The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Read online

  Mercy went and found her aunt in the quiet reading room and sank into the chair beside hers. “Oh, Aunt Matty, what should I do?”

  Matilda set aside her novel and removed her spectacles. “You know, my dear, when I was about your age, I was in a similar situation. My brother was about to marry your mother, and I had to ask myself the same question. Examine my choices, which were few. There was one man I was fond of and would have married, had he asked, but he married someone else. There was one other man who admired me, but I didn’t care for him, so I turned him down and stayed here with Earnest and his bride.

  “There were times in those early years of the three of us living here together that I regretted my decision. Your mother and I did not always see eye to eye, as you know. But then you and George came along and softened your mamma. And you, especially, were the light of my days. And we are friends even now, thank the Lord.

  “Just between us, I was not sorry when your parents decided to quit Ivy Hill for London. Goodness, has it already been ten years ago? No one likes feeling like an unwanted guest in one’s own home. These last ten years here—just you and me and our girls—have been some of the happiest of my life, and I am as sorry to see them come to an end as you are. But it needn’t be a dire fate. If you are lucky as I was, you will have a special relationship with at least one of your nieces or nephews, and that will make life worthwhile, as it has for me.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Matty.” Thinking through her aunt’s words, Mercy concluded, “So . . . you are advising me to remain as I am and hope for the best?”

  “Heavens, no. Get out however you can. And take me with you.” Matty winked, then added earnestly, “I cannot tell you what to do, my dear. But whatever you decide, I want you to know I love you, and I could not be more proud of you if you were my own daughter.”

  Mercy pressed her hand, and both blinked back tears.

  Chapter

  forty

  Thora was just stepping outside the next day when Hetty walked through the Angel Farm gate, a parcel in her hands.

  “Hello, Hetty.”

  “You’re going out,” Hetty observed. “I won’t keep you.”

  “I was on my way to The Bell to see you. Come in.” Thora held the door, and Hetty stepped over the threshold but no further.

  “Mrs. Bell offered to watch Betsey for me. I’ve only come to return the things you lent us.” She handed over the small bundle. “Here are Patrick’s baby things. I laundered them carefully—don’t worry.”

  “I wasn’t worried. And you needn’t return them.”

  “Yes, I do. You saved them for Patrick’s children. For your grandchildren. It wouldn’t be right for us to keep them. I should never have accepted them in the first place. Please forgive me for allowing you to believe . . . to hope.”

  “Hetty . . .”

  “And here is the bracelet you gave Betsey.”

  Thora glanced at the blue pendant and slowly shook her head. Voice thick, she said, “I’ve already given her my heart. There’s no taking it back now.”

  Hetty held her gaze a moment, measuring her resolve, then put the bracelet back into her apron pocket. “Thank you, Thora.”

  Errand completed, Hetty wanted to walk back, but Thora insisted on taking her in their gig. It was a quiet, uncomfortable ride.

  Two coaches had arrived at the inn before them, and the yard was busy. Thora saw Hetty’s eyes linger on the vehicles.

  “Hetty, you are not thinking of leaving, are you?”

  “I am.”

  “But where would you go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Thora handed the reins to an ostler, and the two women climbed out of the gig. Jane came out to greet them, Betsey on her hip.

  Thora nodded to her, then continued, “Remember what I said, Hetty. You and Betsey have a place in Ivy Hill for as long as you want it—here at The Bell or with Talbot and me. Right, Jane?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thora, that is very kind. And tempting,” Hetty said. “But if Patrick left to avoid marriage to me, then I am not simpleton enough to stay here or move in with his mother! I will miss you—something I never thought I’d say and mean it with all my heart, but I will. And so, of course, will Betsey. But she is young, and in time the pain will ease and her heart will heal.”

  Thora wondered if she was talking about her daughter alone or herself as well.

  Jane pressed her hand. “Hetty, please don’t leave.”

  “Leave? Why would Hetty leave?”

