“I suppose not. I admit in my day, I would say most anything to earn a sale, which are difficult to come by in Ivy Hill.” The older woman looked around the quiet shop once more. “Have you a girl to help you? The girl I employed has gone off and married, but an assistant is so helpful.”
“No. Not yet.”
“Then how do you dress yourself?”
She felt uncomfortable discussing undergarments yet knew a seasoned dressmaker would not hesitate to do so. “I have taken to wearing front-fastening stays and frocks as much as possible.”
“Ah.” Mrs. Shabner surveyed Victorine’s old gown again, shoulder to hem. “That color does not flatter your complexion, by the way.”
Victorine looked down at the bodice of her old gown. “Does it not?”
Mrs. Shabner shook her head. “Remember, madame, you are a walking advertisement for your shop.” She paused. “How strange to call it yours, but it is now.”
“You still own it.”
“Yes. Which reminds me, your next rent payment is due soon.”
“I will have it for Mr. Gordon next week.” I hope.
The woman nodded. “Good.”
Her gaze landed on the sketches spread across her worktable. “These drawings . . . Are they your designs?” She ran a finger over a front view of Justina Brockwell’s gown.
“Yes.” A thought struck her, and hope flared. “I don’t suppose you would be interested in helping with the project? Miss Brockwell has asked me to make a wedding gown, and a very complicated one at that.”
The woman huffed. “I sat in this shop for thirty years hoping for patronage from the Brockwells. And you are here, what, less than two months and they have already asked you to make their daughter’s wedding gown . . . ? Perhaps I should have Frenchified my shop name long ago!”
Mrs. Shabner whirled to the door, then turned back, moderating her voice. “It is not your fault, I realize. But still. . . . Now you see why I retired!”
The door slammed behind her, and Victorine flinched, then sighed. “I shall take that as a no.”
Mercy went outside for a walk the next afternoon. She had not yet seen Joseph that day, but she passed Aaron Kingsley coming back into the Fairmont. She greeted him, then looked beyond him to the sweet chestnut tree. There blond Esther Dudman sat alone on a rug, packing up remnants of a meal into her basket.
Mercy walked toward her. “Good day, Miss Dudman. We have not been introduced. I am Mercy Grove.” She curtsied.
The younger woman rose and stepped forward, all eagerness. “I am so pleased to meet you, Miss Grove. Joseph speaks very highly of you.”
She spoke with a faint lisp and her front teeth were mildly crooked, though she was still lovely. Mercy was illogically relieved to discover the woman possessed at least some tiny flaw. “And he of you, Miss Dudman.”
“That’s a name I won’t mind shedding, I can tell you.” The pretty woman grinned up at her. “Please, call me Esther.”
“Then you must call me Mercy. By the way, I hear congratulations are in order. You shall have a new surname soon, from what Mr. Kingsley tells me.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Esther ducked her head, blushing prettily. “How Naomi would laugh if she could see me engaged to Joseph’s baby brother.”
“You must miss your sister.”
“I do.”
“What was she like, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Not at all. Naomi was . . . full of life. Funny. Generous. Rather like Joseph in that regard.”
“Oh? How so?”
Esther nodded thoughtfully. “When he was courting Naomi, our father died, leaving debts we knew nothing about. We almost lost our home, but Joseph stepped in and used his life’s savings to settle the debt and buy the house. Our mother still lives there.”
Ah! Mercy thought. Another reason he’d felt duty bound to hurry to Basingstoke to repair the broken step that contributed to his mother-in-law’s fall. “How kind of him.”
“I agree.” Esther leaned closer. “But between you and me, I think he feels he cannot marry again until he has a proper home to offer someone. Which is a pity, because he would make some lucky woman a wonderful husband. When Aaron and I wed, we’re going to save for a house, and as soon as we can, we’ll invite Mamma to come and live with us. Then Joseph will be able to sell the house in Basingstoke and buy something nearer Ivy Hill.”
