Was the woman too proud to admit she needed help? Rachel could empathize with that but still wished there was something she could do.
Chapter
seventeen
The next day, Mr. Basu led a gentleman into the sitting room.
Mercy looked up, surprised to see the man again so soon. “Mr. Drake.”
“I’ve returned about the charity school you propose, since I had to rush off when last I was here.”
“That is very kind of you. Please, be seated. You know I would have happily come to you at the Fairmont.”
“That’s all right.” He took a chair near hers. “I thought I might better understand what you have in mind by seeing your present school. That is, if you don’t object?”
“Not at all. Though what I propose is on a larger scale than my small private school here. As I wrote to you, I believe there is great need for a school that would educate both boys and girls, regardless of their ability to pay.”
“Though someone must pay for it. Hence your letter to me and, I assume, to several others?”
“Yes, of course.”
He leaned forward, his expression alert with friendly challenge. “I am a man of business, Miss Grove. How would you convince me that such an endeavor is a worthwhile investment?”
“An excellent question. I do not believe the school is merely selfless charity to the deserving poor. Investment is exactly what it is—you have hit upon it. An investment in the future of Ivy Hill. The children I hope to educate will become, in a few years’ time, highly qualified potential staff for the Fairmont and other local businesses. And more broadly speaking, education will lead to better paying jobs and higher incomes for many families. Families who might then be able to afford a nice dinner at, say, a hotel, now and again.”
He slowly shook his head, eyes alight. “You have missed your calling, Miss Grove. You ought to have been a politician. Or a revolutionist.”
“I hope I am, in my small way. I believe every person should be able to read and write, understand the history of this great empire, and manage finances to better provide for one’s family. I think education is vital, whether one works as a laborer, or in service, or anything else. We are not brute beasts. We are created in the image of God with intelligence and creativity, to do good on this earth for our fellow man.”
His mouth quirked in . . . amusement?
Defensiveness pricked her. “You are laughing at me.”
He raised his hands. “No, not at all. I am impressed. I rarely see such passion—it is rather affecting, honestly. Now, why don’t you show me your school here and describe how you envision the proposed charity school.”
“Very well.” She rose, and he followed suit.
She led him up the stairs. “The girls are outside at present, so I will take you up to the dormitory first.” She showed him the sleeping quarters, the tidy narrow beds, dressing chests, and communal washstands, then took him down to the large and bright schoolroom, pointing out the desks, slates, wall maps, globes, primers, and other books.
“An excellent room. Far better than the dim, musty boarding school I attended as a lad.”
“Oh?” She watched his profile with interest. “Not a good experience, I take it?”
He shook his head. “I still have the advertisement that convinced my father. ‘Adamthwaite Academy offers liberal instruction with domestic comfort, suitable for gentlemen or men of business. No holidays.’” He smirked. “Liberal discipline, more like. Dreadful place. We were not allowed to return home to keep us from telling what life was really like there.”
“Could you not write to your parents?”
“I did. Once. My father wrote back and said my complaints only proved I was weak and needed a firm hand to guide me. He said discipline would be the making of me.”
Pity and indignation filled Mercy. “Dreadful is right. Rest assured there will be no mistreatment allowed in the charity school. Nor is anyone ill-used here—you may ask the pupils yourself, if you like. Here parents are free to visit, and most of the girls spend Sunday afternoons with their families and are, for the most part, eager to return.”
“But not Miss Phoebe or Miss Alice?”
She was impressed he remembered both their names. “Phoebe’s father travels a great deal for his work but visits when he can. And Alice is . . .”
“On her own,” he supplied.
“Well, she has me.” Mercy smiled self-consciously, then hastened to add, “And Aunt Matty and the other girls, of course. She is not alone.”
He nodded thoughtfully, and the two returned downstairs. She led him to the back window and gestured to the garden where the girls played. “The pupils spend time outside daily, when the weather allows. I believe fresh air, play, and exercise do a world of good for body and mind.”
