The Ladies of Ivy Cottage

by Julie Klassen

  “Yes,” Mercy replied. “I wonder what he wants with Mr. Thomas.”

  “Windows for the Fairmont would be my guess.”

  “No doubt you’re right,” Mercy murmured, though she thought it strange to call at the man’s house on a Sunday for a business reason.

  Mr. Thomas abruptly slammed the door shut. Beside Mercy, her aunt gasped.

  Mr. Drake stood there a moment, apparently stunned, then turned and walked away, striding in their direction.

  He tipped his hat to them as he approached. Mercy would have nodded and walked on, but chatty Aunt Matty paused to wait for him.

  “Hello, Mr. Drake.”

  “Good day, Miss Matilda. Miss Grove.”

  Matilda grinned. “I see Mr. Thomas was his usual hospitable self?”

  “Yes,” he wryly agreed. “Lost the skin off my nose when he slammed his door. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “Of course. I know everyone in Ivy Hill. I’ve lived here all my life, after all, and I’m no April lamb.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  Matilda chuckled, then sobered. “His wife and I were old friends. But lately, she doesn’t seem to know who I am. So sad to get old. That’s why I’ve decided to remain young.” She smiled again, though sadly.

  He said, “Mr. Thomas told me his wife was not well enough to receive visitors, and he was not willing to talk with me either.”

  Matilda nodded. “Private man. Suspicious and resentful too. I hope that isn’t uncharitable to say. But life has given him cause, I own.”

  Mercy spoke up. “Surely if you wanted Mr. Thomas’s services as a glazier, he would be happy to talk with you.”

  “As a matter of fact he has done work for me already. But this call was of a more personal nature.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I was told we might have an acquaintance in common, but when I asked him, all he would say was ‘If you want windows repaired, I’m your man. If it’s gossip you’re after, go see Mrs. Craddock.’”

  Aunt Matty chuckled again. “There’s some truth there. Who is this acquaintance? Perhaps I would know him.”

  “It’s nothing important. I had simply met a Miss Payne years ago and recently learned the Thomases were her grandparents. I was only curious about her and her husband.”

  Surprise flashed through Mercy. “You were acquainted with Mary-Alicia Smith?”

  “Smith. Is that her husband’s name? I heard she’d married but not her new surname.”

  Matilda nodded. “Yes. She married a Mr. Smith, a lieutenant of marines, if I remember correctly what Mrs. Thomas told me.”

  Mercy recalled her aunt previously describing him as a seaman on a merchant ship, but apparently she’d misheard, or her aunt was mistaken.

  “Do you know the Smiths?” Mr. Drake asked.

  “Not well,” Matilda answered for them both. “I never met the husband. I did meet Mary-Alicia a few times, but that was years ago, when she was young. She spent time here with the Thomases as a girl.”

  “Yes, I recall her mentioning fond memories of her grandparents.”

  Matilda sighed. “Such a shame she has passed on.”

  Mr. Drake stiffened. “Passed on?”

  Matilda laid a hand to her chest. “Oh, my dear sir! He did not tell you? Poor Mary-Alicia has been gone more than half a year.”

  His mouth went slack. “No . . . Mr. Thomas told me nothing.”

  “He’s told almost no one apparently,” Mercy said. “Mary-Alicia lived elsewhere most of her life, so most people here did not know her.”

  “I only knew because Mrs. Thomas told me,” Matilda added. “And Mr. Smith died early in their marriage, I understand. Went down with his ship. I am sorry to be the bearer of such news.”

  “And I the hearer.” He managed a mirthless smile. “But if I had to hear it, I am glad it was from you, kind lady. Still, what a shock. She was so young.”

  Matilda nodded her agreement. “Apparently she had been sickly for a long time. She had been laid low with—”

  Afraid her aunt might break their promise to Mr. Thomas, Mercy squeezed her arm in warning. Matilda broke off midsentence, sending her an apologetic look.

  “Come, Aunt Matilda,” Mercy interjected. “We’ve delayed Mr. Drake long enough. And don’t forget, we’ve left Miss Ashford on her own.”

