The Bride of Ivy Green Read online

A similar smile flashed through Mercy’s memory. Esther’s smile.

  Feeling slightly guilty, Mercy said, “You have so many uncles, Anna, I struggle to keep track of them all. Nor am I acquainted with all of their wives. I recently saw a young woman named Esther, but—”

  “Oh yes!” Anna enthused. “Miss Dudman is delightful! We are all fond of her already.”

  “Miss Dudman? She is not married?” Mercy asked, hoping her expression gave nothing away.

  Anna grinned. “Not yet. Though we have reason to believe there will be another Mrs. Kingsley soon.”

  “I see.” Recalling their affectionate embrace and the admiring way Joseph looked at the woman when he’d said “Esther is more than a friend,” Mercy’s stomach cramped.

  She opened her mouth to ask another question, but the front door opened and Colin McFarland stepped inside. He greeted Mercy politely, and then his fond gaze quickly settled on Anna.

  “I have some free time before the next stage is due. Just thought I’d walk over and ask how you were, Miss Kingsley.”

  “Thank you, Mr. McFarland. I am well.”

  His eyes lingered on her face. “As I see . . .”

  Mercy decided it was time to take her leave. Seeing the two young people staring warmly at each other suddenly stung more than it should have.

  chapter

  Seven

  Two days later, Jane went out to plant spring flowers in the pots flanking the inn’s front door. Glancing across the street to the dressmaker’s shop, she noticed the paper had been removed from the glass, so she set aside her gardening tools and walked over to investigate. The same dress forms and hat rack had stood there in Mrs. Shabner’s time, but the forms now held fashionable gowns, complete with accessories like long redingotes, tippets, and feathered hats. The Closed sign had been replaced with a handwritten notice: Opening Soon.

  Later that afternoon, Jane was standing at the booking desk when Matilda Grove entered the inn, dressed in her favorite yellow gown, a shawl, and a bonnet whose drooping feather had seen better days. She greeted Jane, then asked, “Shall we go and meet our new dressmaker?”

  Jane cautioned, “I don’t think the shop is open yet.”

  “I know.” Matilda’s eyes sparkled. “But I can’t wait. Let’s go over and introduce ourselves.”

  Jane smiled. “Very well.”

  Together, they crossed the street. A woman was now standing outside the shop, polishing its front windows.

  Slightly above average height, she possessed an enviable figure accentuated by a dark blue gown, well-made and elegant. Her black hair was secured in a knot at the back of her head. When she turned at their approach, Jane saw she was in her mid-twenties and had a pretty oval face with dark brows and a straight, if somewhat pointed, nose.

  “Good day, ladies,” she greeted, her bright blue eyes glinting in the sunlight.

  “Madame Victorine?” Jane asked, studying the woman’s face. Who did she remind her of?

  “That is the name of my shop, yes. I am afraid I am not quite ready for customers. Might you return later?” She spoke excellent English with only a trace of an accent.

  “We simply wanted to introduce ourselves,” Matty said warmly. “And to welcome you to our community. I am Matilda Grove, and this is Jane Bell, who owns the coaching inn just there.” She pointed across the street. “You are practically neighbors.”

  The woman turned to Jane. She did indeed have a lovely smile.

  “Ah. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bell. I stayed there two nights and found everything and everyone most congenial.”

  “Thank you,” Jane replied. “I was sorry I didn’t have a chance to meet you then.”

  The woman shrugged easily. “No matter. Thank you for coming over to introduce yourselves now.”

  Matilda said, “My friend Louise Shabner used to be the dressmaker here.”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, I met her briefly. I do hope her retirement was voluntary and not because the shop was failing.” She chuckled dryly. “If such an experienced dressmaker struggled, then I . . .” She shook her head and let her words trail away.

  Jane asked gently, “Is this your first shop, then?”

  “Yes, my first time on my own. I worked with another woman before, but she recently passed on.”

