An Ivy Hill Christmas Read online

  Richard handed over the list. “I came for sheet music. But now that I see Jamie is working here, I shall visit again. Often. To make sure all is well with him.” He smiled at the lad but hoped the brute printer took his meaning—the lad might be an orphan, but he was not friendless. Might that knowledge be enough to curtail the man’s abuse?

  While the printer went to look for the requested sheet music, Richard winked at the boy.

  Jamie dipped his head, grinning, but clearly hoping Mr. Knock would not see the expression. His gaze rested on Wally. “Your dog looks very dapper today, sir.”

  “Thank you, Jamie. Knew I liked you—you have excellent taste.” With a glance at the printer, he lowered his voice, “I would ask how you are getting on here, but . . .”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad,” Jamie hurried to reply. “There’s a lot to learn, and I am slow and clumsy.”

  “I am sure that is not the case. Well, clumsy maybe, considering our first meeting, but not slow.” He smiled. “You are clever, Jamie. I hope things improve here.”

  The boy smiled back. “Me too.”

  As he returned the curricle to the Brockwell Court stables a short while later, Richard saw Horace, Penelope, Nicholas, and his brother walking back from a shoot—dogs, beaters, and boys to pick up with game bags following behind. Richard waved to them and went into the house.

  In the hall, he encountered Rachel coming down the stairs, little Frederick in arms, wearing a linen gown. “Ah, here is Uncle Richard.”

  Richard walked forward and dutifully praised the little boy, who in all truth was quite the most handsome child he had ever seen, with fair skin, dark curls, and blue eyes. He naturally looked like his brother, but Richard saw a bit of himself around the eyes, though Rachel had blue eyes too.

  “He is very handsome, except for the drool,” Richard said. “When he is older, I shall teach him to dress. This gown he’s wearing is years out of fashion.”

  Frederick pulled his hand from his mouth and extended it toward Richard, reaching for his nose. Richard captured the little hand and kissed it. The boy grinned, exposing two pearly teeth. Encouraged by his success, Richard blew a loud burst of air against the boy’s chubby arm, which brought on a bout of giggles.

  “Clearly, I am a prodigy at this,” Richard said. “He loves me already.”

  Giggles of the female variety then reached him.

  He turned and was embarrassed to find Justina—and worse, Arabella—in the doorway to the drawing room, watching his foolish antics.

  “Glad you find me so diverting, ladies,” he said. Avoiding Arabella’s gaze, he laid the music on the pianoforte and turned away, ears unaccountably warm.

  Retrieving his walking stick, he and Wally set out together. He told himself he was just going to take a look at Honeycroft and get the lay of the land. Nothing to be nervous about—he didn’t have to knock if he chose not to.

  They left Brockwell Court via the back door and followed the footpath over Pudding Brook. Wally was in his glory, wiry body shaking with excitement. Every fallen leaf, every sheep, cow, and rustic scent a new delight to investigate. Richard had to urge him back onto the path more than once when the dog strained his hold on the leash.

  Richard’s feet followed the familiar route to Honeycroft as if of their own volition. How often he had come this way as a youth.

  As he stepped from Steeple Lane onto the wooded path, he was surprised to find it overgrown with weeds and scattered with fallen branches. At the track’s end stood the cottage—thatched roof, whitewashed walls, small windows, stone chimney. For a moment, he saw it as it had once been. Pristine white trim, well-kept thatch, freshly painted garden gate, flowers in every window box, the cheery smell of woodsmoke wafting from its stout chimney.

  He was suddenly a boy again, tromping along the lane, determined to avoid the main road . . . and his father. That was how he first saw it. That lamplit window, like a stage lit by gaslight. The family of four sitting at the table, hands clasped, heads bowed. A moment later came a whirl of passing bowls and platters, the rumble of friendly conversation punctuated by smiles and occasional laughter. Standing there, viewing that domestic scene of love and happiness, he had felt as he often did, like an outsider, looking in.

