The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  “Ah. Well, in any case, I could not believe you wanted to look at books, of all things.” Rachel grinned. “Had you seen a handsome man through the shop window?”

  “I had not!”

  “Is it all right that I tease you, Jane? Or do you prefer not to talk about him? I would never want to hurt you.”

  “It’s all right. It feels strange but oddly good to talk about John. I so rarely hear his name anymore. Especially now with Thora gone.”

  Rachel shook her head. “I am still surprised neither Ellen nor I recognized Mr. Bell, since we lived in the same village. But he was so well dressed and looked every inch the learned gentleman, especially reading a book, as he was.”

  Jane nodded, thinking back. She remembered how John had looked at her—as though she were the most beautiful woman in the world—and felt a nostalgic ache at the thought. “I learned later he was staying in Bath with Thora’s sister. He studied for a time under a tutor there. He always rather saw himself as a gentleman.”

  Rachel nodded. “I admit, I have often wondered what might have happened if we realized from the beginning he was the innkeeper’s son. I’m afraid Ellen and I would have dismissed him instantly. Instead she encouraged you to dance with him in the lower assembly rooms that night. If you had known who he was from the first, would you have allowed yourself to fall for him? Or . . . might things have turned out differently?”

  Was she asking if Jane would have married Sir Timothy instead? Jane took a deep breath and exhaled. “They might have, yes.” She leaned forward. “But things worked out as they were meant to, Rachel. Timothy and I are friends, but that is all.”

  “Even now that John is gone?”

  Jane nodded. “Even now.”

  “Well, that is more than he and I are. We barely speak, even when we see each other in church or on the street.”

  “Perhaps that will change.”

  “After eight years, why should it?”

  Jane hesitated, not wanting to speak out of turn. “And what about Mr. Ashford? Are you . . . ‘allowing yourself to fall for him’? I have only met him in passing, but I confess I like the young man.” She grinned. “After all, he has good taste in women.”

  Rachel ducked her head, her cheeks reddening in embarrassment or pleasure or both.

  And again Jane feared Timothy had waited too long, now that Nicholas Ashford was pursuing his pretty cousin.

  Rachel remained quiet after that, looking out the coach window at the passing Wiltshire countryside. Soon they were rattling along Salisbury’s streets and through the archway into the Red Lion’s courtyard. The handsome Royal Mail guard appeared again to let down the step and help them alight.

  He tipped his hat. “Enjoy your day, ladies.”

  “Thank you, Jack,” Jane said. “See you soon.”

  From there, Rachel and Jane walked down the narrow cobbled lane to the wider High Street, with its colorful shops and medieval gate. They turned at Catherine Street and walked until they found Fellows’s Circulating Library.

  Inside, they introduced themselves to the proprietor. Mr. Fellows said he would be happy to show Miss Ashford around his establishment and advise her on setting up her own. He apparently judged Ivy Hill too small and too distant for Rachel’s library to pose any serious competition.

  The short man led them into a back room filled with floor-to-ceiling bookcases and gestured toward them with evident pride. “Our collection boasts over fifteen hundred volumes, which subscribers may borrow for an annual fee.” He next led them to a separate seating area. “Our reading room here is frequented both by ladies and gentlemen, and is daily supplied with the latest London morning and evening newspapers, as well as journals and magazines.”

  He described his methods of labeling and cataloging books, as well as record keeping, accounting, and advertising.

  “Goodness,” Rachel breathed, again feeling overwhelmed by it all.

  Jane added, “Very impressive, Mr. Fellows.”

  They thanked the man for his time and advice, and left the establishment.

  As they walked away, Jane squeezed her hand. “Don’t be anxious, Rachel. You needn’t try to compete with Mr. Fellows. Start small. And you know Mercy, Matilda, and I will help you.”

  “Thank you, Jane.” It was difficult to admit it, but she would need all the help she could get.

  They stopped at the stationers for the promised registry and to order cards for Rachel. Then Jane said, “Shall we see the cathedral while we’re here? It is what brings most tourists after all.”

