The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Read online

  Taking in Rachel’s expression, the smile on her face fell. “Rachel? What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “If you want me to burn it, I shall.”

  “Burn what? What is it?”

  Rachel hesitated, looking meaningfully at Alice.

  Mercy bent and gently told the little girl to go upstairs and play with Phoebe.

  When they were alone, Mercy walked near, her face puckered in concern.

  With a shaky hand, Rachel handed her the letter.

  Rachel barely breathed as Mercy bent over the page, her brow furrowing as she read.

  Mercy murmured, “This must be the letter Mary-Alicia enclosed when she wrote to Mrs. Thomas. . . .” She read a little longer, then sucked in a gasp, pressing long fingers to her mouth.

  Rachel reached up, bracketing Mercy’s shoulders, and felt her tremble. She yanked a chair across the floor and positioned it behind Mercy, who looked unsteady on her feet.

  “Here, my dear. Sit.” She gently guided her into the chair. “There. Can I bring you something for your present relief? Tea? A sip of sherry?”

  Mercy shook her head, face pale.

  Rachel knelt before her friend, pressing her knees with all the assurance she could muster. “Mercy, it does not have to change anything. Or at least not everything. Apparently no one posted the letter, and neither must we. We don’t even know who the JD referenced there is. Only initials. And the card she mentioned enclosing isn’t here now. Oh! The card . . .” Rachel let the words drift away as the implication struck her.

  Mercy’s eyes dulled. “We don’t need to post the letter, Rachel.”

  Rachel nodded. “That’s right. There’s no need.”

  “Because he’s right here in Ivy Hill. It’s James Drake.”

  Rachel bit her lip, then admitted, “I did find an old calling card of his in the basket that held these books. At the time, I thought he had donated them, but he insisted he did not.”

  Mercy nodded. “You see? No wonder he has been loitering about the place. Asking questions about Miss Payne and Mr. Smith and Alice. He must know he is Alice’s father. Or at least suspects.”

  “Even if he does, it doesn’t mean he will want to take responsibility for her. The letter only asks him to help Alice in some way. It says nothing about acknowledging her or housing her or . . .”

  Tears filled Mercy’s eyes. The sight was so rare and so heartrending that tears filled Rachel’s eyes in reply.

  Rachel tried to comfort her. “If he failed to do his duty by Mary-Alicia all those years ago, why would he make an effort now, after she is gone? Please don’t cry. We don’t have to do anything with this letter. Or . . . we could return it to Mr. Thomas. You know he would be the last person to share this with Mr. Drake or anyone else for that matter.”

  “It isn’t right.”

  “I know, my dear, I know. You and Alice are like mother and daughter already. You have cared for her and sheltered her all these months, and—”

  “No. I mean, it isn’t right to keep it from him.”

  “Mercy, you owe Mr. Drake nothing. He is all but a stranger to Alice.”

  “I am not thinking of him, at least not alone.” Mercy met her gaze. “She has a father.”

  “But do you think it will help Alice in the long term to learn that her mother was not married? That she lied to her about who her father was?”

  “I don’t know.” Mercy dropped the letter into her lap and tented her hands over her eyes. “Oh, Rachel! What am I to do? I am losing everything I love.”

  Chilly autumn wind howled at the Ivy Cottage windows as Mercy climbed the stairs, letter in hand. With a surge of gratitude, she saw that Mr. Basu had already lit a fire in her bedchamber. She closed the door behind herself and sank into the armchair near the hearth, where she often read the Scriptures in the morning or a favorite book in the evening after a long day of teaching or campaigning.

  Mercy sat there, staring into the flames as they charred and chewed the kindling and started in on the coal. She lurched to her feet and stretched the letter toward the fire, ready to offer it another course. Perhaps Rachel was right. This was old news and need not be devastating. Mr. Drake had not laid eyes on Alice’s mother in nearly nine years. He had not offered to marry her, nor apparently tried to find her. Why would he make some grand gesture now? Jane spoke highly of him, true. He had been generous in offering advice and support to her when The Bell was struggling, and had helped Rachel with her library. So he might offer to help Alice as well. Perhaps with financial support or a stipend to ease his conscience—a nod to doing his duty better late than never. Or would he do more?