  Then the scene had changed. And by some stroke of undeserved favor he’d found himself at that table. Formal politeness quickly fell away, and the family’s good-natured roasting soon extended to him. As weeks, then months passed, he joined them for meals, often bringing gifts of game, grain, or fruit. He’d helped Mr. Reeves with the beehives and chopped wood for Mrs. Reeves. He’d fished the brook with Seth and joined him in teasing Susanna.

  The Reeveses had shared all they had with him generously: delicious food, unconditional acceptance, and affection. He had felt himself almost a member of the family. Until things changed. His fault. Regret swept over Richard again, and he tried to blink it away.

  Abruptly, the old images faded and current reality intruded. The cottage and gate were in sore need of paint, the chimney cracked and crumbling, the thatch in need of attention, and the garden in winter’s ruin. In truth, the whole house was a picture of long neglect.

  The bee skeps next claimed his attention. What would Mr. Reeves say to see his precious hives now? Several hackles were listing to the side, and one skep was missing its cover altogether, exposing the wintering bees to dampness and likely death.

  Thunder and turf. Honeycroft was in a sad state.

  Taking a deep breath, he walked to the front door and made a fist, hesitated, then forced himself to knock. Mrs. Reeves had liked him, he reminded himself. Besides, Susanna was married and living elsewhere. And even if she had told her mother what had transpired between them, that had been a long time ago. All Richard wanted to do was to greet her and see if there was anything he could do to help. The worst Mrs. Reeves could do was rebuff him, and he would survive that. After all, it was the least he deserved.

  He heard the scrape of a chair, and his heart beat hard with each approaching footstep. A moment later the door opened. He braced himself to face Mrs. Reeves, but the breath left him and his stomach dropped. Susanna herself stood there, a girl of four or five in arms. She stared at him. He stared back, awkwardness pulsing between them.

  She looked the same and yet different. Same dark brown hair, although pulled back instead of loose around her shoulders, same gently flaring nose and full lips. Her face seemed more angular, her cheeks thinner, and her eyes had lost that innocent sparkle. Her jaw jutted forward obstinately, her expression one of steely wariness. Susanna used to smile often, but she had no smile for him now.

  The little girl’s eyes fixed on Wally with interest, but she did not smile either. Instead, she stuck her thumb in her mouth.

  A boy of seven or eight appeared beside Susanna and took her hand, standing almost protectively beside her. “Who is it, Mamma?”

  She made no answer.

  Unable to meet her gaze any longer, Richard looked at the boy instead. His heart squeezed. He was the very spit of Seth. Richard bent lower. “You don’t know me, but I know who you are. You look just like your uncle Seth.”

  “Do I? I don’t remember him.”

  “I do. Nearly every day.”

  A tense silence followed, and then Susanna said coolly, “This is Mr. Brockwell. A . . . neighbor.”

  Richard amended, “I was a friend of your uncle’s, when we were young.”

  The boy said, “He died in the war.”

  “Yes, I heard. I am sorry.”

  “My papa died t—”

  “To what do we owe this visit?” Susanna brusquely interrupted.

  Richard swallowed. Susanna was a widow too? “I . . . saw your mother this morning, at the house.”

  She lowered her head, a flush of embarrassment mottling her face. “I told her not to go. We are not so destitute. She would not have gone Thomasing for herself. But with Peter and Hannah here . . . well, she wants them to have a cheery Christmas.”


  “To be sure she does. That’s why I came. To ask if she needs any—”

  “We have all we need, thank you.”

  “Susanna? Who is it?” Mrs. Reeves called from somewhere behind her.

  “It is Mr. Brockwell, Mamma.”

  The older woman appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. “Richard? Goodness me.”

  “Mrs. Reeves. A pleasure to see you. I have come home for Christmas and wanted to call to see how you were getting on. I did not realize Susanna would be home.”

  The younger woman said, “I am Mrs. Evans now.”

  Mrs. Reeves sent a concerned glance from one to the other. “My dear, we need not stand on formalities with old friends.” She looked back at Richard. “Susanna and the children arrived a few weeks ago. Her husband died recently. Injured during the same war that took my Seth and never recovered.”

  “I am sorry.”