  “Why not?” Rachel smiled, but her heart was not in it.

  As they approached the cathedral, Rachel gazed up at England’s tallest spire, struck by its majesty, her thoughts naturally drawn to God. A prayer leapt to the tip of her tongue—a plea for help in this scary new venture—but she suppressed it. How small and inconsequential her problems must seem from so far above.

  Chapter

  four

  The next afternoon, Rachel changed into her best blue walking dress, then stood before the mirror to rebrush and pin her blond hair. She’d had to learn to dress her own hair since releasing her lady’s maid, Jemima, to take a place at Brockwell Court. Rachel wasn’t very good at it but was slowly improving. The ladies of Ivy Cottage helped one another morning and night with fastenings and lacings. Their boarding pupils did the same for one another. The Miss Groves did employ one maid, along with their cook and manservant. Agnes Woodbead cleaned the house and laid fires in the female bedchambers, while Mr. Basu tended the gardens, hauled coal and wood, and helped Mrs. Timmons with the heavy work of the kitchen. At all events, everyone was too busy to help with something as frivolous as arranging hair.

  Rachel sighed at her reflection and stuck in one last pin for good measure, hoping the coil of hair at the back of her head would remain in place. She wanted to look calm and collected for the meeting to come.

  Leaving Ivy Cottage a short while later, she crossed the village green and followed the High Street past the shops and coaching inn. Seeing The Bell reminded her of Jane’s offer to talk to Sir Timothy on her behalf. Now Rachel regretted saying she would do so herself. Nerves tingled in her stomach, and she felt prickles of perspiration that had nothing to do with the exertion of the walk.

  The brick chimney stacks of Brockwell Court appeared above the tree tops. She walked toward them, turning up the long curving drive until the house—the largest in the parish—came into view.

  Brockwell Court was an Elizabethan manor three and, in places, four stories tall. Artfully shaped topiaries lined the drive, and a nearby ornamental fountain lofted water in a graceful arc.

  When Rachel was young, she had often visited Brockwell Court with her parents and sister—parties, Christmas gatherings, the occasional concert—but it had been years since she’d been there, or received an invitation to call. She had not been invited to call today, either, and wondered how she would be received.

  A young footman she had never seen answered her knock. He said he was not sure where Sir Timothy was at the moment but that he would try to find him. Rachel nodded and stepped inside, knowing the Brockwells’ exacting butler, Carville, would never have admitted he was unaware of any of the family’s whereabouts, and he would no doubt have formally instructed her to wait while he went to see if Sir Timothy was “at home to callers.”

  As Rachel stood in the hall rehearsing what to say, Lady Brockwell came down the stairs—tall, black-haired, and regal in afternoon dress of deep green. With her dark coloring, hooded eyes, and long nose, she looked like an Italian donna.

  Seeing her, anxiety pulsed in Rachel’s veins.

  Lady Brockwell glanced up and paused at the bottom of the stairs. Some emotion crossed her face, but it was not pleasure.

  “Miss Ashford. I am surprised to see you. Were we expecting you?”

  “No, I—”

  “I suppose Justina invited you? That child is forever inviting people to call.”

  �
��No, she did not. I was hoping to speak with Sir Timothy.”

  The woman’s eyes flashed a warning. “My son is very busy, Miss Ashford. In fact, I believe he is meeting with our farm manager as we speak.”

  “You needn’t worry, your ladyship; this is not a social call. I was hoping to talk with him about a . . . matter of village business. But I can return another time.”

  Justina appeared in the drawing room door. “Mamma, the tea is growing cold. Oh, Rachel! I did not see you there.” The young woman with golden brown hair, dark eyes, and delicate features crossed the hall to her, all smiles. “What a wonderful surprise. I do hope you are staying for tea.”

  “Thank you, Justina. But I have only come to speak to your brother on a matter of business.”

  Justina’s brows lifted. “Business?”

  Rachel hesitated to describe the proposed venture with Lady Brockwell standing there.

  Noticing her discomfort, Justina said, “Then I shall fetch him. He is in the billiards room, but I am sure he’ll come directly once he knows you’re here.”