Mercy remembered what Joseph had said about Aaron spending every farthing he earned before it reached the bottom of his pocket. It could be a long time before the couple could afford a home of their own. Was Joseph waiting until he had a house to offer . . . someone?
Esther cocked her head to the side. “Do you have a few minutes, Miss Grove?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You asked about Naomi. I long to see her portrait again. Will you walk with me to the workshop so I may show it to you? Joseph’s working there today, and I know he won’t mind.”
Is Esther playing matchmaker? Mercy wondered, but she was as interested in seeing Joseph as the portrait, so she agreed. “Yes, I can spare half an hour or so.”
“Excellent.” Esther held the basket in one hand and linked her free arm with Mercy’s. Mercy was surprised but did not pull away.
Together, the two women walked to the Kingsley brothers’ workshop. Inside, Joseph bent over a piece of carved moulding suspended atop two sawhorses. He was smoothing it with a piece of dried sharkskin. Sawdust dotted his side-whiskers and the fine hairs of his muscled forearms.
Esther called, “If it isn’t the carpenter named Joseph, hard at work.”
He looked up with a grin, eyes widening when he saw Mercy beside her. “Miss Grove . . . Welcome. Please don’t believe everything my mischievous sister tells you about me.”
Esther said, “We were talking about Naomi, actually. Might I show Mercy her miniature? You still have it upstairs, I trust?”
“Of course. And yes, if you like. It’s in the drawer of my side table. Don’t mind the clutter.”
Mercy followed Esther up the narrow wooden steps of the open stairway and through the low door into the room above. Inside, she saw two long single beds. One was stripped bare—where Matthew Kingsley used to sleep before marrying, she guessed—and the other neatly made. A corner stove held a coffeepot, and a plate with a few toast crumbs. But the space was remarkably neat for a bachelor without a servant.
There was also a small desk near the window, and upon it a Bible open to the first chapter of Matthew. She glanced at the page, and an underlined verse leapt out at her: “Then Joseph being raised from sleep did as the angel of the Lord had bidden him, and took unto him his wife . . .”
Mercy mused, Another carpenter named Joseph.
Esther opened the drawer of the side table and pulled forth a framed miniature portrait. “Here she is.”
Mercy walked over to join her there.
“It’s sad that, as the years pass, this little painting is becoming clearer to me than my own recollection. It is not a perfect likeness of her, but the artist did a credible job.”
In the image, the woman’s hair was golden brown, several shades darker than Esther’s blond. And her eyes were hazel rather than blue, but still the resemblance between the sisters was striking.
Esther said, “She looks almost bashful in this portrait, but in real life she was a passionate person, laughing one minute and then railing against some injustice the next. She felt things more deeply than I do. How I looked up to her—my big sister. Have you a sister, Miss Grove?”
“It’s Mercy, remember. And no, I have only an older brother.”
“Then we have that in common, for Joseph has become the older brother I always wanted. The very best of brothers. Kind and protective.”
“Yes, I see that.”
“Is your brother the same?”
“Not exactly, but he is amiable. He has recently married, so his attention is focused on his wife now, as it should be, I suppose. As you will find out for yo
urself soon enough.”
“Do you mean, when Joseph marries again?”
“No! I meant when you and Aaron marry.”
“Oh. Of course. Sorry.”
Mercy watched her carefully. “Will it be difficult for you if Joseph were to marry again?”
Esther shrugged. “A little, to see Naomi replaced in his affections. But I love him as a brother and don’t want him to be alone for the rest of his life. Naomi wouldn’t want that either.”
Boot steps on the stairs drew their attention. Joseph appeared, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. “The longer you two are up here whispering, the more uneasy I become.” He ducked his head to pass under the lintel. “Pray what are you finding so fascinating?”
“I was only showing Mercy Naomi’s portrait. And your bachelor’s quarters.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “I have yet to do the washing up, I’m afraid. Was not expecting visitors.”
“You keep your things rather tidy for a man,” Esther said. “Your future wife will be a fortunate woman.” She sent Mercy a sly glance, and Mercy felt her face heat. When she braved a peek at Joseph, she saw his face redden as well.
