In her sensitive state, the simple words sounded ominous.
She glanced over her shoulder as the man strode away, then turned back to the girls. “What did Mr. Drake say to you?” She kept her tone and expression as placid as possible.
Alice watched her face carefully, her green eyes so like his, Mercy noticed.
Phoebe shrugged. “He said he wanted to invite Alice and me to see his hotel and have tea or maybe even iced cream!”
Mercy glanced at Alice. “I see.”
Mercy did see. And she realized she could wait no longer to tell Alice of the change to come.
That night Mercy prayed for wisdom and the right words, and the next day she asked Alice to join her in the sitting room.
“Good morning, Alice.” Mercy forced a cheerful tone. “I have something to talk to you about. Why don’t you sit here, and I will sit next to you.”
Alice did so and looked up to her with such trusting eyes.
Mercy took a deep breath. “You know Mr. Drake? Of course you do, you have met him a few times now. He is . . . so kind and he likes you so much that he wants to be your father.”
Alice frowned. “My father is dead. He died when I was a baby. Mamma told me.”
“I know she did. And now Mr. Drake wants to be a father to you and raise you as his own daughter.”
“Why?”
“Because he is your . . . He was a friend of your mother’s.”
“I thought I was going to live with you. I thought you were going to be my . . . mamma.”
Mercy’s heart fisted. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep tears at bay. “Nothing would have made me happier. But Mr. Drake was much closer to your mother, so it is his right and privilege to raise you as his little girl.”
“Won’t I live here anymore?”
Mercy swallowed. “For a little while yet, but Mr. Drake lives in the Fairmont. A beautiful old house—well, hotel, actually. I used to play there myself as a girl. Remember he invited you and Phoebe to visit him? In fact, he is fitting out a bedchamber there, just for you.”
Alice’s chin quivered. “I want to stay here.”
Mercy pressed her lips together. For Alice’s sake, she had to squelch her anguish and help the girl believe this was in her best interests. Help herself believe it too.
She took Alice’s little hands in hers. “Alice, my dear. There is no reason to be afraid. I realize you don’t know Mr. Drake very well yet. Nor do I. But my good friend Jane does. You remember Mrs. Bell, from the inn? I trust her completely, and she assures me Mr. Drake is a kind and generous man who is able and willing to provide for you and care for you. You are a blessed girl, Alice Smith. You have had a mother who loves you, a schoolmistress who loves you, and now a new father who loves you. Let us both try to remember that, all right?”
The little girl nodded, but she did not let go of Mercy’s hand.
In The Bell coffee room, Jane sat down to breakfast with her mother-in-law, brother-in-law, and soon-to-be sister-in-law and niece. Thora held Betsey on her lap, deftly feeding the child from her own plate and carrying on a conversation at the same time. Hetty and Patrick, however, could hardly eat for smiling at each other. Jane found herself grinning too. The Bell family was growing, and it felt good to be a part of it.
After she had eaten, Jane excused herself to return to the desk. Thora handed Betsey to Hetty and followed her out, leaving the sweethearts to finish their meal alone.
As the women crossed the entry hall, Gabriel Locke strode through the side door. He wore his dark red coat, leather breeches, and mud-spotted boots. Returning from an early morning ride, Jane surmised, his jaw still shadowed with whiskers.
Thora frowned when Mr. Locke started up the stairs. “Mr. Locke? What are you doing?”
“My room is up here, Mrs. Talbot.”
“Your room? Your room is in the stables.” She shot Jane a raised-brow look.
“Not any longer, Thora,” Jane explained. “You know Mr. Locke has not worked here for some time now.”
“I know. But if he is back to help out again, he . . .”
“He is here as a guest, Thora.” She waved to Mr. Locke, and he continued to his room.
“A paying guest?” Thora asked her.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Mr. Locke is considering buying a farm in the area.”
“Lane’s Farm?”
“Perhaps.”
“Then we would be neighbors,” Thora said thoughtfully. “Good heavens, Jane. How much did you pay the man before he left?”
Jane chuckled. “Not much at all. He only worked here to help out after John died, remember. He and his uncle raise horses, and now he wants a place of his own.”
“On his own, or with you?”
Jane blinked, mouth parted. Thora had come to know her too well.
“On his own . . . for now.”
