The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Read online

  Lady Awdry stood. “Perhaps a few of the young ladies might be prevailed upon to play for us? Until the signora is able to join us?”

  He beamed and blew out a breath. “Excellent idea, Mother.” He gestured about him. “We have a pianoforte, a harp, and sheet music by the score.” He cast about the room again. “Now, who will fill the gap? Stand in the breech? Help a fellow out?” His gaze landed on his tall sister. “Penelope looks about to flee the room.”

  Rachel glanced over and noticed the elder Miss Awdry looking decidedly ill at ease. What she lacked in obvious femininity, someone had tried to compensate for with too many ruffles and flounces, and the feathered turban on her head was an unfortunate choice, as it made her the tallest person in the crowd.

  “Don’t worry, Pen,” Sir Cyril assured her. “I shan’t ask you to play, unless it is a game of cricket!” He tittered and rocked on his heels again. Then his eyes sought his younger sister. “But Arabella will play, will you not? Unless someone else wishes to go first?”

  Nearby, Mrs. Bingley nudged her daughter, clearly eager to display her accomplishments to advantage.

  “But, Mamma,” Miss Bingley whispered, “I am not out yet.”

  “Close enough, my dear. The invitations to your ball go out next week.”

  Lady Brockwell looked expectantly at Justina, but the girl shook her head, alarm pinching her pretty features.

  Rachel watched the two young women with sympathy. It was clear neither felt inclined to play.

  Miss Bingley rose with resignation, clearly accustomed to being prodded to perform. She sat at the pianoforte and launched into an ambitious Irish air. She played reasonably well, though perfunctorily, with little pleasure for herself or her hearers.

  When she finished, polite applause escorted her back to her chair.

  Then Arabella Awdry walked forward and situated herself at the harp.

  Watching her regal posture and skilled fingers as she plucked sweet music from the strings, Rachel felt reluctant admiration for the favored young woman.

  When she finished to much applause, Sir Cyril announced a five-minute intermission while he went to see how the signora progressed.

  Lady Brockwell turned toward her. “Do you play an instrument, Rachel?”

  She shook her head. “I am afraid not.”

  “I am surprised.”

  Sir Timothy leaned forward from behind them. “But Miss Ashford possesses a lovely singing voice. Well I remember hearing it.”

  Rachel felt warm gratitude at his gallantry.

  “Excellent idea, Timothy.” Justina turned to her, all eagerness. “Rachel, you sing while I play. Everyone will be so enthralled by your performance, they shall not notice how imperfectly I play.”

  Rachel was too old to be displaying her accomplishments. She shook her head. “I don’t think so, Justina. I have not sung publicly in ages, outside of church. No one wants to hear me—”

  “Please, Rachel. I won’t be half so frightened if you go up with me.”

  Rachel glanced over her shoulder at Timothy, but his concerned gaze remained on his sister. “Justina, you needn’t play if it makes you uneasy.”

  “It is only a case of nerves,” Lady Brockwell said. “She ought to oblige Sir Cyril in this instance, in a show of support. Prove her ability as an excellent hostess, managing well the little problems that inevitably arise at such events.”

  Sir Cyril returned to the front of the room, rubbing his hands together. “A few more minutes yet, I am afraid. Who else will oblige us?” He glanced hopefully at Miss Brockwell.

  In turn, Justina widened her eyes at Rachel in urgent plea.

  Rachel’s singing voice had been complimented in the past, but she’d had no formal training. She felt her only true talents were embroidery and other fine needlework—neither of which would help Justina at the moment.

  She sighed. “Very well, Justina. If you truly want me to.”

  “I do.” Justina took her hand, led her to the pianoforte, and quickly sifted through the music.

  Sir Cyril beamed. “Excellent, a duo next. Thank you, Miss Brockwell. And Miss . . . ?”

  “Miss Ashford,” Justina supplied, then selected a piece of sheet music from the pile. “This one looks simple enough.” She looked to Rachel for approval. “All right?”

  Rachel glanced at it, nervous under so many expectant eyes watching them.

  “I think I remember that one, though I shall have to look on now and again.”