Mercy cleared her throat. “Well, thank you for showing me your sister’s portrait, Esther. Naomi was beautiful, but I am not surprised she should be.” She looked at Joseph. “And your room up here is more comfortable than I was led to believe.”
He slowly shook his head. “You are just being kind. I know it is humble. Too humble for . . . anyone but a bachelor.”
Mercy could not argue with the fact that it would be a step down for her after life in Ivy Cottage. She could easily imagine her mother’s shocked disapproval at the notion of her only daughter living in such a place. Although . . . was it so much humbler than an attic room in either Ivy Cottage or the Fairmont?
“Well, thank you again. Now I had better get back.”
“Yes,” he said. “Mr. Drake will be wondering what became of you.”
Mercy hesitated. Was he implying something? “I don’t know about Mr. Drake, but Alice will be expecting me, yes.”
He held her gaze a moment, then turned and led the way down. “I’ll go first, just in case. Be careful. The stairs are steep.”
As they descended, a girl of seven or eight with light brown ringlets ran into the shop, waving a piece of paper in her hand. “Uncle Joseph, I drew you a picture.”
He lowered himself to one knee. “So you did. Is that giant me?”
“Not a giant. That’s you with your saw. And that’s me there with the rocking horse you made.”
“So it is. Well done, Katrina.”
The girl handed him the drawing. “You can keep it.”
He cupped the child’s face with his hand. “Thank you. I shall treasure it.”
On the step behind her, Esther whispered in Mercy’s ear, “He’s fond of all his nieces and nephews, but there’s a special bond between those two. She’s the same age as his baby girl would have been, had she lived.”
“Oh . . .Then no wonder,” Mercy breathed, her heart aching for the man who had lost so much.
chapter
Thirty
With her father and brother still lodging in Wilton, Jane rode over every few days to see them, when she could find the time between wedding preparations and managing The Bell. On one such visit she learned her father had come down with what he called a “trifling cold,” so she brought Jack Avi back to Ivy Hill to spend the day with her. She planned to take him to the farm that evening for a riding lesson with Gabriel.
The afternoon being sunny, Jane walked Jack Avi over to Ivy Green. He wore one of his new skeleton suits—trousers buttoned to a matching jacket—and kicked a ball as he went. The boy had been cooped up too long and needed to run and play outside. She worried, however, that even if they found other boys on the green, they might not want to play with a somewhat foreign-looking newcomer with taffy-colored skin and lyrical accent. Personally, Jane found both charming, but she was his sister, after all.
They reached the green, and two lads were there, kicking a ball back and forth. They noticed Jack Avi, and after watching him kick his own ball for a few minutes came nearer, expressions curious. The boys looked familiar, but Jane wasn’t sure of their names.
“Want to play with us?” one of them asked.
“Yes, thank you,” said Jack Avi.
The other boy studied his face. “You are very tan.”
“And you are very pale,” Jack Avi replied with a friendly smile.
The boy shrugged. “Your ball looks new.”
“It is.” Jack Avi kicked it across the green, and all three lads gave chase.
Jane expelled a sigh of relief.
She noticed Matilda Grove in the rear garden of Ivy Cottage, so she waved, and Matilda waved back, rising from the bench to stand at the gate.
“Hello, Jane.”
“Good day, Miss Matty.” Looking again to be sure Jack Avi was happily occupied, Jane walked over to talk to her.
Matilda asked, “How is Jack Avi getting on?”
“Well, I think.”
“Glad to hear it. Thankfully, younger children are often sweetly accepting. It’s not until they grow older that they seem to learn to dislike anyone different from themselves.”
Jane nodded, then asked, “How are things here?”
“Oh, I miss Mercy, of course, though she visits on Sunday afternoons when she can. These days I spend quite a bit of time out here in the garden, or calling on friends . . .”
The ball flew past, and the boys came running by. Jack waved at the ladies as he ran after it, then stopped abruptly. Jane looked over to see what had arrested his attention.