“I agree.”
Shepherded by Anna, the girls came dashing in, and most darted curious looks at Mr. Drake as they passed. Phoebe and Alice brought up the rear. Mercy saw recognition cross Alice’s face, and Phoebe greeted him.
“Good day, Mr. Drake.”
“Miss Phoebe, a pleasure to see you again. And Miss Alice.”
The girls bobbed curtsies, then hurried away to stow their bonnets and gloves. Alice looked over her shoulder at the man before turning the corner.
“What polite young ladies. Well done, Miss Grove.”
“Thank you. Now, have you any other questions I may answer for you?”
A short while later, he took his leave, armed with a copy of the detailed plan and projected expenses she had prepared for Lord Winspear. He promised to review the information but felt confident she could count on his support.
So why did she feel illogically troubled?
Later that day, Rachel looked out the library window. A smart-looking curricle pulled by matched bays drew up in front of Ivy Cottage, Justina Brockwell at the reins, her brother beside her, and a young groom on the back. With a little ache, Rachel recalled again her last ride with this pair.
Sir Timothy gave his sister a hand down, handed the reins to the groom, and strode to open the library door.
Justina entered, beaming. “Hello, Rachel. Timothy brought me a subscription card, but I had to see this for myself. A circulating library? How novel!” The girl’s dimples blazed. “I have been waiting to use that quip ever since I heard!”
Rachel grinned. “You are most welcome, Justina. Please make yourself comfortable and browse all you like.”
“Perhaps you might direct me to the romances?” Justina waggled her eyebrows.
“Of course. Those shelves there.”
Justina stepped away to look, but Sir Timothy lingered near the desk.
“By the way,” he began, “I was surprised to see you paying a call at Bramble Cottage. Have you known Mrs. Haverhill long?”
“No, I met her only recently. She . . . came to the library,” Rachel hedged, not sure she wanted to be the one to raise suspicions in his mind. “I was surprised to see you there as well.”
He nodded. “You mentioned Ebsbury Road when we talked. Later, I went home and searched through my father’s papers. I remembered something in his will about a property out that way, but I had so much to deal with when he died, that I didn’t question it at the time. It is not unusual to leave some small bequest to a loyal old retainer, but to leave Carville a house and plot of land—one not even on our own estate? It seemed somewhat strange to me.”
“Perhaps he has some family connection to the cottage, and that is why your father left it to him?”
“If so, he didn’t mention it to me.”
“Miss Ashford?” Justina called. “Have you anything by Mrs. Roche?”
Rachel excused herself to help Justina locate novels by that author and returned to the desk a few moments later. The library door opened again, and she and Timothy both turned as a man entered—Carville himself.
“Hello, Carville,” Sir Timothy said. “What brings you here?”
�
�I saw the curricle outside and presumed one of the family must be here.”
“Excellent timing. We were just talking about you.”
“Indeed, sir?”
“Yes. Miss Ashford and I stopped by Bramble Cottage recently and met your lodger.”
“Why on earth would you do that, sir?” The older man’s face stretched with incredulity.
“Simple curiosity. Miss Ashford was just asking if you had some boyhood connection to Bramble Cottage?”
“No, sir.”
“I notice we still pay taxes on the place. I assume you receive rent from Mrs. Haverhill?”
“Not as such. She hasn’t much and . . .” With a glance at Justina across the room, he lowered his voice. “That is, she is an . . . old friend. In her debt, so to speak.”
“Ah . . .” Timothy murmured, but his brow remained furrowed.
Carville shifted uncomfortably and looked at Rachel. “I understand the missing volume has been returned?”
“Yes, it has. Thank you.”
The old man grimaced. “My fault. I loaned her the book years ago and failed to see to its return before now.”
“Her? It was Mrs. Haverhill who donated the book?” Sir Timothy looked at Rachel in surprise.