  “Oh, only with a few girls. The rest have gone to visit their families. Rachel will manage perfectly well.”

  “Well, I won’t keep you,” Mr. Drake said, taking Mercy’s cue. “By the way, Miss Grove. I received your letter and will be happy to talk with you about the charity school at some point, once things settle down at the Fairmont.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Drake. Just send word when you have time, and I will come to see you whenever it is convenient.”

  “I will do that.” He bowed. “And now, I bid you good day, ladies.”

  He walked away, and Mercy turned to watch him go.

  Her aunt patted her hand. “Well, that’s good news, is it not?”

  “Is it?” Mercy hoped something good would come of the man’s interest.

  Chapter

  eleven

  To celebrate the official opening of the circulating library, Miss Matilda insisted they serve cake. Rachel doubted the wisdom of putting sticky icing in the vicinity of all those fine leather books with gilt edges, but she accepted her offer graciously.

  Several members of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society arrived together in a show of support. Becky Morris, a twinkle in her eye, asked Rachel if she had any more romances like the one she had lent to Mrs. Barton. The other women chimed in, and Rachel feared the competition to borrow Fugitive of the Forest might devolve into fisticuffs. Thankfully, Anna Kingsley appeared with volumes of The Nocturnal Visit and Northanger Abbey and began extolling their gothic appeal as well.

  Mrs. Klein asked if Rachel had multiple copies of any book, so a few of them might read the same title and later meet to discuss it in the reading room. Rachel provided volumes of Waverley for the purpose.

  The Miss Cooks had come in a few days earlier to sign up for subscriptions, but now Judith asked if she could borrow a book without her subscription card.

  Her sister frowned at her. “I thought you found your card, Judy.”

  “I did.”

  “You lost it again already?”

  “It isn’t lost. I put it somewhere special and shall recall where . . . by and by.” She blinked her round blue eyes at Rachel. “I have never been a subscriber before. I was so proud of that card.” Her powdered chin trembled.

  “Don’t worry. I shall give you a duplicate, Miss Cook.”

  Mrs. Barton patted her own bodice. “Keep it in your corset, Judy. That’s where I keep my valuables.”

  Mrs. Burlingame sent her a sly glance. “No doubt Mr. Barton agrees.”

  “Phyllis!” the spinster sisters exclaimed, faces pruned in shocked indignation.

  Miss Morris laughed until she snorted. “Please forgive us, Miss Ashford. And here we meant to be on our best behavior today.”

  When the women left, books in arms, Rachel sagged against the desk in relief. She was already exhausted, and it was not yet eleven!

  After opening day, visits to the library slowed to a more steady pace, which was both a relief and a concern—Rachel still hoped for more subscribers.

  A few mornings later, Rachel opened the library as usual, unlocking the side door and replacing the daily newspapers, which Miss Cook had asked her to save for her bird’s cage.

  Jane stopped in, borrowed a novel, and lingered to chat. When she left a short while later, Rachel slipped into the dining room for a cup of coffee. Returning to her desk, she dutifully opened one of her father’s history tomes she was forcing herself to read. After all, how could she make informed book recommendations if she had not at least sampled all genres? Sliding her finger down the page and finding where she had left off, Rachel braced herself with a sip of coffee and forged on wit
h the text.

  Her coffee grew cold, and a long strand of hair escaped its coil as she bent over the volume, intent on untangling each sentence.

  A shadow fell across her page, and startled, she jerked her head up. “Oh, Sir Timothy. I did not hear you come in.” He had returned, she realized. As he said he would.

  Hesitation flickered in his dark eyes, then he leaned close. His fingers brushed her temple as he tucked the unruly strand behind her ear.

  Face flaming, Rachel closed the volume. “How . . . how may I help you?”

  Timothy looked down to read the title, then cocked one eyebrow. “I did not take you for a historian, Miss Ashford.”

  “My father always said history was important—both our country’s and our personal history.” Our personal history echoed in her mind, the words seeming rife with unintentional innuendo.

