The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 5

  “Thank you.” She rose. “I would like to know any requirements before I begin.”

  He nodded. “I will let you know what I find out.” He crossed the room and opened the door for her. “And will you let me know what you decide?”

  She mulled his words. “What I decide about the library or . . . Mr. Ashford?”

  “Yes.” He met her gaze but did not expand on his oblique reply.

  As Rachel walked back to Ivy Cottage, she reviewed their conversation in her mind. Sir Timothy had been perfectly polite but terribly formal. How different than he had once treated her—for a short time. At the thought, she allowed herself to recall his first visit to Thornvale about a week after her coming-out ball. . . .

  Rachel and her father were sitting in Thornvale’s drawing room together, Rachel bent over her embroidery hoop, while Sir William scowled at a letter.

  “Bad news, Papa?”

  He glanced up. “That seems to be all I receive these days. But no matter.” He refolded the letter and stuck it in his pocket, then picked up a leather volume from the side table. “Why dwell on unhappy tidings when there is a good book at hand, eh?”

  “If you say so.”

  Rachel returned to her embroidery, but when she looked up a few minutes later, she was disconcerted to see him staring blankly over the top of the book without having turned a single page.

  “Papa? Are you all right?”

  “Hm? Oh, yes. Of course. And you shall be as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jemima appeared in the doorway and announced in an excited whisper, “Miss, Mr. Brockwell is here to see you. He has flowers in his hand! Are you at home?”

  “Of course.” Rachel’s heart soared. She reminded herself that it was traditional for a gentleman who’d escorted a lady into supper to pay a call the next day, and a week had passed. She hoped he had not come out of obligation alone.

  Sir William set aside his book, and Rachel rose as Timothy entered.

  He bowed. “Miss Ashford. Sir William. I hope I don’t intrude. I have come to congratulate your daughter on her great success last week.”

  Rachel curtsied. “Thank you.”

  “Good of you to call, Brockwell,” Sir William said. “You are always welcome, as you know.” He looked at Rachel. “And were you pleased with your coming-out ball, my dear?”

  “I was, Papa. It was almost perfect.”

  Her father raised one brow. “Almost?”

  “If only dear Mamma had been with us.”

  “Ah, yes. Though she was, in a way, for you are more and more like her.”

  “Thank you, Papa.” She turned back to their guest.

  “These are for you.” Timothy Brockwell stepped forward and handed her a small bouquet of peach-colored roses, which looked delicate and out of place in his masculine hand.

  “They’re lovely.” She drew the nosegay to her face. “Oh! And smell heavenly. Just like my mother’s.”

  “I asked Mrs. Bushby to order these especially. I know they are your favorite.”

  Pleasure tingled through her. “Thank you. Will you be seated?”

  He did so, his dark eyes tracing her face, her cheeks, her mouth. Then he abruptly turned to Sir William. “And how are you, sir?”

  “Better now you’re here, Brockwell. But . . .” Sir William rose. “Propriety be hanged, you two have known each other all your lives, and I trust you implicitly. Besides, there’s a glass of claret awaiting me in my study. If you will excuse me.”

  “Of course, sir. I can’t stay long myself. I am traveling with my father to the quarter sessions in a fortnight, and there is much to do to prepare.”

  “Ah, yes. No doubt a great deal of news exchanged there among the men of the county.”

  “So I understand.”

  “Well, don’t believe everything you hear.”

  Feeling uneasy, Rachel watched her father leave the room. But when she looked back at Timothy and found his admiring gaze resting on her face, her concerns fled.

  “I enjoyed your ball as well.” A small smile curved his lips. “And apparently that night was not a dream after all, for you are just as enchanting by daylight.”

  Her cheeks warmed and her pulse pounded. “Thank you.”

  He sobered. “But . . . forgive me. I don’t mean to get ahead of myself. I realize you may have expected a call sooner, but I wanted to be considerate of the feelings of . . . others. I trust you understand?”

  “I do.”