“Mm-hm.” Guilt pricking her, she did not quite meet his gaze.
He watched her a moment longer. “Well, I suppose there is no harm done. At least the volumes are now reunited.”
The butler turned to Rachel. “May I see it?”
She gave the book to him, and he flipped through the pages. “Yes, all is as it should be.” He closed the cover. “Then, if you will excuse me. Duty calls.”
“Can we offer you a lift, Carville?” Timothy offered. “Though you would have to share the groom’s seat.”
“No, thank you, sir.” The butler’s raised nose indicated such a position would be beneath his dignity.
Timothy watched him go. Then, glancing at Justina to be sure she was occupied, he said quietly, “I wonder if this Mrs. Haverhill is Carville’s . . . well, a woman he might have married if he were not required to live in Brockwell Court to carry out his duties. Or perhaps a poor relation, living on his charity, and ours, as it turns out. Because when I went through the accounts more closely, I found that we have not only been paying taxes, but also for coal and candles for years.”
A different conclusion whispered itself in Rachel’s mind, but she kept it to herself. A look at Timothy’s set jaw told her he was not ready to hear it.
Chapter
eighteen
The temperature had grown unexpectedly warm that late autumn afternoon, almost uncomfortably so. Jane opened The Bell’s ground-floor doors, hoping a little air circulation would cool off the interior.
As she propped open the front door, she saw Thora and Talbot rattling up the High Street in their cart. Jane waved, her heart lifting to see them. She hoped they would have time to stop and talk.
Talbot slowed his horse and halted nearby.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Talbot.” Jane grinned with teasing relish. “And how is the newly wedded couple?”
Thora bit back a smile. “Still getting used to that name, though I admit I like hearing it.”
Talbot said, “Thought we’d visit, if you have time. Perhaps over tea?”
“Of course! I would enjoy that.”
“Good. We’ll just take Gert here into the yard and join you shortly.”
“Wonderful. I’ll let Patrick know you are here.”
“Walk on,” Talbot called to his old horse, and the cart moved forward, turned through the tall carriage archway, and disappeared into the courtyard.
Jane walked back inside the inn. She poked her head into the office to let Patrick know his mother and Talbot were there, then crossed to the side window, watching as ostlers Tall Ted and old Tuffy hurried forward, all smiles, to greet the couple and take charge of their horse and cart.
Jane didn’t see Colin McFarland anywhere about, which worried her. He had been scarce lately—preoccupied. Was he sneaking off again to help at his parents’ farm? Or was it something else that kept him from his duties? She would have to broach the subject with him soon, though she didn’t look forward to the confrontation. For now, she would enjoy a visit with her mother-in-law and her new husband, the inn’s former manager turned gentleman farmer.
A short while later, the four of them were seated together in the coffee room at Jane’s favorite table near the front window.
“How are things here?” Thora began. “Everything all right?”
“Yes. I think so.” Jane glanced at Patrick for confirmation.
He obliged with a nod. “Revenue is up. So that’s a good thing. And we’ve hired a farrier.”
“Oh?” Thora looked at Jane. “No word from Mr. Locke?”
Jane shook her head. Gabriel Locke had gone back to his uncle’s horse farm, and she had given up hope he might return.
She said, “You know Jake Fuller had been filling in. His grown son, Tom, recently married a local girl and moved back to Ivy Hill, so we have hired him on.”
“How is that going?”
“Good. Everyone likes Tom.”
Everyone except Athena, Jane thought. Hopefully her horse would get used to the new man in time.
Jane added, “The Kingsleys have finished their work in the dining parlour. You’ll have to take a look before you go. But they’ll be back, hopefully soon, to work on the stables. Mr. Kingsley plans to start on that after he finishes his current projects at the Fairmont and Ivy Cottage.”
“Ivy Cottage? What is he doing there?”
