The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 34

  Something near the bottom of the trunk caught her eye, and Thora bent and pulled out a bundle wrapped in tissue. Unfolding it, she was surprised to find a silver spoon with a ribbon around its handle. Who had put it there? She had not.

  A scuffle step brought Thora’s head up. Jane appeared at the top of the stairs, candle lamp in hand.

  “Oh, Jane, you startled me.”

  “Sorry. I thought I would see if you needed any help. Find what you were looking for?”

  Thora was tempted to slam the lid, to hide the spoon, knitted caps, and telltale booties, but she had never been one to hide from uncomfortable scenes.

  “Yes. I thought I might find some things for Betsey among John and Patrick’s old things.”

  Jane glanced down and surveyed the assortment on her lap and in the open trunk: miniature articles of clothing, a set of wooden blocks, and a few children’s books.

  “Ohhh . . .” Jane expelled a long breath and sank onto the bench beside her.

  Thora handed her the silver spoon. “Did you put this in here?”

  “No. I have never seen it before.”

  “Nor I.”

  Jane held it up to the light, revealing an engraved B on its handle.

  Seeing the inscription, Thora’s throat tightened. “John must have purchased it. When you were expecting.”

  Jane’s eyes flashed to hers, then returned to the spoon, glistening by candlelight. “Do you think so?”

  Thora nodded. “Probably meant it to be a surprise.”

  Jane considered. “He must have hidden it up here . . . after.”

  For a moment, they both looked at the silver spoon, remembering John. Then Thora cleared the lump from her throat and selected something else.

  “You might like to see this.” She held up a lock of hair tied with ribbon. “Saved from John’s first haircut. I wanted to wait longer, but Frank said no boy of his would look like a girl. ‘Bad enough we put boys in dresses until breeching, as it is.’”

  Jane managed a halfhearted chuckle. “Sounds like Frank.” She touched the soft lock of baby hair and traced a finger over one of the caps and painfully tiny booties. “I did not realize you had stored away John’s and Patrick’s baby things. I thought you would have given everything away by now.”

  “I gave away many things. Held on to only some special keepsakes I couldn’t bear to part with. Like this christening gown.”

  “Saving them for your grandchildren, I suppose.”

  “Yes, I suppose I was.” Thora looked at her daughter-in-law. “Jane, I hope this doesn’t make you feel too sad.”

  “No. Well, maybe a little. I am better now that I have a place to mourn. Truly. I am happy for you. Betsey is like the grandchild you never had. I am . . . happy for you both.” Jane’s chin trembled, but she went on breezily, “And goodness knows we have all despaired of Patrick ever settling down. This might be the answer to your prayers. Seeing you with Betsey now . . . Well, it’s a relief. You have a grandchild at last.”

  “She isn’t my grandchild, Jane. Not . . . officially.”

  “I know, but I have seen Patrick and Hetty together. How he looks at her. How he helps her and how well he treats her. I think—or at least hope—that it is only a matter of time.”

  Thora nodded. “I do too.”

  Thora went to talk to Patrick before heading back to the farm. She found him leaning against the doorframe, watching with a soft smile as Hetty entertained Cadi and Alwena with an amusing impersonation of the difficult lady and her snappish maid who’d recently stayed at the inn, slipping from the maid’s Irish accent to her mistress’s tonnish voice with ease.

  Thora regarded her son, then took him by the arm and led him into the office. “Come, Patrick. I am not blind. You can barely keep your eyes off her—or your hands, I’d wager.”

  “Mamma, I have been a perfect gentleman. This time.”

  “I believe you. And that gives me hope that you really do care for her. That you could be happy together.”

  “I do care for her, Mamma. It surprises me how much I do.”

  “Well then, what are you waiting for? I know I discouraged you from pursuing her in the past. But now . . . Do you not think you should do your duty by her?”

  He raised his hands. “Mamma, you astound me. Tell me honestly—if not for the child, would you say the same thing?”

  “How can I know? You and Hetty are joined now . . . in a way I might not have chosen. But now you have a second chance to make it right. Don’t run away from your responsibility, Patrick. Not again.”