  “I am sorry to hear it,” Matilda said. “But we are all glad to see the shop open again and another woman of business added to our numbers.”

  “In fact,” Jane said, “we have something of a club for women managing businesses here, called the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society. I hope you will join us.”

  “Knitting?” The woman’s brows rose.

  “Don’t let the name discourage you. We meet to discuss business concerns and to support one another—Monday nights, at the village hall, just around the corner. You would be very welcome.”

  “Thank you. I shall join you when I can, though I shall be busy arranging things here for some time.”

  “I understand. Is there anything we can do to help you?”

  “Nothing right now.” She grinned and gestured to the window. “Except to tell everyone you know to come and buy these dresses.”

  Jane returned her grin. “I shall be happy to spread the word. If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to stop by the inn.”

  At the sound of a door closing across the street, Jane glanced over and saw Gabriel talking to Mr. Prater outside his store. Noticing her, Gabriel waved, his smile causing Jane’s heart to flip, as usual. Jane waved back, then looked again at her companions.

  Miss Matilda’s attention had been caught by the gowns displayed in the window. “These are lovely,” she breathed.

  “Yes, I . . . thank you,” the dressmaker said. “Perhaps you might return and try them on, madame?”

  “I am afraid I have little occasion to justify such a gown,” Matilda said. “But they are beautiful. I especially like the gold with the blue overdress. Is that silk?”

  The woman looked at the gown in question. “I believe so. I can verify, if you like.”

  “That’s all right. I was only curious.”

  Jane supposed the dressmaker made a great many gowns in her profession and could not recall the details of each. Deciding they had importuned the woman long enough, Jane slid her arm through Matilda’s. “Well. We shall return another time. Again, a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And you, ladies. Thank you for calling.”

  As Jane and Matilda walked away, Jane glanced back over her shoulder, then mused softly, “There is something about her. Something familiar . . .”

  “Do you think so?” Matilda said. “I am quite certain I have never seen her before in my life. Perhaps you visited a shop where she once worked?”

  Jane felt her brow furrow, trying to grasp at the fleeting impression. Had she seen her before? If so, where?

  “It’s possible. I will have to ask her where she lived before coming to Ivy Hill.”

  After walking Matilda back to Ivy Cottage, Jane returned to The Bell, pleased to find Gabriel waiting for her.

  “Morning, Jane. Just came into town for a few things. Left my horse and gig in your stables; I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not. I am glad to see you. I was afraid you’d left after I saw you on the street.”

  He shrugged. “You seemed occupied with Miss Grove. I did not want to interrupt.”

  “We were only meeting the new dressmaker.”

  “Very neighborly.” He gave her a wry grin. “I doubt I shall have occasion to call on her.”

  “How are things at Lane’s Farm?” Jane asked. “Or have you changed its name?”

  “Not yet.” He stepped nearer and lowered his voice. “Jane, will you join me for dinner at the farmhouse? I’d like you to see the improvements I’ve made inside as well. And we could talk more then, just the two of us.”

  Jane hesitated. She reminded herself that she was a thirty-year-old widow, not some innocent young miss whose reputation held
the key to her future happiness. But still . . .

  As if reading her mind, he said, “I have taken on a maid-of-all-work, Susie McFarland. So we will not be alone and even better, you shall not have to suffer my cooking.”

  She smiled. “Very well. That sounds lovely. I will accept if you will allow me to bring dessert or something.”

  “Susie makes a decent roast and potatoes, but that’s about all. Bring anything you like.” He smirked. “Will you prepare it yourself?”

  “Hardly. I am afraid I probably have less cooking ability than Susie. Though I can clean fish and make an interesting chicken-and-egg soup.”

  His expression puckered. “Chicken and egg?”

  “Never mind. I’ll see what I can wrestle from Mrs. Rooke.”