  But Mr. Drake was not even married. He was a man of business with a hotel in Southampton and working hard to open another in Ivy Hill—and who knew where next? Would he want the responsibility of a child? If Alice were a boy, maybe. Men seemed to romanticize the notion of passing along skills and property to a son. Less so to a daughter, in her experience. Though certainly her own father had taken pains to educate her. . . .

  Stop it, she told herself. Rachel was right. She was overreacting.

  Mercy sat back down. This letter is not mine to burn, she reminded herself. I am an honest person. It would be unfair to Alice and to Mr. Drake.

  If Alice were older, Mercy might confide in her first—see if she had any interest in a relationship of some sort with the man before she went to Mr. Drake. But Alice was young and might not understand. Or worse, she might expect this man to suddenly lay aside his own plans and concerns to take up hers, to make her the center of his universe and shower her with affection and gifts. And if he instead ignored or rejected her? Mercy’s heart cramped at the thought. She might selfishly wish Mr. Drake would want little to do with Alice. But for Alice’s sake, she could not hope for such an outcome.

  There was nothing for it. She would have to show him the letter privately. Assure him she was making no demands on Alice’s behalf, and that she was ready and willing to raise Alice herself. Though considering her own state of upheaval where Ivy Cottage was concerned, she could not state the latter as confidently as she might once have.

  Chapter

  thirty

  Lady Brockwell came to the library the next day, wearing a somber grey pelisse trimmed with chinchilla. She closed and locked the door behind her. Rachel blinked in surprise.

  “So we are not interrupted.” Lady Brockwell nodded toward the reading room. “Is anyone else here?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Good.” She stepped nearer. “I am here to ask about Timothy. I am concerned. I understand he rode off in a pique, and we have not seen him in a week’s time. It is very unlike him.”

  “I agree. But as I told Carville yesterday, I don’t know where he is.”

  “Did the two of you argue?”

  “Perhaps, but he did not leave on my account.”

  “Then what has upset him?”

  Rachel replied evenly, “That is for him to tell you—or not, as he deems best.” She supposed Lady Brockwell was the wronged wife and she should feel sorry for her, but that was not what Rachel felt.

  “What are you not telling me?” The woman narrowed her eyes. “I insist you tell me everything.”

  “I would not insist, if I were you. For you shall not like my answer.”

  “What does that mean? Don’t play games with me, Miss Ashford. Tell me the truth. You owe me that much.”

  Hot anger washed over Rachel. “You are wrong, Lady Brockwell. I owe you nothing. You are not my mother to command me. Nor my mother-in-law. You made quite sure of that.”

  “Is that what this temper tantrum is about? You are angry I wanted more for my son than to be linked to a family plagued by financial ruin and scandal?”

  Rachel barely resisted the urge to shout, Scandal? You are in no position to condemn my family for a scandal!

  Lady Brockwell waved a dismissive hand. “Could you expect us to rejoice at the prospect? To delight in the hope of s
uch relations?”

  Rachel held her tongue by a supreme effort of self-control.

  “I may not be your relative.” The woman leaned close and had the gall to grasp her wrist. “But I am still your elder, and a person deserving of respect. I demand you tell me what has upset Timothy.”

  Rachel took a deep breath. “I realize you are worried about him, but you have no right to demand anything where I am concerned. Now, please release me.”

  Rachel jerked her arm free and turned. She unlocked the door and held it open until Lady Brockwell lifted her imperious chin and stalked out. Rachel shut the door behind her none too softly, but her fleeting triumph quickly transformed into guilt. She had never spoken in so cutting a manner to anyone in her life. And certainly never dreamed of doing so to Sir Timothy’s mother. Rachel had likely alienated the woman forever. And probably her son as well.

  “Oh, God, forgive me,” she whispered. “And please protect Timothy, wherever he is.”