  He crossed his arms. “I have shown responsibility. Staying on here to help Jane, even after my own aspirations were thwarted.”

  Thora studied his face. Why was it so hard to believe he had changed? That he would settle down and stay with inn keeping. Stay with one woman as well. Oh, God, help Patrick to be the man you want him to be. And help me have faith in my own son!

  “I have noticed, Patrick. So has Jane. And I am . . . glad.” She wanted to say she was proud of him, but the words curled and died on her tongue. Instead, she tilted her head to one side and regarded her handsome second son. “Patrick, how old are you?”

  “Almost nine and twenty, as you know very well.”

  “Nine and twenty.” She shook her head in wonder. “You know, nothing matures a man like having someone else to be responsible for. A wife and child to look after. To love and protect. It would do you a world of good.”

  “You make it sound so romantic,” he dryly replied.

  “There is more to marriage than romance.”

  “And this from a woman barely returned from her wedding trip. Poor Talbot.”

  She swatted his arm. “I didn’t say there was no romance, I said there was more than that. There is making a decision to love someone no matter what. To stand by that person and love him or her more than your own life. To put his or her needs and well-being above your own.”

  “Sounds . . . terrifying.”

  Thora nodded slowly. “It is. But when the other person is doing the same, it’s something altogether . . . good.”

  Chapter

  thirty-six

  On Monday evening, Rachel settled into a chair as Mercy called to order that night’s meeting of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society. Jane was not in attendance, Rachel noticed, nor the dairywoman, Mrs. Barton, who had become one of her library’s more frequent patrons.

  Among the other items on the agenda, she knew Mercy planned to solicit ideas for alternate locations for both a school and library, should they become necessary.

  Mercy began with an update of her charity school campaign, reporting that the churchwardens might consider allowing use of the church building for religious instruction—if parents provided funds for the materials—but not for general education.

  A few women groaned in response, while others nodded their understanding.

  Miss Cook said, “That is some progress, at least.”

  Mrs. O’Brien shook her head. “Easy for you to say, Charlotte. You’re not one of the struggling parents asked to cover the cost.”

  The door banged open, and Mrs. Barton rushed in late, all thrilled excitement. “Ladies! Come quick. Such doings! Mr. Craddock and Mr. Cottle have caught a thief! They are outside the lock-up right now!” Her face shone with scandalized glee to be the bearer of such news.

  The ladies rushed from their chairs to look for themselves.

  Mrs. Barton stretched on tiptoes toward the window latch. “Mercy, open the window, please. I can’t reach.”

  Mercy did so, flinching as it squealed open. Rachel and several others stood craning their necks at the window—Mrs. Barton standing on a chair—while other women crammed into the open doorway of the village hall to watch the nearby drama without interrupting it.

  The local butcher, currently serving a term as village constable, stood before the squat stone lock-up, the baker and a wiry youth beside him.

  Sir Timothy came striding up Pot
ters Lane, and Rachel’s breath caught. With his squared shoulders, set jaw, and determined expression, he looked every inch a magistrate to be respected, even feared.

  “Yes, Mr. Cottle? You sent for me?”

  “This fellow was caught stealing a loaf of bread.”

  Sir Timothy looked toward the youth, who looked no more than fourteen or fifteen. “What is your name, son?”

  “Jeremy Mullins.”

  Beside Rachel, Mercy sucked in a breath. “That’s Sukey’s brother!”

  The constable scowled. “A lark, was it, ey, Mullins?”

  “No, sir. My pa is injured and can’t work, and my little brothers are hungry. I never meant to hurt anyone. Only wanted to help.”

  Mercy whispered, “Mr. Mullins was kicked by a horse, poor man.”

  “That don’t give you the right to steal, boy,” Mr. Craddock snapped.

  “I waited ’til the end of the day. Didn’t think you’d sell that last loaf.”

  “Thieving is still thieving.”

  The youth hung his head.

  The baker turned to Sir Timothy. “I demand justice, my lord. This is petty larceny—there’s no denying it.”