  Justina gave her a crooked grin. “Well, I shall be looking every second, and even then making mistakes, so just do the best you can.” The girl flexed her fingers and played the introduction.

  Rachel inhaled a fortifying breath and began to sing:

  “Oh, ne’er can I the joys forget

  of many a vanish’d year,

  they blossom in my mem’ry yet,

  as lovely and as dear:

  Like roses in a wilderness

  my lonely heart their beauties bless,

  and seem a fragrant chain to be,

  which binds that heart, my love to thee . . .”

  Oh, why had she agreed to sing this song? Rachel silently lamented. The poignant melody, the words that quickly moved from joy to vanished years, aching memories, roses, and a heart bound to an old love?

  Rachel mustered all the composure she had learned at her dear mother’s knee and even at her sickbed. She sang on, hoping the waver of her voice was not noticeable. She felt tears prick her eyes and prayed that if anyone noticed, they would think it a trick of the candlelight and nothing more.

  She felt Timothy’s gaze on her and shifted slightly toward him. There he sat, his eyes sparking with some strong emotion, or perhaps they only reflected flame from a nearby sconce.

  She glanced at Nicholas and found him watching her as well, as if transfixed with wonder.

  Noticing her gaze move to Mr. Ashford, Timothy’s eyes dulled and his shoulders slumped. Finally, the last verse was sung, and Justina played the concluding notes.

  For a moment the chords echoed in stillness, fading, fading. Then applause broke out, begun by a beaming Matilda Grove. Others joined in, and Rachel turned toward Justina to divert the embarrassing attention toward her young accompanist, who dimpled and curtsied.

  Sir Cyril came to the front, bowed over Justina’s hand, and smiled at Rachel. “Well, well, well. Very nicely done. Ah, I see the footman gesturing that Signora is ready. Let us hope she does not disappoint after such fine performances, or sings overlong to make up for her tardiness—for punch and a good supper await us at the conclusion of her program to reward your patience.”

  Signora Maltese came forward in a swirling silk gown, her accompanist sat at the pianoforte, and the concert began. She performed Italian arias fit for a London opera. Her trilling soprano was impressive in range, if occasionally jarring at its highest reaches. Rachel was certainly relieved not to have to sing after her.

  After several pieces, the regal-looking woman with black hair and snapping eyes addressed her host in accented English. “I hear, my discerning sir, that you prefer folk songs to my music.”

  He grinned and opened his mouth to reply in the affirmative, but his mother nudged him, and replied in his stead. “He was only jesting, Signora.”

  “If you say so, my lady. Still, my mother was born in Ireland. So this is for you, Sir Cyril.” She broke into a jaunty folk song with spirit and toe-tapping good humor. The company roared with approval, and Rachel’s former melancholy was swept away on its tide.

  After the singer had taken her final bow, her appreciative audience began to rise and cluster around her with congratulations and gratitude.

  Rachel rose as well, glad to stand after sitting so long.

  In a moment, Nicholas was there before her, his eyes shining with admiration.

  “You sing like an angel, Miss Ashford. Truly, you have been blessed with a fine voice.”

  She felt herself blush. “Thank you, but I am afrai
d it was obvious I’ve had no training and little practice in years.”

  “Your voice has a pure, natural quality that I found quite affecting.”

  “You are very generous. But enough of me. Had you not better sing the signora’s praises?”

  “I had rather sing yours.”

  Sir Timothy approached and nodded to Nicholas. “Mr. Ashford.” Then he turned to her. “Thank you, Miss Ashford, for kindly agreeing to sing for my sister’s sake. I know you would rather not have done so.” His mouth quirked. “And I hope you shall forgive me for suggesting you sing in the first place.”

  Nicholas turned to him with a little frown. “Why should you apologize for suggesting Miss Ashford sing? She sings beautifully.”

  “I agree. Even more beautifully than I remembered.” He studied her face carefully. “Did . . . Justina choose that particular song?”

  She hoped he didn’t think she’d selected that song with him in mind. Embarrassment singed her ears, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. “Yes. I let Justina pick.”