  They all whipped their heads around. There stood Patrick, wearing his favorite frock coat, a bouquet of hothouse flowers in one hand and valise in the other.

  “Patrick!” Hetty breathed.

  Thora’s heart banged in her chest, and she pressed a hand to the tender spot. Thank you, God.

  “Where did you go? Ted saw you leave.”

  “Only for a few days.” He set down his valise. “Good heavens, Mamma. Tell me you didn’t jump to conclusions and pull Hetty along for the ride! Did you think I’d left for good? What do you take me for?”

  “Actually, Thora tried to convince me that you would come back for me,” Hetty said. “But I was the one who was afraid to believe her.”

  “Why? I told you I love you and want you to be my wife.” He handed her the bouquet.

  Hetty lowered her gaze to the flowers. “But then I told you about . . . Betsey . . . and you left. Without saying a word. And—”

  “What about Betsey?” He took the little girl in his arms. “She may not have inherited my suave demeanor or dark hair,” he jested, eyes resting fondly on the child. “But she is every bit as attractive and clever and charming—can you deny it?”

  Hetty exchanged a look with Thora. “Your mother said something very like that herself.”

  “Did she indeed? Well, Mamma knew me as a baby, didn’t she?” He grinned. “She is most qualified to recognize the similarities.”

  Hetty bit her lip. “But . . . you never officially asked me to marry you.”

  “I know. I couldn’t. Not until I had something of my own to offer you. Something better than a musty little room in my sister’s inn.”

  “I don’t care about that.”

  “You should. You deserve better.”

  “You still haven’t told us where you went,” Jane said, “and why all the secrecy?”

  “I left a quick note in the office. Did you not find it?”

  “No.”

  “Probably buried under a pile of bills.” He shrugged. “At all events, I first went to Salisbury to talk to the bankers there, since they haven’t replaced Blomfield at the bank here in Ivy Hill. Then I looked at a few properties. I didn’t say anything because I wanted it to be a surprise, and truthfully, because I feared the bankers might turn me down after the, em, recent misunderstanding with their former partner. But I’m happy and relieved to report they agreed to work with me. I have some money saved and they will loan me the rest.”

  “Not another loan,” Thora moaned.

  “Only a very modest one, Mamma.”

  “A loan for what?”

  “I have my eye on a nice lodging house in Salisbury and a smaller one in Wishford. I haven’t made a formal offer on either. I want you to see them both, Hetty, and we can decide together. That is . . . if you will accept a simple landlord when you deserve a lord of a manor.”

  “Of course I will. Oh, Patrick.” Hetty’s eyes shone, and she rested a hand on his arm.

  Thora made a face. “Salisbury is such a big city and quite a long way.”

  “Not so far. You could visit us on Sundays, Mamma. And I know how much you dislike Wishford.”

  “But Wishford is closer,” she pointed out.

  “True. The lodging house there is rather small, but it does have a modest apartment for the owners with two extra bedchambers for . . . children. The place needs work, but I think it has potential. There is room for expansion, should we decide to build on, and situated on t
he river as it is, it could be very successful, in time.”

  “Sounds promising, Patrick.” Thora swallowed hard. “I’m . . . proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Mamma.”

  Betsey still in his arms, Patrick gingerly lowered himself to one knee right there in The Bell courtyard. “What do you say, Hetty and Betsey, will you marry me? I know I am not a perfect man, by any measure. But I do love you, both of you, and would be honored to be your husband and your papa.”

  Hetty dropped to her knees before him and threw her arms around both Patrick and Betsey in a clumsy, dusty, beautiful embrace. “We will.”

  Even though the future of her library and livelihood were uncertain, Rachel went about her business calmly for the most part. Now and again, a flash of worry would niggle her, but she was learning to pray when that happened. She reminded herself that she had prayed for reconciliation with Jane a few months ago, and now their friendship had been restored. She also thought again of Mercy’s many undeserved kindnesses to her. Gratitude filled Rachel anew, and her trust in God grew.