  “Petty is right.” Sir Timothy sighed and turned to Mullins. “I am afraid Mr. Craddock is correct. Justice must be satisfied. The penalty is six pounds or six weeks’ jail with hard labor.”

  Rachel’s stomach twisted. What a harsh sentence for one so young!

  The lad’s face crumpled and his shoulders slumped. It was clear he hadn’t six farthings, let alone six pounds—nearly a year’s wages for many poor people.

  Sir Timothy extracted his own coin purse. “I shall pay the fine on your behalf, son, if you will accept it.”

  Around her the women gasped in surprise.

  Jeremy’s mouth fell ajar. “But, sir, I could never repay you.”

  “I know.”

  The baker protested, “That’s not fair! If ya spare him, I’ll be overrun with thieves!”

  Sir Timothy ignored Craddock and kept his gaze on the youth. “Will you accept it anyway?”

  Jeremy Mullins stared, thunderstruck. “I will, my lord.” His voice trembled. “And bless ya for it.”

  Rachel stood there, feeling similarly stunned.

  “Thank God,” Mercy murmured.

  Bits of Mr. Paley’s last sermon fell on Rachel like rain. “He appeased God’s justice in our place. We can never deserve or repay this gift. We can only accept. . . .”

  Rachel’s heart throbbed. O, God in heaven. Forgive me for being too proud to ask you for help. To accept your merciful grace. A gift I can never earn, “credit,” or repay . . .

  The women slowly returned to their chairs, accompanied by whispers and snatches of conversation.

  Mrs. Barton shook her head. “Craddock’s right. Now every down-on-his-luck chap will be stealing from him.”

  Mrs. Burlingame sniffed. “He can afford it, greedy guts.”

  “Goodness, what a gentleman is Sir Timothy,” Judith Cook breathed, hands fluttering at the lace at her neck.

  Mrs. O’Brien smirked at her. “You’re too old for him, love.”

  “Well, I’m not.” Becky Morris fluffed her hair. “What a dashing husband he’d make.”

  Julia Featherstone waved a dismissive hand. “Like he’d ever notice the likes of us.”

  “I know.” Becky sighed. “Still, a girl can dream, can’t she?”

  Rachel nodded. Yes, she could.

  Mercy moved to the front of the room and re-called the meeting to order, other agenda items shelved in the face of this pressing need. “I did not realize the situation had become so bleak. What can we do to help the Mullins family?”

  The meeting continued from there, but Rachel could only bow her head and pray—for the Mullins family and for herself. She didn’t know what her future held or how she would live, but she felt inexplicable peace descend over her like a warm shawl in winter. She had been too proud to ask for help, but His help, His peace, came anyway.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  After the meeting, Mercy and Rachel walked home together. When they neared Ivy Cottage, Mercy was surprised to see Jeremy Mullins loitering outside its gate. Rachel sent her a concerned look, but Mercy greeted him warmly.

  “Hello, Jeremy. Hoping to see your sister?”

  He exhaled in relief. “Yes, miss. I’m afraid she might have heard and think the worst of me. Or fear I’d been thrown in the lock-up.”

  “Which you would have been, if not for Sir Timothy’s intervention. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

  “I have, miss. I’ve never been half so scared in my life.”

  “Good. Then come in and have some cake with us.” Mercy opened the gate and led the way inside.

  “I shall go and find Sukey,” Rachel offered, starting toward the stairs.

  “Thank you, Rachel. I will show Mr. Mullins where to wash his hands.”

  A short while later the four of them were seated at the dining table, tea, hot chocolate, and cake before them. The cake was not one of Aunt Matilda’s better attempts, but Jeremy devoured his piece with relish.

  Sukey was stricken to hear the news. “Oh, Jeremy, what were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t. At least not clearly. I am sorry, Sukey.”

  “Mum will break her heart over this.”

  He hung his head. “I know.”

  Mercy served him another slice of cake, already planning to send the rest home with him, along with whatever else she could find to spare in the larder. “I am sure if you apologize and promise not to do anything like it ever again, she will forgive you. I know she loves you all very much.”

