill sighed heavily. “I am so weary of secrets. I think almost everyone in Ivy Hill—probably even Wishford—knows, except for those the truth most affects. The gossip stopped short of Thornvale, Fairmont House, and Brockwell Court—at least abovestairs.”

  “What are you saying?” Sir Timothy’s jaw tensed, and Rachel saw dark suspicions glinting in his eyes. He guessed, or at least feared, more than he let on.

  “Bring the tea, will you, Rachel?” Mrs. Haverhill asked. “I hear the kettle. I have a feeling my throat will be dry before my tale is told.”

  “Of course.” Rachel rose and stepped into the kitchen. She poured water into the teapot already on the tray, added a third cup, and returned.

  Mrs. Haverhill watched her cross the room, and her gaze fell on the miniature portrait on the table. She picked it up and began.

  “This is what I looked like when I met Sir Justin. Though he wasn’t Sir Justin then, as his father was yet living. My mother scraped together all the money she could to give me a London season, determined to help me find a suitable husband before she passed. My brother, a barrister, served as my chaperone. When I met Justin, I thought our financial worries were over. Don’t mistake me. I was not drawn to his wealth alone. I loved him, and he fell in love with me and wanted to marry me. I was never so happy in my life, before or since.

  “He said he needed to talk to his parents first, before formally asking my brother for my hand. I understood that he needed to convince them and anticipated a fight. I was a gentleman’s daughter but had little in the way of connections or dowry. He assu
red me they would come round to the idea, given time and persuasion.

  “When the season ended, his parents insisted Justin return to Ivy Hill with them, and away from me. He went, promising to return as soon as he’d persuaded them. I waited but, in all honesty, steeled myself for disappointment, sure I had seen the last of him.

  “Then one day, he unexpectedly showed up at our house, urging me to pack quickly, for he had a carriage waiting outside. I thought he meant we should elope, scandal though that would be. Oh! If only we had! Instead, he told me he was taking me to Brockwell Court, where he would make his parents see reason. Once they knew me better, he said, they could not refuse.”

  Mrs. Haverhill sadly shook her head. “I was young and foolish. I left my brother’s protection to travel without a chaperone with a man not my husband. Socially, I was ruined as soon as the carriage pulled away from our house. Yet I truly believed Justin would marry me, and when he did, no one would remember a night or two on the road unaccounted for.”

  Rachel kept her gaze on Mrs. Haverhill but from the corner of her eye noticed Sir Timothy clench his hands.

  “But as we entered Wiltshire, I could see his bravado waning. He was more anxious than I had ever seen him. In the end, he had the coachman divert to Salisbury and secured a room for me at the Red Lion there. He decided he would talk to his parents alone first.”

  Again she shook her head. “He returned to Brockwell Court only to discover that they had all but arranged a match for him while he’d been away. To your mother.”

  “We ran up quite a tally at the Red Lion while he tried to negotiate with his parents. Finally he announced that he had acquired a cottage for me not far from Brockwell Court. He’d bought it quietly from an aging widower going to live with his son. He promised to refurbish it and provide a servant. It would only be temporary, he said. Until he talked his parents out of trying to force him to marry a stranger he did not love.

  “In the end, as you know, he gave in to their urgings and married your mother. I was devastated, yet deep down, a part of me had always known it would happen. Of course the decision was not as difficult as it might have been, since he convinced me it didn’t have to mean the end for us.”

  She shrugged. “Justin thought he could have it all—eat his cake, yet keep it too. The marriage his parents wanted to a suitable, wealthy wife. A proper heir to follow in his footsteps. And me, whenever he grew bored or lonely.”

  Mrs. Haverhill glanced at Timothy. “You might be tempted to conclude he intended to make me his mistress all along. But I honestly don’t believe he meant to deceive me, though perhaps he had deceived himself into thinking he could ever gain his parents’ blessing. Oh, the compelling promises he uttered. The idyllic pictures he painted of our secret life. And I abandoned reason and let myself be persuaded.”

  Tears brightened her eyes. “And I was happy for a time, or at least content, living here with Bess and young Molly. Of course, eventually, my precarious situation could not fail to erode my confidence . . . and my conscience. But what could I do? I could not go back to my brother’s house unmarried. He could not have sheltered a ruined woman without losing every client he had, and the society of every friend of any moral standard. Besides, I was too ashamed to go back. So I remained.”

  She inhaled deeply. “When Sir Justin died, the monthly allowance that supplied our household died with him. The last several years have been difficult, financially and emotionally. Wearing mourning has not been a ruse. I suppose you will say I am getting my just deserts. Suffering the consequences I deserve and always knew would come one day.”

  She sipped her tea before continuing. “I lived in fear for months that the cottage would be taken away as well, and I would be out on my ear without a penny and nowhere to go. Instead, Mr. Carville came and coolly told me that I was to be allowed to live here, and the taxes and heating would be paid, but that from then on I was on my own for the rest. I gather Sir Justin insisted on his deathbed, or I am sure Mr. Carville would have enjoyed putting me out. He is clearly still determined to protect Sir Justin’s reputation and the Brockwell name. I am the wicked woman who led his perfect master into sin, and he will never believe otherwise.”