  The boy lowered himself to his haunches to study Wally skeptically. “Why is your dog dressed like you?”

  For the first time in his brief span as a pet owner, Richard felt a little self-conscious. “To keep him warm, of course.”

  “And pretty,” the little girl added with far more approval.

  Pretty? He would have to apologize to Wally later.

  Mrs. Reeves turned to him. “Do join us for tea, Richard. It is the tea I was given at Brockwell Court, but we are happy to share.”

  “Thank you, but I shan’t stay. I only wanted to see if there was anything you needed.”

  Mother and daughter exchanged a look. Then Mrs. Reeves managed an unconvincing smile. “Not a thing. But I do thank you for your call.”

  Later, in the Brockwell Court drawing room, Richard flopped into a cushioned armchair with a book.

  Timothy and Rachel came in. She picked up the stack of music he’d purchased. “Thank you, Richard.”

  “You are very welcome.”

  The others gathered. Arabella looked remarkably pretty in a pale blue evening gown, while Penelope and Horace looked as eager about the caroling as Richard felt. Murray, however, hummed to himself as he perused the music. Rachel must have coerced him into singing as well.

  Rachel passed around the sheets of music while Justina spread hers on the pianoforte, Mr. Ashford smiling down at her all the while.

  “You will sing with us, won’t you, Richard?” his sister asked.

  He raised his book as though a shield. “No. But I will listen and alert you if anyone is off-key, including the accompanist.” He winked at her.

  “Oh no,” his brother said. “If you don’t sing, you lose all right to criticize those who do. Not all of us have been blessed with the beautiful voice my wife has.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” Rachel said. “What matters is to sing from the heart.”

  Horace nodded. “Though the right words and notes would not go unappreciated either.”

  Rachel looked from face to face. “Just do your best.”

  “I shall,” Penelope said. “But be prepared for a ‘joyful noise.’”

  Horace chuckled, and Arabella smiled encouragement to her sister. Nicholas, he noticed, remained as near to the pianoforte, and his sister, as possible.

  Justina struck the starting notes for each part.

  Rachel said, “Ready?” and led out on the first line of “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night.”

  The others joined in, singing:

  “While shepherds watch’d their flocks by night,

  All seated on the ground,

  The Angel of the Lord came down,

  And Glory shone all around. . . .”

  When they’d finished, his brother turned to Richard with a wry grin. “Well, what is your verdict?”

  “Be glad you have other talents, Tim. That’s all I’ll say about you.” Richard glanced at Arabella. Despite himself, he acknowledged, “But Miss Awdry has a lovely voice.” Since she had already made it clear she had no interest in him, he felt there was little risk in being pleasant to her.

  “Thank you, Mr. Brockwell,” she said, turning quickly to his friend. “And I noticed Mr. Murray here is an excellent tenor.”

  Murray blushed and looked down. “Thank you. You can take the boy out of the boys’ choir, but . . .” He left off with a shrug.

  It was on the tip of Richard’s tongue to add And Penelope is an excellent bass, but he thought the better of it.

  Instead, he said, “Poor Murray. Still waiting for our voice to change, are we?” Richard grinned at his friend.

  Murray quipped in turn, “Careful, or I’ll start making you pay for all the books I lend you.”

  “Ah—touché. I shan’t say another word against you. You have earned my silence and respect forever in a single blow.”

  Rachel interrupted, her words both an admonition and the next song title, “God rest ye merry, gentlemen.”

  They went on to practice a few more hymns and carols. Richard remained quiet after that, and although he did not intend to, his ears picked out Arabella’s voice from the others’. His gaze strayed often to her lovely profile, but he determinedly turned a page of his book and pretended to read.

  Later, after the others left the room, Justina lingered. “Why won’t you sing with us?” she asked.

  “Me? Caroling? I would be ruined socially, my masculinity doubted forever.”

  Justina snorted. “This from a grown man who dresses his dog like himself? I sincerely doubt you are really concerned about preserving your manliness.”

  “Ah! You are growing older and your tongue sharper. Your season with me in London did some good after all.” He smirked.