  “May I call again?”

  “Of course. I would be happy if you did.”

  “Perhaps you could come to Brockwell Court. I know Justina would love to see you.” He looked up in thought. “We might . . . pick strawberries together or stroll through the gardens.”

  She sent him a wry glance. “You are not really the strolling and strawberry-picking sort of man, Mr. Brockwell. I think you would prefer archery or riding.”

  “That I can’t deny, but I want you to enjoy yourself as well.”

  “I have never ridden.”

  “I know. And that is all right. You need not—”

  “But I would like to learn,” she interjected. “Might you teach me?”

  He studied her face. “Would you truly like to?”

  “I would, yes. Though I confess the prospect is a little frightening.”

  He leaned forward, voice warm and reassuring. “I shall remain close and keep you safe.”

  Her stomach tightened. “That would help indeed.”

  “Worth every moment, if you might learn to love horses as I do.”

  And as Jane did as well, she knew. But this was not about Jane. This was about herself and Timothy. At the ball, Rachel had assumed he could have no serious romantic interest in her—not when everyone assumed he would marry Jane—but that was not what she read in his expression now. Seeing it, dreams of romance blossomed.

  He took his leave soon after, and Rachel glanced down at the nosegay once more, noticing a small card tucked beneath the ribbon.

  To the lovely Miss Ashford. Congratulations, and all the best for the future.—TB

  A future that was proving to be nothing like she had dreamed.

  Chapter

  five

  Mercy Grove entered the silent schoolroom, pausing a moment to close her eyes and inhale the peaceful, familiar smells of chalk dust and old books. Opening her eyes, she noticed a crumpled piece of paper on the floor. She picked it up and carried it toward the rubbish basket. The lines on the paper piqued her curiosity and she peeled open the wad to see what was scrawled there.

  One of the girls had drawn this? She felt a stab of hurt. For the image was clearly a caricature of her, and not a flattering one. The center-parted curtain of flat, dark hair. The long oval face and even longer neck. The exaggerated needle nose like an exclamation symbol over a small thin mouth. Fanny’s work, she guessed. Mischievous Fanny Scales enjoyed making people laugh, often at the expense of someone else. But Mercy had never been the target of one of her cutting jokes before, at least as far as she knew.

  Mercy regarded the image again. Perhaps Fanny had been practicing her drawing skills and this was simply what she saw when she looked at her teacher, and no joke or insult was meant. The rendering was rather accurate, she could not deny.

  Mercy knew she was plain—had always known it. Her mother had never said so aloud, but Mercy heard it in every admonition to not stand up quite so tall, to do something with her hair, or in asking the dressmaker to pad the top of her long stays and tighten the bottom. “You were such a beautiful baby, Mercy,” her mother had told her more than once, ending on a sigh, which left little room for misinterpretation. If Mercy had ever been beautiful, she had grown out of it. She had certainly grown. The current dress style was both a blessing and a curse. The high, indistinct waistlines, lower necklines, and shapeless skirts revealed her long neck and thin bosom, yet concealed her trim waist—the best feature of her triangular figure, in her view. But at
least the full skirts hid her disproportionately generous backside.

  Fanny walked in and stopped abruptly at the sight of Mercy standing there, wrinkled drawing in hand. Her mouth parted, and she looked from the caricature to her teacher with wary eyes.

  “You display talent, Miss Scales,” Mercy said kindly. “The nose is especially clever. Did you know our note of exclamation comes from the Latin exclamation of joy? We really ought to find a drawing master to help hone your skills.”

  The girl swallowed. “I was only having a bit of fun. I meant no disrespect, Miss Grove.”

  Mercy gave the girl a gentle smile. “None taken.” She dropped the note into the rubbish and walked to her desk.

  Fanny remained. “Miss Grove? Why did you never marry?”

  Mercy turned in surprise. “Do you mean, beyond my looks, which you so accurately captured?”

  Fanny had the decency to blush and looked down at the floor. “I am sorry about that.”