  In the meantime, she was determined to make the most of each remaining day in the Ashford Circulating Library, helping patrons and reading voraciously herself. She even attended the next ladies’ book discussion, this time about the novel Emmeline, the Orphan of the Castle by Charlotte Smith. At this rate, they might soon have to change their name to The Ladies Tea, Knitting, and Book Society.

  The day before Miss Bingley’s ball, Rachel had tea with Jane. Tucked into a high-backed inglenook in The Bell coffee room, they talked about Patrick’s engagement, the situation with the library, and Mrs. Haverhill’s surprising departure.

  “And Timothy?” Jane asked. “Anything new there?”

  Rachel shook her head. “He has not said anything. Nor visited the library lately.”

  “Perhaps he thinks you and Mr. Ashford are still courting.”

  “It’s possible. Though rumors generally pass quickly along our ole ivy vine. I will say his manner toward me the day Mrs. Haverhill left was quite warm. I confess it gave me hope . . . though I am afraid to hope as well. I don’t want to be hurt again.”

  “I understand, Rachel, but I think you have every reason to hope. You are stronger and prettier than ever, your character sweeter, and you are still young.”

  “Thank you, Jane.”

  “Which reminds me . . .” Jane raised a hand, eyes bright. “You are hereby invited to a special dinner next week. We are celebrating.”

  “Celebrating what?”

  “One of us, who is not so young, reaches a significant birthday soon. . . . ” Jane coughed for emphasis. “And I can think of no better way to stave off the gloom than a dinner party with friends.”

  Rachel grinned. “Good idea. With age comes wisdom, apparently.”

  When Rachel returned to Ivy Cottage, a thick parcel awaited her on the library desk, wrapped in brown paper, sealing wax, and twine. Another donation? Tucked beneath the twine was the printed card of a Bristol bookbinder with her name added in elegant script: Miss R. Ashford.

  This, then, was a gift. Happy anticipation rippled through her. Was it from Timothy, or was that only wishful thinking? After all, Timothy had recently returned from Bristol. . . .

  She slid her nail beneath the seal and peeled back the paper. Inside lay a beautiful leather-and-gilt edition of the novel Persuasion, custom bound in one thick volume. The title page carried the attribution: By the author of “Pride and Prejudice,” “Mansfield Park,” &c.

  The library already possessed a four-volume set of Northanger Abbey and Persuasion, so Rachel felt no qualms about taking the new book up to her room for her own enjoyment. She had adored Pride and Prejudice and now looked forward to reading this book by the same author.

  Mrs. Timmons called from the passage that dinner was on the table and to hurry along unless she liked cold peas, so the new book would have to wait.

  That evening, Rachel changed into her nightclothes and situated herself in bed, bolstered by pillows and a warm shawl around her shoulders. Then she opened the book . . . and drew in a breath. After all her searching for inscriptions in other books, here was one at last:

  To Rachel,

  You pierce my soul.

  Goodness! What did it mean? The handwriting seemed familiar, though it was not signed with a name. Rachel had planned to read only a few chapters, but after discovering that intriguing inscription, she knew she would get precious little sleep that night.

  The author began by describing Sir Walter Elliot and his daughters, who decide they must let out their manor house and live more modestly elsewhere. After a few chapters, Rachel began to grow sleepy. One more page, she told herself as she began chapter four.

  There she read with mounting interest the romantic history of the middle daughter. As a young woman, Anne Elliot had briefly been engaged to Captain Frederick Wentworth. But a trusted family friend argued that because he had little fortune or connections, he was unworthy of her, and Anne had been persuaded to call off the engagement. A decision she came to regret.

  “More than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful interest had reached its close. . . .”

  Rachel could relate. Heedless of the hour, she continued to read, now wide awake.

  Captain Wentworth returned from sea a successful man who had apparently shifted his attentions to a younger woman. Meanwhile, a cousin, her father’s heir, began pursuing Anne. At seven-and-twenty, she knew she ought to be thankful for any man’s interest, but she still loved Captain Wentworth and feared she had lost him forever.