Cadi scurried by, towels in arms, and nearly ran into Thora. “Sorry, ma’am. Excuse me. I am late getting these up to number four, and now Alwena needs me in the dining parlour.”
“Number four?” Jane repeated.
Watching her face, Thora quirked one dark brow. “Jane will take them up for you, Cadi. Won’t you, Jane?”
“I . . . of course. If Cadi needs help.”
“Can’t keep a paying guest waiting,” Thora quipped, a knowing glint in her eye.
Jane took the laundered towels upstairs and knocked on the door to number four.
“It’s open.”
Jane nudged wide the door, stepped over the threshold, and stopped.
Gabriel stood at the washstand in his shirtsleeves, braces dangling from his trousers, shaving brush in hand, razor nearby.
He looked over in surprise. “Oh, hello, Jane. I expected Cadi to bring the towels.”
“She was busy.”
“Forgive my state of undress. I went out riding before the hot water arrived, and . . .”
“Sorry. I will ask Alwena to deliver it earlier.”
“I was not complaining—only explaining. I rise earlier than your usual guest, I gather.”
She clutched the towels to her chest. “You are certainly not our usual guest.”
He turned to look at her. “Does it bother you?”
“No.”
“Is my being here causing talk amongst the staff?”
She shook her head. “They seem to like having you here. And Thora is only being Thora.”
“I was serious when I said I could remove to the Crown, if you prefer.”
“No, don’t leave. I am . . . glad you’re here.”
He walked over, took the towels from her, and tossed them on the bed. “Are you?”
She swallowed. Noticing a smear of cream on his cheek, she raised a hand to wipe it off, but he captured her hand in his and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist.
Jane’s pulse leapt.
He looped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Jane sucked in a breath, heart hammering. He framed the side of her face with his free hand, his dark gaze focused on her mouth. He lowered his head, and his lips touched hers. She closed her eyes and leaned in to him, and in response he angled his head the other way, kissing her more firmly, and more deeply.
Jane returned the pressure, kissing him back, ignoring the warning voice in her mind.
He broke away first and rested his forehead against hers. “Jane, we need to talk.”
Jane looked at the open door in alarm. What was she doing? This was going too far too fast. She stepped back. “If someone had seen us just now, there would be talk indeed! I had better go. Thora will wonder what I am doing up here.”
“Jane . . .”
“We shouldn’t make a habit of . . . this, all right? I will see you later. Downstairs.”
As she walked away, cold reality washed over her. The road they were on led to marriage and the hope of children. A road she was not ready to travel again.
Rachel went to The Bell to tell Jane her
news. She was excited but also a little nervous to do so, wondering how Jane would react. She did not find her at the desk or in the office, but from the window she saw Jane standing in the yard, talking with a coachman.
Rachel stepped out the side door. “There you are.”
Jane excused herself and turned to Rachel, brows lifting with interest as she looked at her. Did her expression give her away? Rachel tightly pressed her lips together, suppressing a smile. She hoped Jane would be pleased.
“What is it?”
Rachel took her hand and led her across the drive to the keeper’s lodge. Jane had barely closed the door behind them when Rachel blurted, “Timothy and I are engaged.”
“At last!” Jane threw her arms around her and held her close.
“I wanted you to hear from me directly.”
Jane released her and looked into her face. “How did it happen? When?”
The two sat down together and Rachel told her everything that had happened at the Bingleys’ ball.
“I am so happy for you.”
Rachel tilted her head to regard her friend. “Are you?”
“Yes, of course.”
She did not look happy. “Jane, what’s wrong? Now that it’s happened, are you disappointed?”
“No. Heavens, no. I’m sorry, I should not be spoiling your moment with my troubles. I am happy for you and Timothy both, truly.”
“Then please tell me what’s troubling you, or I shall think the worst.”
Jane looked down and sighed deeply. “Very well. . . . Do you recall what you said when you came here before the ball—when your future with Timothy was uncertain? You said you were afraid to hope. That you didn’t want to be hurt again.”
Rachel nodded. “I remember.”
“I understood that, because I am afraid too.” Jane glanced toward her bedchamber. “It is only natural to remember pain and want to avoid experiencing it again.”