Jane described Rachel’s new circulating library, and the old Fairmont bookcases Kingsley had refit for her. Jane was relieved to find she felt no bitterness, but was instead glad that her father’s library shelves were being put to such a good use—to hold Sir William’s books. The two men had been friends, and her father would like that, she thought.
“Yes, we heard about the library.” Talbot nodded approvingly. “Good for her.”
Thora asked, “How much longer will the work at the Fairmont take? I thought it would be completed by now.”
“Mr. Drake thought so as well. But everything is taking longer than anticipated.”
Patrick tsked. “What a pity.”
“That is often the case,” Talbot said. “Especially with a big project like that, and on such an old building.”
Jane nodded. “He says every time they try to move a wall or add on, they find underlying structural problems, rot, water damage, or something else to repair before they can continue.”
“Bad news for him, but good news for us—or rather for you,” Thora clarified. “Don’t worry—I realize the inn isn’t my concern any longer.”
Jane held her gaze. “I know you will always care about The Bell, Thora. And I’m glad of it.”
“I did not see Colin McFarland when we arrived,” Thora said. “Any improvement there?”
Jane exchanged a quick look with Patrick, then shifted. “He is doing well, Thora. Thanks for asking. But let’s not talk about business now. I want to hear all about your wedding trip.”
Thora waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, it wasn’t anything extravagant. First we spent several days with my sister and her husband in Bath. Talbot had never been.”
Jane noticed Thora still called him Talbot, as most everyone did. She supposed after working together so long, the habit was deeply ingrained.
He nodded. “Beautiful city.”
“Then we toured the Somerset countryside and ended at the coast. I have always wanted to see the coast.”
“Sounds lovely,” Jane agreed.
“We couldn’t stay away from the farm too long,” Talbot explained. “But the hired men watched over things for us, and Sadie came in to cook for them and help out as needed so we could get away.”
“Did you enjoy yourselves, I hope?”
“I liked having Thora to myself, away from chores and our daily responsibil
ities.” Talbot looked at his wife. “I hope you enjoyed it as well?”
“I did. Though it seemed strange to be idle, and not to be here in Ivy Hill. But I liked showing Talbot around Bath and exploring the countryside and coast together. But oh, the state of some of the inns we stayed in! We could have taught them a thing or two.”
Talbot winked. “But we resisted, didn’t we.”
“Barely.”
Thora smiled at Talbot, and Jane was touched to see the warm fondness shining in her eyes.
“Yes, we had a lovely time together,” Thora said. “But I for one am glad to be home. In my new home.” She clasped Talbot’s hand where it rested on the table, and tears bit Jane’s eyes at the rare display of affection from her stoic mother-in-law.
Patrick had been strangely quiet during the meal, and Jane wondered why. Was he worried about something—about Hetty? Afraid Jane would mention the maid in his mother’s presence? Jane decided not to raise the subject, not on Thora’s first visit back to The Bell in several weeks.
Thora seemed to notice Patrick’s reserve as well and directed her curious gaze at her son. “And you, Patrick? Anything new with you?”
From the corner of her eye, Jane noticed a woman walk past the window and hesitate at the inn’s open front door.
She rose. “Excuse me a moment. I think someone is coming in.”
“I’ll go, Jane,” Patrick offered.
“No, you stay and fill your mother in on all she has missed. Don’t forget the one-man band and the family of ten who insisted on sharing one room.”
Leaving Patrick to describe the interesting guests they’d hosted recently, Jane walked to the front desk to greet the prospective customer.
The woman, wearing a black hooded mantle, stepped into the entry hall. How hot she must be in all that dark material on the unseasonably warm day. She lowered the hood and Jane recognized Mrs. Haverhill. Jane had not seen the woman since she and Rachel visited Bramble Cottage. On that day, Mrs. Haverhill had been distressed and agitated after the theft, hurrying about to inspect her losses. Today, she possessed a quiet determination. Her complexion was more pale than Jane recalled, and she looked sad and almost . . . desperate as she approached the booking desk.
The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 17