  “I had no intention of begging an apology, Fanny. It is no secret that I am plain.”

  “Not so plain.” The girl shrugged one shoulder, still not meeting Mercy’s eyes. “Some plain girls marry, don’t they?”

  Ah . . . Mercy thought. Fanny was somewhat plain herself, or at least, not as attractive by worldly standards as, say, pretty Anna Kingsley or sweet little Alice. And her often sour disposition did nothing to help her looks. But Fanny was still so young. Was she already concerned about her looks and marriage prospects? Very possibly. After all, Mercy had been made aware of her own deficiencies at a young age.

  Mercy realized that for most girls, marriage was their primary goal in life. Unless one happened to be a rare independent heiress, the importance of marrying a good provider was undeniable. Mercy, however, did not believe a woman needed to marry to be whole, valued by God, and to live a fulfilling life. After all, look at her aunt Matilda. But Mercy was in the minority with this view, she knew.

  “Yes, Fanny. Plenty of plain girls marry. And plenty of plain men.”

  “But . . . not you?”

  Mercy shook her head. “Not me.” She gently lifted the girl’s chin. “Remember, Fanny, there is more to life than beauty, which doesn’t last anyway. There is character and virtue. Gentleness and sweetness of temper.”

  “I haven’t got those either.”

  “You are young, Fanny. With God’s help, you will . . . in time.”

  “Will you ever marry, do you think?”

  “Heavens, I don’t know. At my age, it seems unlikely. Now, let us prepare for class.”

  Fanny took her seat, and Mercy opened her lesson book.

  Though Mercy had cherished hope of marriage and children when she was younger, she’d never had a promising suitor. Her parents had made several matchmaking attempts over the years but had eventually given it up. Now she was at peace, for the most part, about her single state. But in her secret heart, she hid a sadness over her childless state. She was very fond of her pupils, and of Alice, in particular. But it wasn’t the same as having a child of her own, as being someone’s mamma.

  God was good, she did not doubt. But that did not always mean He gave you everything you wanted.

  What would her life be like someday when Aunt Matty passed? Would she grow old alone?

  A favorite verse whispered itself in her heart, reminding Mercy not to worry . . . but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God. And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

  “Thank you.” Mercy whispered a little prayer and turned her thoughts to the next class.

  The following day, Rachel wrote another letter to her sister, revealing her plans to open a circulating library with their father’s books. She hoped Ellen would not be too scandalized. After she’d finished, she walked to The Bell, longing to tell Jane about her visit to Brockwell Court.

  When she entered the inn, Jane looked up from the desk. “Rachel! How good to see you again.” Jane came from around the desk to embrace her, then gestured toward the coffee room. “Do you have time for coffee or tea? Or we could go over to the keeper’s lodge, if you’d rather talk in private.”

  Rachel hesitated. “No, this is fine. Coffee sounds heavenly.”

  They sat amidst the pleasant clamor of laughter and conversation from coachmen, guards, and locals. A maid brought them coffee and a pitcher of cream.

  Rachel sipped the dark, delicious brew, then began. “I went to Brockwell Court yesterday. I have not been so nervous in years. I went to speak to Sir Timothy about the library, as you suggested, but his mother met me in the hall and was not pleased to see me. She clearly meant to discourage a social call, though I assured her it was not.”

  Jane frowned. “I am sorry to hear it. Perhaps she was just surprised to see you? Your families have always been friends. And Justina looks up to you as the sister she never had, your being closer in age than the rest of us.”

  Rachel clarified, “Our families used to be friends and Justina used to look up to me, but that was a long time ago, before the scandal.”

  Jane sadly shook her head. “If I had known you dreaded going there, I would have inquired about the license on your behalf.”

  “No, Jane. It is time I learned to do for myself. As you have here.”

  Jane bit her lip. “If it makes you feel any better, Lady Brockwell is not especially warm toward me either. She hasn’t invited me to call since I married an innkeeper.”