  When Jane rode into the farmyard the following evening, Gabriel took the basket she held and helped her down. Together they settled Athena in the stable, and then Gabriel led Jane to the house, entering through an enclosed front porch that served as the office for his farm and stables. Inside, the room and desk were tidy and professional, and paintings of proud horses decorated the walls.

  “Oh, I love these! Did you buy them recently?”

  “I have collected them over the years, but this is the first time I’ve had a proper place to hang them.”

  “They are perfect.”

  Gabriel set her basket in the kitchen. From there he led her on a brief tour through the rest of the house—the comfortable informal sitting room, paneled dining room, and new indoor water closet.

  “The main bedchamber is down here.” He led the way along a dim passage, and Jane felt self-conscious being alone with him there. The shadowy space seemed private and intimate.

  He opened the door. “This is my room. For now.”

  She stood at the threshold but did not enter. She glanced around the masculine room, with its handsome oak furniture and rich russet bedclothes.

  “Very nice,” she murmured, her heart beating a little harder than it should.

  “Mrs. Locke may furnish it however she likes, of course.”

  Jane swallowed. Would she be Mrs. Locke? “It is wonderful as it is.”

  “I am glad you think so.”

  They returned to the front hall. “There are two more bedrooms up there.” He pointed up the stairway, illuminated by a window at the top, where two doors opened off a narrow landing. “They are smaller and simply furnished.”

  Rooms for the children he hoped to have? Jane wondered.

  Noticing her reserve, he said, “I will . . . show you those another time.”

  They returned to the dining room, where Susie was adding the finishing touches to the table.

  “Evening, Mrs. Bell.”

  “Good to see you, Susie. I hope you are enjoying your new situation?”

  “I am. A lot to learn, but Mr. Locke is patient and not particular, thankfully. I hope the same is true for you, ma’am.”

  “I am no great cook myself, so I am sure I will enjoy whatever you make.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. And thank you for bringing the jam tarts for dessert.”

  The girl bobbed a curtsy and returned to the kitchen. Gabriel pulled out a chair for Jane and, when she was seated, took the chair across from her.

  He lifted a pitcher of lemon water and poured for the two of them. “The well water here is excellent. But if you would prefer tea or wine . . . ?”

  “No, water is perfect. I am suddenly thirsty.”

  Susie brought out a tureen and set it before them. From it, Gabriel ladled out a rich soup of chicken and leeks.

  Jane tasted it. “Mmm . . . Much better than chicken and egg.”

  They ate in silence for a minute, then Gabriel said, “Jane, I have been thinking. I know you’re concerned about The Bell, especially without Patrick there. When we marry, perhaps we could keep two residences for a time.”

  Jane looked at him in surprise. “The Bell is a few miles from here. Would you really ride into town every night to . . . sleep? What if a foal came in the night or fire broke out or—”

  “Or you could ride out to me.”

  “And what if a guest had an emergency? Or Colin needed me? I can’t leave.”

  “We could still marry.”

  She frowned. “We would be a strange couple indeed, if you lived here and I lived in the lodge. Is that what you want?”

  He shook his head and set aside his spoon. “No, Jane. If I’m honest, what I want is for you to share my house. Share my bed—”

  Susie came in with the main course. Jane sent him a warning look, and Gabriel waited until the girl left the room again before leaning near and continuing in a lower voice.

  “I want to wake up in the morning and see you beside me. I want to put my arms around you and hold you close. Kiss you one more time before chores force me to leave you. I want to sit with you on the porch in the springtime and watch it rain. And in the winter, sit with you by the fire and talk about our plans for the future. I want to pray together, work together, and ride together. And I want to make love to you. Often. Not be miles away from you.”

  Heart pounding and cheeks flushing at his words, Jane looked down, appetite fleeing. “I know.”

  He reached for her hand, and she felt his steady gaze on her profile. “Don’t you want that too?”

  Fear and longing twisted through her.