  Mrs. Haverhill looked at Timothy, eyes pensive and weary. “I suppose you will refuse to believe it as well.”

  Sir Timothy crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t know what to believe. Carville insists you are just another unfortunate woman my father met during the course of his magisterial duties, another poor widow like Mrs. Kurdle whom he felt sorry for and decided to help out of his great generosity.”

  Mrs. Haverhill looked at him, expression full of pity. “You believe that if you need to, Tim. If it helps you sleep at night.”

  “Why do you call me Tim?” he snapped. “That is rather presumptuous.”

  “Pray do not be offended. It is an old habit. It is how your father referred to you when we spoke of you.”

  His jaw tensed. “It is a familiar name you have no right to use.”

  At his harsh tone, Rachel protested, “Timothy, please.”

  He ran an agitated hand over his face. “Can you prove any of this?”

  “I could. I have the letters he wrote to me, though they are personal and I’d rather you didn’t read them. I would show you the ring he gave me and other mementos I had of him, but they . . . have gone missing.”

  Instead she picked up the book of poetry Timothy had noticed when he and Rachel came to feed her cat—the one with the inscription Rachel had seen but Timothy had not. Mrs. Haverhill opened it to the signed page and laid it on the table between them.

  Rachel held her breath.

  He stared at the inscription, face white. He looked . . . thunderstruck.

  Concern washed over her. “Timothy?”

  He snapped the book shut. It felt like a slap.

  Rachel didn’t know what to do, what to say.

  He looked at her, betrayal written on his face. “You saw this the other day, didn’t you.”

  “I did, but I thought . . . J could be anyone.”

  He shook his head, a bitter twist to his lips. “I recognize my father’s handwriting. I know it almost as well as my own.”

  Timothy turned to Mrs. Haverhill. “He might have given you that book before he married my mother.”

  Mrs. Haverhill opened the book again and pointed to the publication date. “That would be a trick, as this book was published within the last fifteen years.”

  Sir Timothy’s nostrils flared. He pushed the book away, rose, and stalked out of the cottage.

  Rachel looked at Mrs. Haverhill. “I’m sorry. He’s upset.”

  “Of course he is.”

  “Excuse me.” Rachel grabbed her shawl off the peg and followed Timothy outside, jogging up the path to catch up with him.

  He glanced at her then stared straight ahead. “I apologize for leaving without saying good-bye. If I had stayed, I would have said something worse.”

  “I understand, and so does she.”

  He stopped at the gate, where his horse waited, and grasped the post. “When Mrs. Haverhill began weaving her tale, suggesting my father loved her, I thought she was deluded. That she had mistaken his pity for admiration or affection. But now . . .”

  He shook his head, over and over again, eyes flashing. “I am an idiot. Carville indeed. He lied to protect the Brockwell name, and I believed him. I have been so willfully blind. All my life Father drilled the primacy of family honor and duty into me. Into Richard and Justina as well, but mostly to me as eldest and heir. Everything else—personal desires, dreams, love—was to be subjugated beneath what was best for the future of the Brockwells.

  “All the while, he was not honoring his family, his wife, or his vows before God. All the while, besmirching the Brockwell name and his own integrity. And to think how he and my mother looked down on your father when he . . . made mistakes that are, at least in my view, nothing to this. What a hypocrite. And what proud hypocrit
es he made of us all.”

  Rachel had never seen him so angry.

  He looked at her warily, eyes veiled. “Go on. This is your chance. Scoff at us. Shun us. We deserve it. I deserve it.”

  She saw the raw grief etched into his face, and compassion filled her. His image of his father had been shattered, much as her image of her own father had been. Rachel shook her head. “I would never do that.”

  “Why not? We all turned our backs on you and your family, except Justina. Too young to understand or to ‘know better,’ as Mamma would say.”

  Again Rachel shook her head. “I will not,” she repeated. “It is not your fault. You didn’t even know. Does your mother, do you think?”

  “If she knew, she hid it well.” He ran a hand through his thick hair. “You heard Mamma at dinner. She boasted about how Father was courting another woman but remembered his duty to his family and married her instead. I am certain she believed that former relationship ended then. I confess I never considered what became of the other woman.”

  He tipped his head back. “Now I see. . . . Father left the cottage to Carville, because he did not want to list his mistress in his will and thereby alert us to the woman’s existence. He didn’t devise a contingency for expenses after he died. Probably assumed he would live for a long time to come. Instead, he left her with the use of a house without the means to feed and clothe herself.”

  He looked over his shoulder at the cottage. “I am tempted to feel sorry for her, but how can I, when she and my father betrayed my mother? Betrayed us all.”

  “I realize she wasn’t an innocent party. Yet I do feel sorry for her.” Rachel recalled Mrs. Haverhill’s devastation over the theft. “The money I could understand, even the ring. But the lover’s eye? The mourning locket? Knowing what they mean to me?” “Wrong though it was, when she came to Ivy Hill, she really believed he loved her and would marry her.”

  Rachel felt sorry for Timothy as well. She also felt guilty for the part she had played in dredging all this up, and for trying to protect him instead of being fully honest with him.

  He jerked the rein off the post and struck off down the road, leading his horse. Rachel walked beside him, lengthening her stride to keep up.