Mr. Basu came walking across the green toward them, market basket in hand, with supplies for Mrs. Timmons, Jane guessed. He watched the boys with his usual quiet solemnity, but when he saw Jack Avi, his expression brightened with interest. Jack Avi stood there as the man slowly approached, then said something to him in his native language. Mr. Basu shook his head and gave a low reply.
Jack Avi turned and pointed toward Jane. Mr. Basu looked up and nodded in her direction. Boy and man exchanged a few more words, and then Mr. Basu continued toward Ivy Cottage.
“I wonder if they speak the same language,” Matilda mused.
When the man neared, Jane stepped back and Matilda opened the gate for him. “Mr. Basu, I see you met Jane’s brother.”
He nodded.
“I heard him greet you in his native tongue,” Jane said. “Did you understand him?”
The manservant wavered his hand in a so-so gesture.
“A different dialect?” Jane asked.
He nodded.
“Pity.”
He bowed and continued into the house.
Jack Avi jogged over to them. “Good day, Miss Matty.”
“You remembered my name. I am impressed. A pleasure to see you again, Jack Avi.”
He nodded over the fence toward the retreating Mr. Basu. “That man lives with you?”
“He does, yes. Mr. Basu is a faithful servant and friend.”
“He looks like my grandfather. I like him.”
“Come on, Jack!” one of the boys called, and with a parting smile, Jack Avi ran off again.
Jane said, “You know, I don’t think I ever heard where Mr. Basu comes from or how he came to work at Ivy Cottage.” Jane was ashamed to realize she had never really given the man much thought before Jack Avi entered her life.
“He was a lascar and came over on one of the East India Company’s ships,” Matilda said. “From Bengal, I believe. Something happened, and he was denied return passage. On one of her trips to London Mercy found him going house to house looking for work. You know Mercy. She offered him a position here.”
“Is he happy, do you think?”
Matilda shrugged. “Content, I’d say. Or he was. I’m afraid life has become more . . . tense in Ivy Cottage lately. For us all.”
“I’m so
rry to hear it.”
“Never mind.” Matilda brightened. “Everything set for the wedding?”
“Almost. Thankfully, it’s not for a few weeks yet.”
“I look forward to it, my dear. I know you will be very happy.”
“Thank you, Miss Matty.”
“And how is your father? I have not seen him in some time.”
“He has come down with a cold, but I am sure he’ll be back to visit you again soon.”
Matilda smiled. “I look forward to that as well.”
Victorine walked up Ebsbury Road, her sewing box in hand, headed for the almshouse. In its sunny front garden, an elderly woman sat in one of two chairs.
The woman squinted and hailed, “Halloo! I have not seen you before, but then again, I can barely see you now.” She chuckled to herself. “Silly old eyes.”
Victorine stepped into the garden. “Good day. I am . . . Victorine.”
“Ah. You’re the new dressmaker I’ve heard about.”
“Attempting to be, at any rate. What is your name?”
“Peg Hornebolt. Come closer, my dear.”
Victorine walked nearer, admiring the woman’s fine grey plaits coiled and pinned atop her head. “I like your hair.”
“Why thank you. I did it myself.” She patted her hair, then the chair beside her. “Sit awhile, if you can, and we’ll have a friendly chat.”
Victorine found herself strangely drawn to the kind-faced woman and sat down to oblige her. She said, “I am sorry your eyes are giving you trouble.”
“Oh, they are just worn out, like the rest of this mortal frame. Mind is still sharp though, and that’s a blessing. Most days.”
Victorine asked gently, “How much can you see?”
The woman brought her face near. “Enough to see you are very pretty. And very sad.”
“I miss my family, truth be told. But I am well. I just came to see if Mrs. Mennell might need any help with mending or something.”
The elderly woman nodded. “I miss my husband and parents too, though they’ve all been gone these many years. . . .”
The two talked a few minutes longer, then Mrs. Hornebolt pushed herself to her feet, cane in hand. “Well, I am sure our matron would be glad for your help. Come, I’ll show you the way, said the blind woman.” She chuckled again.
The Bride of Ivy Green Page 22