  When she hesitated, he continued, “If your father were alive, I would ask him for his blessing, but—”

  “He is alive,” she blurted.

  “What? Is he?” He sat back, staring at her in disbelief. “Last time you were here you mentioned there was something you wanted to tell me about your father, but I never guessed this. I thought he was gone.”

  Jane felt sheepish that she had not explained earlier. “He is gone, yes, and has been for years, but not dead—at least, as far as I know.”

  “But you let me think . . . or at least I assumed, both of your parents had passed on.”

  She inhaled a shaky breath. “My mother died many years ago. My father, however, walked out of my life right after I married John. He sold Fairmont House and left the country.”

  “But you almost never mention him. I thought it was because his loss was a painful subject.”

  “It is.”

  “Why, if he is alive?”

  Jane pushed a few peas around her plate. “Right or wrong, I felt abandoned when he sold everything—including Hermione—and left, intending never to return.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “India. He was in colonial service as a young man and eager to return.”

  “But surely he has written to you?”

  “He did write a few letters soon after he left, but I . . . I did not answer them, and so the letters stopped.”

  He stared at her soberly. “Jane . . .”

  “I know it seems harsh. It probably was unfair of me. But I felt that he betrayed me and my mother’s memory. I have written to him once now, to let him know John died and to thank him for the marriage settlement he arranged for me.”

  Gabriel frowned. “How did he betray your mother’s memory?”

  “He left as soon as he could to return to a woman he had known as a younger man and had never stopped pining for. I realize it was probably irrational of me, but it seemed that he was relieved my mother died and eager for me to marry, so he could go back to the woman he truly loved at long last. I suppose I was overly emotional around the time of my wedding. Losing my station in life, my horse, my childhood home, and my last living relative all in the same month.”

  Jane thought back. “I remember being amazed at how readily he approved my decision to marry an innkeeper, when he had assumed for years I would marry a baronet, as did most everyone else. When I learned why he was in such a hurry to dispatch his last responsibility in England—me—I resented it all the more.”

  Saying the words aloud made Jane squirm in discomfort. Did her behavior seem as petty to him as it was beginning to
seem to her?

  Gabriel watched her carefully, eyes boring into hers. “Jane, do you feel to marry me would betray John’s memory as your father betrayed your mother’s? Is that the real reason you hesitate to accept me?”

  Surprised he had drawn that conclusion from her confession, Jane hurried to assure him. “No, Gabriel. I don’t see it as the same at all. I didn’t even like you until John had been gone a year.” She attempted to soften the words with a grin. “But if I had admired and pined for you all the years of my marriage; wished I were with you instead of my husband . . . ? Been making plans to join you before he was in his grave? Would that have been right?”

  “Of course not. But are you sure all that is true, or just assuming the worst?”

  “It is how I saw it at the time. You were not there, so please don’t judge me too harshly.” She heard the defensive barb in her voice and inwardly cringed.

  “I don’t judge you harshly.” He took her hand again and squeezed comfort into his reassuring grip. “But I hope you will forgive your father, Jane. For your sake as well as his.”

  His words were similar to what Mercy had said when Jane told her about the settlement she’d discovered and admitted she might have misjudged her father.

  “He isn’t here to forgive,” Jane said. “And as I have yet to receive a reply to my letter, I fear it may be too late.”

  “Then perhaps it is time to write again.”

  Jane dipped her head, feeling chastised and embarrassed, a young girl caught in misbehavior. This had certainly not turned out to be the romantic dinner she had imagined.

  Half serious, she said, “And I suppose you have been the perfect son who has never done wrong and has always treated his parents with unwavering respect?”

  “No. I only wish I had been. I told you my father was disappointed when I did not pursue the law—and worse, when I became embroiled in horse racing and gambling. But those days are over, thank God.”

  Would they also be disappointed in his choice of wife? Jane wondered. A woman who had already been married and could not bear children? How could they not be?

  chapter

  Eight