  Timothy’s voice was quiet. “And do you agree with that?”

  Throat suddenly dry, Rachel reached for her cold coffee and took a bitter sip. Should she ask him what he’d wanted to talk to her about on his last visit? Instead, she said, “Actually, this book is full of useful knowledge. Did you know the Dutch inventor Cornelius van Drebbel built the first submarine in 1620 from wood, greased leather, and pigskin bladders?”

  A smile lifted his handsome features. “I am spellbound. Truly. Have you any other such engrossing books?”

  She said wryly, “Yes, my father’s collection has many others just as fascinating as this one.”

  “Lead on. And by the way, I was sorry to miss your grand opening, but duties kept me away. I hope it went well?”

  “It did, thank you.” The attentive way he looked at her made her pulse race. She gestured toward the history section. “Now, right this way.”

  After he’d chosen a book and thanked her, Timothy left and Rachel returned to her reading. Someone rapped on the library’s side door but did not enter. Rachel looked up, surprised to see the Brockwells’ butler standing outside the glass door as somber as a pallbearer, dressed in black from head to toe. Rachel waved for him to enter, but he either did not see the gesture or ignored it and knocked again with the head of his umbrella.

  Rachel walked over to open the door for him. “Hello, Mr. Carville.”

  “Miss Ashford.”

  “Do come in. In fact, you may enter without knocking when the library is open. The Miss Groves have kindly consigned these rooms and this door for the library’s particular use.”

  He lifted his pointed nose. “It is not my custom to enter a person’s home unannounced.”

  “I see. Well. Welcome.”

  She gestured him forward, and he stepped tentatively inside.

  Carville had seemed such a large, menacing presence when Rachel was a girl. Now the years had diminished him. His grey hair had thinned, his frame slightly bent so that he was not much taller than she was. Even so, he still possessed an air of grave authority that put Rachel on her guard.

  “How may I help you?” Rachel clasped her hands and found them damp. Servant or not, Carville’s years and high position with the parish’s leading family gave him a certain standing and commanded respect.

  He rested vein-wormed hands on the handle of his umbrella and surveyed the library.

  Rachel swallowed a nervous lump. Heaven help her recommend a book to interest this man! “You are welcome to browse. Or are you looking for something in particular?”

  “I am, yes. Sir Timothy Brockwell happened to mention that he donated some of his late father’s books.”

  “Yes, he did. It was very kind of him.”

  “Perhaps. But if he had told me in advance what he planned to do, I would have gone through the books first, to make sure no important papers or keepsakes had been left among them.”

  “I did not see anything in the crate except the books, which I have already put on the shelves. But if you give me a few minutes, I could gather them for you.”

  She thought he might wave away her offer, but instead he nodded and said he would wait.

  “Perhaps you would care to sit at the table? I shall bring the books to you there.”

  Again he gravely nodded and stepped to the table. But he did not sit, perhaps unwilling to do so in a lady’s presence.

  Rachel retrieved the heavy dictionary and placed it before him, then the poetry, politics, and novels, and finally the three volumes of Milton’s Paradise Lost and Other Stories.

  He gestured for her to sit, and when she accepted, he finally sat as well. He opened each book, peered at the fly leaves and title pages as though looking for an inscription. Then he flipped through the pages of each.

  Finally satisfied, he asked, “Is this all of them?”

  “Almost. Mrs. Klein has already borrowed Waverley, and I’m afraid the first volume of the Milton set is missing.”

  “Missing?” He frowned. “Sir Justin was never careless with his books. I wonder if Sir Timothy mislaid it. I shall have to speak to the staff.”

  “I did mention it to Sir Timothy, and he offered to ask his family and the housekeeper if anyone recalled borrowing the book or seeing it someplace it should not be.”

  “Someplace it should not be . . .” Carville repeated, eyes narrowed in thought. He traced a bony finger over a leather cover, then lifted his chin. “Ah.”

  Rachel watched him with interest. “Have you remembered where it might be?”