  Sukey nodded. “And good thing Pa is on his back or he’d give you a switching. Never mind you’re as tall as he is now.”

  Jeremy grimaced. “I did try to find work first, you know. But few will hire someone my age, and fewer now, when people hear what I did.”

  Mercy agreed. “I am afraid you are right.”

  “Why not ask at Brockwell Court?” Rachel suggested. “I would think with it being harvest time, they might need extra hands.”

  “I asked yesterday, and their farm manager turned me down flat. Said I was too young to do the work, though I am stronger than I look.”

  Sukey nodded vigorously. “He is, miss. Very strong.”

  Rachel considered. “Perhaps go again, and ask Sir Timothy himself.”

  “After tonight? I couldn’t ask him to do more for me. And why would he give me a place, when he knows better than most what I done?”

  “I don’t know if he would or not; I only know that he would be fair.”

  Jeremy sighed. “Very well. I’ll ask. Likely be sent packing, but I’ll try.”

  A short while later, Jeremy left to walk home, laden with a basket of cake, jars of preserves, and a meat pie. Sukey walked him out.

  Rachel and Mercy remained at the table, lingering over their tea. They talked over the evening and Sir Timothy’s merciful treatment of the young thief, Rachel describing how the scene had affected her and the peace she felt.

  Mercy listened with interest, then said, “I am glad to hear it, Rachel. I confess I found myself thinking of Sir Timothy’s father. It seemed like something he might have done. I remember hearing the story of how he once spared a woman the workhouse.”

  Rachel frowned, then said, “I think Sir Timothy is twice the gentleman his father was.”

  Mercy swirled the dregs in her teacup. “By the way, I am sorry we never got around to your library at tonight’s meeting.”

  Rachel shook her head. “Don’t give it another thought. My goodness, if anyone should be apologizing, it’s me, for not fully appreciating all you’ve done for me. I am blessed to be your friend, Mercy Grove.”

  Mercy smiled. “And I yours.”

  Rachel rose. “And now I believe I will go and find a new book to read.” She winked. “Might as well make the most of my library while I can.”

  Ch
apter

  thirty-seven

  Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled through the keeper’s lodge. Jane groaned. The roof would leak again, and the storm would upset Athena. Jane would have to try to soothe the horse before she harmed herself again or upset every animal in the stable, and likely the ostlers and postboys as well.

  Jane pushed back the blankets and rose, pulling on a flannel petticoat, woolen stockings, half boots, and a full-length pelisse. By the time she was dressed and left the lodge, the storm had abated somewhat, though rain fell steadily.

  Shawl over her head, she hurried through the archway and across the yard, leaping a puddle as she went. She opened the stable door and slipped inside as silently as she could, not wanting to startle Athena. The stable was surprisingly quiet. When her eyes adjusted, she walked deeper into the building. Horses slept on, or regarded her placidly as she passed. Athena had probably worn herself out, poor creature.

  Jane tiptoed around the corner and drew up short. There at the far end, the last stall stood wide open. A hanging lantern illuminated an unexpected scene.

  She inhaled sharply.

  In the open stall, Athena stood calmly, one leg suspended. Gabriel Locke bent at her shoulder, working away. He had come!

  The horse remained peacefully still under his ministrations while he trimmed her hoof. As Jane watched, Athena slowly lowered her head, until her chin lay on Gabriel’s curved back. Then she closed her eyes. The mare had fallen asleep, relaxed in Gabriel’s care. Fully trusting.

  Jane’s heart swelled within her, and her throat burned. Perhaps it was time she fully trusted him too.

  “Gabriel . . .” she breathed, so quietly she was sure he wouldn’t hear. But he looked up, and for a moment held her gaze, his expression measuring. He hesitated, lifting a hand to indicate the work he was in the midst of. She nodded, not wanting to interrupt him until he had taken care of her horse.

  As Jane waited, she took in his attractive profile, the dark hair falling over his forehead, and every move of his deft, capable hands. She noticed his broad shoulders and muscular forearms revealed by rolled-up shirtsleeves. She drew in a shaky breath, wishing she were not so poorly dressed. Woolens indeed!