  He inhaled deeply. “That is as I thought. Well. Thank you again, and now I shall intrude no longer. Good evening.” He bowed and walked away.

  Nicholas, however, remained by her side until his mother insisted he compliment Miss Bingley’s and Miss Brockwell’s performances as well. Over the crowd, Rachel noticed Sir Timothy thank the signora and then cross the room to talk with tall Penelope Awdry, who stood alone against the far wall. Arabella walked over to join them, and he greeted her with a smile.

  Timothy had acknowledged Arabella was his mother’s current favorite, though not his. Had he changed his mind? If so, Rachel could not blame him, not when she had declared she no longer wanted a proposal from him, and continued to see Mr. Ashford.

  Rachel turned from the disheartening sight and nearly ran into Mr. Bingley.

  “Ah, Miss Ashford. How goes the library?”

  “It is going well, I think.”

  “You have Sir Timothy to thank for that, you know. Lord Winspear did not want to approve a second business operating out of the same residence, but Sir Timothy used all his powers of persuasion until he wore the man down and got his way. I went along with it, of course. Seemed harmless enough to me.”

  Rachel’s heart pounded. “No, I did not know. Thank you, Mr. Bingley.”

  Timothy had said nothing to her about any obstacles. Just silently helped her. Pulse racing, Rachel looked across the room at him once more. He met her gaze a moment over the crowd, then returned his attention to the Miss Awdrys, nodding politely at something Arabella said. Standing near a wall sconce as they were, the feather in Penelope’s turban fluttered dangerously close to a candle flame. With a gentle hand to her elbow, Sir Timothy directed her out of harm’s way. Penelope stammered an embarrassed thank-you, while her pretty sister beamed up at him. Unconsciously, Rachel laid a hand to her aching heart, and felt silk roses instead.

  During the carriage ride home, Mrs. Ashford chatted eagerly, dominating the conversation. This was fine with Rachel, for she was in no mood to talk.

  “Lady Brockwell was in excellent spirits. She is usually so reserved, I find, but was quite animated tonight. Happy to see Sir Cyril pursuing her daughter, and her son so attentive to the younger Miss Awdry. Such particular attention. Did you notice? And Miss Awdry seemed to admire him as well, if my eyes did not deceive me. Ah yes, Lady Brockwell could barely suppress a smile all evening. No doubt pleased at the thought of such excellent matches for her children. I can only imagine how she must feel. . . .”

  Rachel felt Matilda’s concerned look, but she kept her gaze trained out the window at the passing moonlit countryside.

  Mrs. Ashford went on, “It is a wonder Sir Timothy has not married before now. He must be thirty, at least, though men of his rank have the liberty to marry later in life, unlike us poor females. I wonder what has kept him from it? A gentleman of leisure like him—what else has he to do with his time than find a wife!” She chuckled at her little joke.

  Rachel spoke up. “Sir Timothy is not idle, ma’am. He has many responsibilities around his estate and the parish. He sits on the board of governors for the almshouse, leads the village council, and serves as magistrate besides.”

  Mrs. Ashford waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes. No doubt works his gloved fingers to the bone, riding, hunting, traveling to town, and whatever else gentlemen do with their time.”

  “Mrs. Ashford, you—”

  Matilda pressed a warning elbow into Rachel’s side. Rachel changed tack. “You are right that he enjoys those things as well.” She turned her attention to Nicholas. “And what about you, Mr. Ashford? Do you ride and hunt and visit London?”

  “None of those, really. Though I look forward to becoming more involved in parish affairs. Mr. Paley tells me I shall soon be asked to serve a term as churchwarden, and I assured him I will be happy to help however I can.”

  “That is very good of you.”

  Mrs. Ashford’s voice reverberated with pride. “It is his right and responsibility as master of Thornvale.”

  Rachel was relieved to feel no bitterness at the thought. “And he will do a creditable job, I don’t doubt for a moment.”

  His mother nodded. “Now that is something we agree on, Miss Ashford.”

  Even in the dim carriage, Rachel could see Nicholas’s eyes glow warmly as he looked at her.

  “Thank you, Miss Ashford. Your confidence means a great deal.”