  Leaving Betsey with Sadie and Talbot on Monday, Thora walked into town. If Beachum tried to put her off as he had Jane, Thora was armed for battle.

  She strode purposefully up Church Street, basket in hand. Reaching St. Anne’s, she made her way down to the crypt, knocked once on the parish clerk’s door, and opened it.

  “I am busy. If—” The man’s protest broke off as Thora strode inside uninvited.

  “Ah, Mrs. Bell. The second Mrs. Bell to grace my office in recent days. I am surprised.”

  “It is Mrs. Talbot now, remember. And you must know why I am here. My daughter-in-law came to you to learn where her children are buried. She is still waiting.”

  “As I told Mrs. Bell, I am a busy man. I cannot in good conscience set aside my pressing parish duties to search through old records for no official reason.”

  Thora looked around the cluttered office with its stacks of papers and open books. “Yes, I see how organized and productive you are. Well, you go on and see to those pressing matters. I shall wait.” She moved a pile of old newspapers from the only extra chair and set them on the floor.

  “Wait? There’s no need. I will send word when I have time.”

  “I doubt I shall live that long.” Thora swiped a handkerchief over the dusty chair and sat down. “No, you continue on, and I will sit here quiet as a mouse.”

  “You would be bored indeed.” He gestured to the stack of correspondence before him. “This might take hours.”

  She nodded. “So I anticipated. Never fear.” She lifted her basket and began removing items from it. She set a candle lamp on the small table beside her, and pulled out her needlework and the spectacles she wore for close work.

  “I brought my own tallow candle because tapers can be so expensive, and I would not want to be a burden on the parish funds.”

  “Good heavens, you are certainly prepared.”

  “I am. I am prepared to wait as long as it takes.” She slid on her spectacles.

  “Mrs. Bell, I don’t have time to entertain you—”

  She held up her palm. “Then, please don’t attempt it. I have no desire to converse with you, Lesley, I assure you.”

  He frowned at that and returned to his pile of correspondence.

  Thora picked up her needlework. A moment later, she rose. “May I trouble you for a light?” She nodded toward his burning lamp.

  “Of course.”

  She removed the globe with a clang of glass against brass, dipped her candle into its flame, and returned the globe with another clang. “Sorry.”

  He winced, and both resumed their work.

  The cheap tallow began smoking, filling the air with an odoriferous haze. She’d bought the cheapest, oldest stub the chandler could find.

  He wrinkled his long nose at the smell of burning mutton fat but made no comment as he turned a page.

  Next Thora crinkled open a brown paper sack. She pulled out an overcooked biscuit and offered it to him.

  “No, thank you.”

  She began chewing the crunchy treat. Loudly.

  He sighed and returned his quill to its holder. “You have always been a stubborn woman, Thora Stonehouse.”

  She smiled. “And that is one of my better qualities.”

  The Kingsley brothers arrived at The Bell on Monday afternoon, and Patrick took them out to the stables to show them the areas that needed repair.

  So Jane was alone in the office when Thora appeared. She had not expected to see her until the end of the day, when she brought Betsey back.

  Thora laid a small piece of paper on the desk. “I am sorry, Jane. I was able to get the general area from Beachum but not the exact place.”

  Jane’s pulse pounded. “That is more than I wrested from him. Thank you, Thora.”

  “They are along the outside of the east wall, here. I hope you can decipher the sketch.”

  Jane studied the scrap of paper. “I can. Thank you.”

  “Could you not choose a spot and claim it for them?” Thora’s voice was unusually soft. “Might that be close enough?”

  Jane managed a nod. “I hope so.”

  “Shall I go with you, or would you rather go alone?”

  “Alone, I think. But I appreciate the offer.” Jane pressed a hand to Thora’s arm, and Thora covered it with her own.

  “I hope it helps.”

  “Me too.”

  Jane had put off widow’s weeds, and her heart was almost ready to follow suit. If only she could get past this last grief—the babies she had lost. And with them, her hope of ever bearing a child who would live.