  He looked at her as though just recalling she sat there. His thin mouth tightened. “I was only thinking. Sir Justin might have lent it to . . . some acquaintance or other, and after he died, the book was simply never returned. He was generous that way.”

  “Was he? I didn’t know him well.”

  “Yes, much as his son has been generous with you.”

  Rachel frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He looked at her askance. “Surely you knew about the game and other food he provided over the years, not to mention paying Thornvale’s taxes when your father was unable to last year?”

  Rachel stared, stunned. “No. I was not aware he did so.”

  “Perhaps I ought not to have mentioned it. Please do not repeat it.” Mr. Carville rose. “Well, thank you, Miss Ashford. I will call at Mrs. Klein’s and ask to see Waverley. If the missing book turns up, I shall let you know. I trust you will return the favor?”

  “I shall.”

  The elderly man bowed and left. She stared after him, feeling more unsettled than when he’d arrived.

  That evening, Mr. Kingsley returned to continue his work in the expanded library. Rachel had gone upstairs, so Mercy greeted him herself, then retreated to the sitting room across the corridor to carry on with her campaign efforts. Her wrist was growing tired from all her letter writing. She looked down at her ink-stained fingers with a rueful sigh, then began another appeal.

  A short while later, she heard a grunt of pain and a muttered “Thunder and turf!”

  Mercy frowned. That didn’t sound good.

  She walked to the drawing room door and peeked in, not wanting to interrupt if all was well. Instead, she saw Mr. Kingsley bent over in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, cradling his arm. His coat lay over a chair nearby.

  “Are you all right?” She crossed the room to him, reminding herself that she had a brother and had seen a man in his shirtsleeves many times before.

  “I will be,” he replied between clenched teeth. “I’ve cut myself. Dashed foolish.”

  “Let me see.” She reached for his arm, but he pulled away.

  “No need.”

  “Let. Me. See,” she repeated, in her authoritative, teacher’s voice.

  He fisted his hand, but she saw blood trickle between his fingers.

  “Give me your hand before you bleed all over our best carpet.”

  At that, he grimaced and extended his hand, palm up, fingers cupped and bloody. An angry gash sliced his palm.

  “Come with me. Hurry. Don’t drip.”

  He stoically followed her across the vestibule and down th
e back passage to the scullery.

  “Over the sink, if you please.”

  He complied.

  She reached for his shirtsleeve. “I had better roll this up before it gets soaked.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “No, you’d get blood all over your white shirt.” She rolled up the sleeve, trying not to notice the muscled forearm, blond hairs, and warm skin. Then she poured a pitcher of water over the wound to wash away the blood. The cut looked jagged but not too deep.

  “I can do that.” He tried to take the pitcher from her.

  She ignored him. “Stay there.” She returned a few moments later with a pot of ointment and strips of bandage. “I don’t think you need a surgeon.”

  “Of course I don’t. It’s only a cut.”

  “But not a clean one.”

  “Dashed saw.”

  She took his large work-worn hand in hers and inspected the injury more closely. Her practical demeanor faltered as she realized she was holding a man’s hand.

  She drew a shaky breath and endeavored to remain officious. She wrapped and secured the bandage as best she could, though was frustrated to realize her own hands were not as sure and steady as usual.

  “There. That should do it. You shall have to change the bandage often until the bleeding stops. Have you sufficient supplies at home, or would you like to take this roll?”

  “I have all I need.”

  She looked up at him, disconcerted to find him looking not at his bandaged hand, but at her.

  “Thank you, Miss Grove.”

  “Think nothing of it, Mr. Kingsley.”

  As she walked away, she repeated that sentiment to herself, “Think nothing of it, Mercy Grove. For Mr. Kingsley certainly will not.”

  Mercy, however, would think of little else the rest of the night.

  The next afternoon, while Rachel was relaxing with the Miss Groves in the sitting room, the vicar and his wife stopped by Ivy Cottage. They did not stay long. They had only come to let Matilda know that her old friend Mrs. Thomas had died in her sleep.

  Matilda thanked Mr. and Mrs. Paley for telling her and promised to help with the funeral meal and anything else that was needed.