  Rachel’s bedside candle guttered. She pulled a spare from her drawer, lit it by the flickering stub, and kept reading.

  As dawn warmed the sky outside her window, Rachel reached the climactic chapter—Captain Wentworth believing Anne would marry her cousin, and Anne wishing she knew how to prove her constancy.

  Finally the captain wrote a letter and, with a look of entreaty, left it where she could not miss it. Staring at that letter, Anne fully believed her future happiness depended on its contents and sat down to read it then and there. . . .

  As eager to read the letter as the fictional Anne, Rachel turned the page, and her breath hitched.

  What was this? Although clearly a newly bound book, words had been underscored on the page. Confusion quickly gave way to blossoming hope as she read the underlined phrases:

  I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. . . . I have loved none but you. . . .

  Rachel pressed a hand to her chest as the words wrapped themselves around her soul and warmed her entire being. She turned the final page and stilled—any remaining doubt fled. There, slipped between the concluding pages, was a small pressed rose with a white bead pinned to its stem.

  She picked it up with delicate fingers, tears filling her eyes. It was the flower that had come loose from her hair the night of her coming-out ball, more than eight years ago. Timothy had kept it all this time.

  Chapter

  forty-one

  In the Ivy Cottage sitting room, Rachel held out her arms and turned side to side, showing the Miss Groves her mother’s ivory-and-gold gown with the new neckline and trimming.

  “Well? Do I look terribly out of fashion? Mrs. Shabner says I do.”

  Mercy beamed. “No! Rachel, look at you. You are prettier than I have ever seen you. Truly.”

  “Thank you, Mercy.”

  “Goodness me. If you don’t receive an offer of marriage tonight, I shall be very much surprised.” Matilda’s eyes twinkled.

  “Don’t go on so. This is Miss Bingley’s coming-out ball. It is her night to be the center of attention, not mine. You don’t think I am too showy in this?”

  “Not at all. It’s not your fault if you outshine every other lady in the room.”

  Matilda nodded her agreement. “Mercy is right,
my dear. You have never been lovelier, inside or out. You have blossomed in spite of it all. Your parents would be so proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Miss Matty.”

  Matilda grinned. “And if Sir Timothy doesn’t come to his senses now, I’ve a mind to box his ears.”

  Rachel smiled, but her stomach tingled with nervous anticipation. She pressed a hand there to calm herself.

  “I hope the dress is worth the effort. Mrs. Shabner said having to make over this old thing is the straw that broke the camel’s back. She declares she is letting out her shop.”

  Matilda nodded. “She may just do it this time. But the dress is worth it, I assure you.”

  Mercy asked tentatively, “Will Mr. Ashford be attending? I happened to overhear Mrs. Ashford after church mention they’d been invited.”

  “I don’t know. I hope he does not stay home on my account. In fact, I will pray Mr. Ashford finds someone new to admire, perhaps even tonight.”

  They left the schoolgirls in the care of Agnes, Anna, and Mrs. Timmons so the Miss Groves and Rachel could attend the ball together. Mercy tried to beg off, but her aunt argued that she could use some cheering up and should go. In the end, Mercy agreed and determined to enjoy herself as best she could. The evening turned chilly, and they were all thankful that thoughtful Mr. Bingley had offered to send his carriage for them.

  As they neared the Bingley home between Wishford and Stapleford, excitement filled Rachel. Lanterns lit the drive and candles glowed in every window of the manor house. When the carriage stopped, liveried footmen appeared to help them alight. Stepping inside, more servants took their capes and mantles. In the great hall, they were welcomed by their hosts, Mr. and Mrs. Bingley. Moving down the line, they congratulated Miss Bingley, and promised Horace Bingley they would have a “capital time.”

  Mercy soon joined her aunt and the other older women clustered around the punch table, sipping negus or ratafia and talking, while Rachel surreptitiously surveyed the ballroom, looking for Sir Timothy. She saw Justina Brockwell, and her heart lifted, but there was no sign of her brother.