  Meeting with his farm manager, indeed, Rachel thought. “I do not want to interrupt. I shall speak to him another time. Does he keep regular office hours, or . . . ?”

  Justina shrugged. “Mornings, usually. But he won’t mind. Not for you.”

  Lady Brockwell said, “Justina, if he is finished with his day’s duties, we ought to let your brother rest.”

  “Mamma, Miss Ashford is an old friend. He would be unhappy if we sent her away.”

  The same young footman crossed the hall again, apparently still looking for his master, and Justina called, “Andrew, Sir Timothy is in the billiards room. Please let him know Miss Ashford is here and would like to speak with him on a village matter.”

  “Very good, miss.”

  Justina turned back to her. “It is so good to see you, Rachel. I haven’t spoken to you since your farewell dinner party at Thornvale.” The girl’s face fell. “Forgive me. I suppose that is an unhappy topic.”

  “Not at all,” Rachel assured her. “It was a lovely evening.” Until Nicholas and his mother arrived.

  Justina looked at Lady Brockwell. “It was a pity you missed it, Mamma. You stayed home with a cold, remember?”

  “A trifling cold. I rarely take ill.” She turned to Rachel, as if reading her thoughts. “By the way, I have since met Mrs. Ashford and her son at church. She seems a decent sort of woman.”

  Rachel replied neutrally, “I am glad you think so.”

  Justina teased, “And rumor has it that the amiable Mr. Ashford has made clear his interest in a certain distant cousin. . . . ” The girl smiled, eyes alight.

  “How rumors do spread.” Rachel shifted uneasily, the insinuation all too obvious. “Mr. Ashford and I are not . . . That is, there is no . . . ” She’d been about to say there was no understanding between them, but that was not quite true. She said instead, “I don’t know who told you that, but nothing is settled between us.”

  Justina shrugged. “I have seen you with him myself, talking at church, or walking home together afterward. And don’t forget, your Jemima is my lady’s maid now.”

  Ah, that explained a great deal. Had the maid eavesdropped during Mr. Ashford’s proposal? Rachel wondered. Probably.

  Lady Brockwell said, “It was your suggestion, Justina tells me, that I engage your lady’s maid for her.”

  Rachel nodded. “Yes, I am grateful. And Jemima is an excellent maid.” And an excellent gossip.

  “I was sure Mamma would insist I didn’t need a lady’s maid. Instead she agreed rather quickly.”

  Rachel smiled politely at Lady Brockwell. “It was kind of you to give her a place.”

  “It was time Justina had a maid of her own. She is a marriageable young woman now.”

  “Mamma, not that again,” Justina groaned. “As with Rachel, nothing is settled. Ah. Here comes Timothy.”

  Rachel turned to watch his approach. She felt Lady Brockwell’s gaze on her profile but pretended not to notice, clasping her hands over her nervous stomach and pasting on a serene expression.

  “Good day, Miss Ashford.” Sir Timothy crossed the hall in long strides. “A pleasure to see you. Nothing is wrong, I hope.”

  “No. Nothing . . . specific.”

  “The footman mentioned some village matter you wished to discuss?”

  Rachel darted a look at his mother, who showed no intention of excusing herself.

  She swallowed. “Yes. But I can return another time if now is not convenient. I did not realize you kept morning office hours.”

  He waved away her concerns. “In general, when I can. But it is no trouble to speak with you now.” He pointed to his right. “My office is just there, if you would prefer to talk privately?”

  “Yes, thank you. I shan’t keep you long.”

  “Excuse us, Mamma.”

  “But your tea, Timothy.”

  “Go on without me. I shall join you later.”

  “Very well.” Lady Brockwell smiled coolly and strode away, Justina trailing behind.

  Sir Timothy gestured for Rachel to precede him. In the office, he hesitated only a moment before closing the door. “You must forgive my mother. She has always been protective of my time.”

  Rachel thought, Yes, I remember.

  She did not recall ever being in this office before. It had been Sir Justin’s domain, where he performed magisterial duties, as his son did now.