  Rachel glanced up and noticed James Drake enter the coffee room.

  “Hello, Jane. Ah, forgive me, you have company.” He bowed. “Miss Ashford, a pleasure to see you again. How go plans for your new venture?”

  “Well, thank you. We visited the circulating library in Salisbury, and the excursion was most helpful. I will begin packing up the books this week.”

  “Excellent. I am afraid I have not seen Mr. Kingsley in the last few days, so I’ve not yet had a chance to ask him about the shelves. That’s why I stopped by—that and to see his progress here.”

  Jane explained to Rachel, “We are expanding our dining parlour on Mr. Drake’s advice.” She smiled up at the man. “Thank you for sparing Mr. Kingsley for a few days.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “He has agreed to oversee repairs on the stable as well,” Jane added. “But those will have to wait awhile longer.”

  “Yes, he and his men still have much to do at the Fairmont. Well, I’ll just go take a look, if you don’t mind. You two ladies go ahead with your coffee.”

  Rachel rose. “I was just going, Mr. Drake. Don’t leave on my account.”

  Jane laid a hand on hers. “Can you stay a few more minutes? I would like to introduce Mr. Kingsley to you, in case he might be able to help with the library.”

  James Drake nodded. “Good idea. By the way, Jane, there are several crates of your family’s books stored in the Fairmont attic. Perhaps you might go through them, keep any you like, and give the rest to Miss Ashford to expand her collection?”

  Rachel quickly interjected, “That is very considerate, Mr. Drake. However, I don’t want—”

  “Considerate, bah.” He winked. “I shall expect a discounted rate on my subscription.”

  Rachel sputtered a protest, but Mr. Drake had already turned and strode from the room. The women exchanged bemused looks, then followed him past the booking desk to the public dining room, where the walls of one private parlour were being taken down to expand the main room.

  A man, his brown wool coat stretching across wide shoulders, picked up several lengths of lumber and directed a younger man to haul away the heap of rubble created so far. He looked up as the three of them entered and straightened to his full, impressive height. He was in his mid-thirties, Rachel guessed, with a broad, pleasant face, sandy hair, and brown eyes.

  Mr. Drake stopped in front of the man with a grin. “Mr. Kingsley, how goes it?”

  “On sched
ule, Mr. Drake. I should be able to return to the Fairmont in two days. My brothers continue their work there, I trust?”

  “Yes. Laying new paving stones on the veranda when I left.” Mr. Drake crossed his arms. “Remember those bookcases you took down?”

  “Of course.”

  “How much work would it be to reinstall them in another location?”

  “Depends on the location. Why?”

  “Miss Ashford here is planning to open a circulating library and could use more shelves.”

  Mr. Kingsley pursed his lips as he considered. “Could be done, but I’m afraid I’m rather busy at present. At Thornvale, is it?”

  Rachel spoke up, “No, in Ivy Cottage. I am living there with the Miss Groves now.”

  “Ivy Cottage?” he repeated. “The girls school?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then I’ll come over and take a look. Depends on the height difference of the room compared to the original, the mouldings, and so on. Once I see the place, I can better judge how difficult it would be.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kingsley, but I wouldn’t want to take you away from your work, especially as I am not at all certain I shall be able to afford your services.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll come by after work one evening this week, if that will suit.”

  “Yes. If you are sure. Thank you.”

  Jane and Rachel bid Mr. Drake and Mr. Kingsley farewell and turned to go, chatting as they returned to the entry hall. Rounding the desk, they were nearly bowled over by a man a few years younger than Rachel—Jane’s porter and clerk.

  “Pardon me, ladies.” His fair face blushed. “I should know better than to try to tally a guest’s bill whilst walking.”

  Jane said, “Miss Ashford, you have met Colin McFarland, I believe?”

  “Yes, in passing.”

  “Miss Ashford, you live in Ivy Cottage now, is that right?” Mr. McFarland asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know . . . do the Miss Groves teach only girls there?”