  “Be serious. Why won’t you?”

  “Because I don’t wish to.”

  “Don’t be such a humbug, Richard.”

  He tweaked her nose. “You may as well tell a tiger to change its stripes for spots.”

  CHAPTER

  Five

  On Sunday, most of the others went to church, but Richard stayed in bed, Wally asleep beside him. When the bells of St. Anne’s woke him, he opened a book and read, willing Pickering to appear with coffee. But Pickering had apparently gone to church as well. Traitor.

  Eventually Wally jumped down and scratched at the door. Heaving a sigh, Richard rose and began washing and dressing for the day.

  Later that afternoon, most of the party gathered in the hall, dressed to go out and deliver Christmas baskets. His mother and Lady Lillian, however, opted to stay in and let the younger people brave the chill without them.

  Rachel and Sir Timothy had composed a list of people they wished to give baskets to. Between her involvement with the library and the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society, and his position as magistrate, they knew most of the families in the parish.

  They made it clear they did not expect everyone to help with the deliveries, aware some of their guests might not be comfortable visiting the homes of strangers, and some of them rather humble homes in the bargain. But most were willing to help, and Arabella was surprisingly eager.

  When they finished adding the fresh bread to each basket, Richard took Rachel aside and asked, “Do you happen to have an extra basket?”

  She looked up at him in surprise. “Yes, actually. Sadly, I learned one of the intended recipients passed away yesterday. Why?”

  “There is someone in Wishford I’d like to give something to. Murray and I met him on the way here.”

  “The apprentice?”

  “Yes. You remembered.”

  “That is very kind of you, Richard. How old is he?”

  “Twelve or thirteen, I believe.”

  Rachel held up an index finger. “Give me one minute.”

  She returned with a cup and stringed ball game, carved of wood. “He might like this.” She added it to the basket.

  “Excellent idea. Thank you.”

  “Since you’re going to Wishford, I might ask you to deliver a basket to the Mullins family, who live between here and there, if you don’t mind.”
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  He hesitated only a moment. “Very well.”

  “With whom shall I pair you? Mr. Murray? Miss Arabella?”

  Richard considered. Deciding there was great pleasure to be had in talking with a beautiful woman who was not trying to snare him into matrimony, he replied, “Why not both? If you can spare the barouche-landau?”

  “I think so, yes. I’ll just ask Timothy to make sure he or Lady Barbara don’t need it this afternoon.”

  Rachel turned to Justina and Mr. Ashford, who were ready to set out on their own together. “Let’s all meet at the almshouse at three, shall we?”

  Everyone agreed and departed in various directions—Sir Timothy and Rachel delivering baskets to the McFarland farm, to the midwife, and to the retired butler from Thornvale, and Justina and Nicholas taking baskets to the elderly sexton and two widowers.

  Richard, Arabella, Murray, and Wally climbed into the barouche-landau, pulled by two horses and normally driven by a coachman sitting on the front box. But Horace begged to be allowed to drive, saying he was an excellent whip and often drove his father’s chaise and four. The coachman acquiesced, and Penelope joined them, sitting next to Horace on the box.

  They stopped first at the Mullinses’ house, where Mr. and Mrs. Mullins and their several children received the overflowing basket with effusive gratitude and offers of spiced wine. Richard found he rather enjoyed being the bearer of gifts but felt sheepish to accept their gratitude. He deflected their praise, saying, “With the compliments of Sir Timothy and Lady Brockwell. We shall pass along your thanks to them.”

  He felt Arabella’s gaze shift to him as he said it, but he kept his focus on Mr. and Mrs. Mullins. Arabella in turn began talking to their daughter, Sukey, and met her brothers, who ranged in age from six to sixteen. The eldest, Jeremy, mentioned he often worked for the Brockwells, especially during harvest time.

  When their farewells were said, they next drove into Wishford and turned up a side street. Richard directed Horace to go around the churchyard, then pointed out the print shop. When they reached it, Horace and Penelope offered to stay with the horses and Wally. Richard descended first and gave Arabella a hand down. Murray followed on his own.