  Being in close proximity to Sir Timothy, she noticed his dark side-whiskers were threaded with silver, though he was only thirty. His father, she recalled, had greyed early as well. Yet Timothy was still as handsome as ever, with strong regular features, pronounced cheekbones, and cleft chin. He was tall and shared his mother’s dark hair and regal bearing. Rachel had always looked up to him, literally and figuratively.

  He removed a book from one of the chairs facing his desk. “Please, be seated.”

  She did so, and he took his own chair, interlacing his fingers on the desk. “Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I hope you might answer a question for me. You see, my father left me his collection of books, though his will stipulates that I am not to sell them.”

  Sir Timothy nodded along, but his tense expression told her he was wary about what she was leading up to.

  “Surely he left you some means of support as well?”

  “He was not able to. I have a little money from my mother, which allows me to contribute toward expenses at Ivy Cottage. The Miss Groves don’t require it, but I insist.”

  He frowned. “Miss Ashford, as I told you before, if you need anything, I—”

  “Please just hear me out,” she interrupted. “I am not here to ask for financial help.” She took a deep breath and pressed on, “Some of the village ladies suggested I might open a sort of circulating library with Papa’s books as a way of earning a living. Mercy has offered me the Ivy Cottage library for the purpose. I am here to ask about any required licenses or ordinances.”

  He slowly shook his head. “First Mercy, then Jane, and now you. How the world has changed.” He held up his palm. “I mean no censure. I am only surprised. And honestly unsure what to think. Three gentlewomen in business . . .”

  “We are only trying to do the best we can with the resources we have.”

  He nodded, eyebrows lowered in thought. “No doubt your father’s collection would be useful for Miss Grove’s pupils. But . . . what about Mr. Ashford?”

  She lifted her chin. “What about him?”

  “Forgive me. I heard there might be an understanding between you. And then I saw the two of you out together the other day.”

  “We were only walking.”

  “So . . . there is not an understanding between you?”

  Was that hope in his eyes? No—probably only her imagination.

  He continued, “That is, I assume there is not. If there were, you would have no need and, I would guess, no desire to pursue such a venture.
”

  “He has asked me to marry him.”

  He sat back, expression somber. “Has he indeed? But is he not a few years younger?”

  Rachel nodded. “But he sees that as no impediment, and I suppose neither do I.”

  Why was she telling him this? Was she hoping he would regret letting her go? Feel jealous? Feel . . . something? “He asked before I departed Thornvale. He did not like being the cause of my having to leave my home. He said he felt responsible for me.”

  “That was noble of him.”

  “I thought so.”

  “But you did not accept him?”

  “Not . . . initially.”

  “Oh?” His eyebrows rose. “Are you saying you wish to see if this library will be a success before you decide whether or not to accept him?”

  “No. How callous you make me sound! Is it wrong to want to become better acquainted with the man I might one day marry? To be certain I could care for him, and he for me? Who knows how long that might take. A few months? A year? In the meantime, I cannot live off the Miss Groves’ generosity. I must earn my own way. The circulating library is the only idea I have at present. I have to try something.” She paused for breath, feeling flushed and winded.

  “It is not immoral or even unusual to marry for security, Miss Ashford.”

  Why would he say that? Was he encouraging her to marry Mr. Ashford?

  She said, “If security was all I wanted, I suppose I would have accepted him in the first place. But that has never been all I wanted. Not now, and not when—” She broke off and squared her shoulders. “In any case, none of that is why I am here. Apparently you helped Jane obtain the necessary license for The Bell. She suggested I ask you if I would require a license to operate a library.”

  “Did she? Then I gather you and Jane are on better terms now?”

  “We are.”

  “I am glad. I have always regretted how things ended between you. Between . . . us.”

  Rachel licked dry lips. Did he mean between him and Jane, or him and her? Before she could ask, he cleared his throat and went on.

  “At all events, as an innkeeper, Jane was required to obtain a victualler’s license. That particular license does not apply in this case. But let me consult with the magistrates and village council about any other ordinances or concerns.”