  Autumn flowers clasped low at her waist, Jane walked through the churchyard the next day. Reaching the east side, she lifted a low branch bearing orangey-brown leaves and stepped out a small gate. Walking along the stone wall, she felt self-conscious about intruding, fearing the disapproving Mr. Beachum might see her and order her to leave. Or passersby might wonder what she was doing. In the next moment, she decided she did not care. She needed to do this.

  Jane surveyed the strip of land—a long grassy expanse eight or ten feet wide and maybe a hundred feet long between the churchyard wall and a farmer’s field. Dainty red campion blossoms and a few clusters of creamy common dropwort waved in the breeze. Fallen acorns and chestnuts dotted the ground, but no crosses or stone markers. Perhaps Thora was right. Jane may not know the exact location, but now that she knew the general area, she could pick a place and make it hers. Theirs.

  She walked a few yards farther along the wall, then stopped to squat low and lay her little bunch of flowers on the ground. As Jane hunched there, a shadow fell over her. Was it the parish clerk come to tell her to leave, to remind her such things were private and best forgotten?

  She glanced up. Mr. Ainsworth, the old sexton, stood there.

  Jane winced. “I know it isn’t done. But please leave me be. I just need a place to put my flowers and remember. Is that so wrong?”

  Instead Mr. Ainsworth bent and gathered up her flowers with his shabby gloves.

  Anger and violation swept over her, and she resisted the urge to yank the flowers from his soiled grasp. How dare he! There was no law against laying flowers.

  He turned and ambled away. Jane lurched to her feet and started after him.

  Then she stopped in her tracks.

  He had walked only five or six feet. He bent and laid one flower, then a handbreadth away, another, then another. “Here, missus.”

  Jane sucked in a breath, then walked slowly forward. Did it mean . . . Did he really know?

  Throat burning, she whispered, “They are . . . here?”

  “Aye, missus. Laid them here myself, I did. Ever so gentle and careful-like.”

  Her heart hitched.

  He pointed to the stone wall, and for the first time Jane noticed the small markings scratched there: JB IIIII.

  He laid the final flower. “Here’s the place for your posies.”

  Jane’s chest tightened until she could barely draw breath.

  He stra
ightened gingerly, removed his hat, and laid it over his heart.

  For a moment she stood beside him, tears filling her eyes. “Thank you,” she managed.

  He nodded and hobbled away.

  Jane felt her knees begin to tremble. Then her chin followed suit.

  She waited as long as she could. But he had barely passed through the gate when she crumpled to her knees, heedless of her gown. Tears coursed down her cheeks. She pulled off her gloves, pressed her bare palms to the earth, and cried all her secret losses and pent-up pain into that hallowed ground.

  Chapter

  thirty-one

  On Tuesday afternoon, Rachel looked up from the library desk, and her heart lurched. “Timothy!”

  “Hello, Rachel.” He stood there in greatcoat, top hat in hand. His face looked lean and a little weary after his week away. His boots were in need of a polish and his tousled hair in need of a trim. He had never looked better.

  She rose and hurried forward, stopping short of touching him. “I have been so worried. Your mother too. She came to see me.”

  “I know. She told me when I arrived home late last night.”

  Rachel ducked her head, ashamed to think of all she had said to her. “She wanted to know why you were upset. I did not tell her anything, but I spoke to her unkindly, and I am sorry for it.”

  “She has certainly given you cause, which is what I told her when she described how she confronted you, not to mention all the rest.”

  “Did you tell her about . . . Bramble Cottage?”

  “No. I considered doing so but decided against it. She feels Father’s loss keenly as it is. I did not want to strip away her whole perception of her husband and her marriage. It seemed too cruel.”

  “I understand. I . . . hope you don’t blame me for unearthing all this.”

  “Blame you? It isn’t your fault.”

  “But if I had never started the library, accepted donations, brought Mrs. Haverhill into our lives . . .”

  He shook his head. “The truth always comes out in the end. And now we must pray that something good will come of it.”