  The look should have given her pleasure, but guilt pricked her instead.

  Chapter

  thirty-three

  Clutching her gloved hands in her lap and praying silently, Mercy sat across the desk from Mr. Drake in his office at the Fairmont. She barely resisted the urge to fidget as he read Mary-Alicia’s letter. His golden eyebrows bunched together as he read, and then his expression cleared.

  He sat back hard against his chair, expelling a long breath. “I have wondered ever since I met Alice—her looks, her age . . .” He shook his head, fingers pressed to parted lips. “Poor Mary-Alicia. If only I had found her.”

  “May I begin, Mr. Drake, by assuring you that I did not come here to try to compel you to do anything about this. I simply thought you had the right to see the letter. I realize that your . . . acquaintance with Miss Payne was years ago and not of long duration. You are under no obligation to—”

  “Of course I am.”

  Mercy squeezed her hands until her knuckles ached. “I want you to know that Mr. Thomas has asked me to act as Alice’s guardian. My lawyer is already drawing up the papers. So she will be well taken care of, no matter what.”

  His focus returned to the letter, regret pulling at his features. Had he even heard Mercy speak?

  “She was wrong. I never forgot her. Nor did I leave that resort to avoid her. I’d received an urgent message that my mother was ill. I thought Mary-Alicia would be there another week at least.” He grimaced. “I should have left her a note. My permanent address. Something. But I left in such a hurry.

  “This was just before I bought my first hotel. I doubt I mentioned where my parents lived, even though that was still my official residence at the time. I have made a point of distancing myself from the Hain-Drakes. Determined to make my own way in the world. I never dreamed that decision would bring such consequences.”

  “Your hotel . . . exactly. Mr. Drake, you have a fledgling business to think of, as well as your hotel in Southampton, which must consume a great deal of your attention. So I will understand if you don’t have time for the added responsibility of an eight-year-old.” Could he hear the desperation in her calmly phrased arguments? She hoped not. “I think all Miss Payne wanted was someone to protect Alice. To provide for her. I am in a position to do that.”

  “So am I.”

  “I know you are a generous man, Mr. Drake. Jane Bell is a close friend of mine and speaks highly of your helpful nature. If you would like to provide some sort of stipend for Alice’s upkeep, or a trust
fund for when she comes of age . . .”

  “Comes of age? She is only eight years old, Miss Grove. That is a lifetime away. I want to be involved now, and not only financially.”

  Mercy’s stomach dropped. Even as the words came out of her mouth, she knew she was grasping at straws. “Mr. Drake, you are not even married.”

  “Neither are you.”

  “No, but Alice has lived with me these many months. She is fond of me, trusts me . . .”

  “I am her father.”

  Mercy felt her world spinning out of control. This was not going at all as planned. She drew a shaky breath. “I suggest we both take time to think this through. And I will need to talk with Mr. Thomas.”

  She reached for the letter, but he snatched it from her grasp, eyes like green glass.

  “I had better keep this. It is written to me after all. I wouldn’t want anyone to be tempted to extort anything from me for its return.”

  Her mouth fell open. “I would never—!”

  “What else am I to think? You bring this here, then try to take it back, after all this talk of my hotels and hinting that offers of money would be acceptable?”

  She gasped. “For Alice! Not for me. You misunderstood. I only want what is best for her.”

  “And you believe you are the best judge of that? You are not her mother, Miss Grove.”

  Indignation and mortification washed over her. “I know that.”

  He clenched his hand. “This is my rightful God-given responsibility, not yours.”

  “You believe in God, Mr. Drake?” Irony tinged her voice.

  “I do now.” His mouth twisted. “And as far as Mr. Thomas—the grandfather who disowned Mary-Alicia and left her to die in poverty? I don’t care a whit what he wants. His wishes are immaterial.”

  “If you don’t care about his wishes, think of Alice. She has grown up believing herself the daughter of Alexander Smith, who married her mother and died at sea. And most everyone else believes that too. Will you expose this innocent child as illegitimate? You can pretend it won’t affect her reputation, her happiness, and future marriage prospects, but you would be fooling yourself.”