Rachel studied her face in concern. “Jane, what is it? Last time we spoke, you mentioned there was someone you liked a great deal. Has something happened?”
Jane hesitated, nibbling her lip. “I thought I might be ready to love again. Well, romance is one thing, but all the risk and pain that come with it . . . ?” She slowly shook her head.
“What risk are you talking about?”
Jane lowered her voice. “While I was married to John, I . . . miscarried five children.”
Rachel’s heart plummeted. “Oh, Jane, I am so sorry.” She took her hand. “And sorry I wasn’t there for you at the time.”
Jane glanced up at her. “We were not exactly on good terms then. But, thank God, that has changed.”
“Yes. Thank God, indeed.”
Jane straightened. “Now, that’s enough maudlin talk. Don’t forget our celebratory dinner tomorrow night.” She squeezed Rachel’s hand and smiled bravely. “And now we have another reason to celebrate.”
“I would not miss it for the world.”
Rachel returned her smile, but her heart remained heavy for her friend.
After leaving The Bell, Rachel walked up the long drive to Brockwell Court. Lady Brockwell had invited Rachel to come to the house to discuss wedding plans. Now that Timothy and Rachel’s engagement was official, she seemed determined to make the best of things. Timothy had a meeting that afternoon, so he would not be joining them. He said he was happy to leave talk of shopping, silks, and muslins to them but reserved the right to plan the wedding trip himself.
When Rachel arrived, Lady Brockwell greeted her politely. Her congratulations were cordial, if somewhat reserved. Justina, however, was even more exuberant than usual. She threw her arms around Rachel and kissed her cheek. “Oh, I knew how it would be! Now you and I will truly be sisters. I am so happy!” She embraced her again.
“Yes, yes, Justina. Do let Rachel breathe. Now come and sit down, you two, so we can plan our shopping excursion—you will need a gown, of course, Rachel, as well as clothes for your wedding trip.”
Rachel nodded. “Could we ask Mrs. Shabner to make something? She was disappointed I did not order a new gown from her for the Bingleys’ ball.”
Lady Brockwell wrinkled her nose. “If you would like. Though not your wedding dress itself. We must go to London for that.”
Justina beamed. “Oh yes, let’s do go to London. I long to go to London. . . .”
Later, when their lists were made and dates settled upon, the ladies took tea together. The atmosphere was far more congenial than during Rachel’s last visit.
Afterward, Rachel insisted she would walk home, as the day was still bright and she had so much energy to spare. She felt that she could dance all the way to Ivy Cottage. Even fly!
She restrained herself and walked at a ladylike pace up the High Street. She wanted to call in at Mrs. Shabner’s to thank the woman again for making over the dress, and to let her know that it had played at least a small part in her engagement.
But when Rachel reached the dressmaker’s shop, she was surprised to find the door locked and a For Let sign in the window.
Oh no. Rachel felt disappointed and a little guilty. She was also impressed. After all the years of talking about retiring, Mrs. Shabner had apparently finally done it.
At the end of the street, Rachel saw Mr. Arnold, the property agent, step out of the former bank building, followed by Sir Timothy. She walked toward them, idly wondering what the two had been meeting about.
Mr. Arnold locked the door behind them, then noticed her. “Ah, Miss Ashford!” He waved his hand. “If you require any alteration, you just let me know.”
Confusion flared. “Alteration?”
The property manager smiled eagerly as she neared. “You may be leasing this building for your library—is that right?”
Rachel blinked. “I . . . will?”
Sir Timothy corrected him. “Only if it suits Miss Ashford’s needs. It is her decision. I was simply investigating possibilities.” He turned to her. “I had planned to bring you here later and surprise you.”
Of old habit, an objection immediately sprang to mind. She could never accept such an offer! Then she remembered. This was her soon-to-be husband doing the offering.
Noticing her hesitation, Sir Timothy said earnestly, “Your library is an asset to Ivy Hill, and we don’t want to lose it over a simple lack of space to house it. I am thinking of the village as a whole.”
“The village. Right.” Mr. Arnold bit back a smile, a knowing gleam in his eyes.
“I cannot . . . ” Rachel stopped herself, then started again. “I cannot thank you enough for searching out a future home for the library.”
She looked at both men, but her smile was all for Timothy.
Chapter
forty-three
On the night of Jane’s little dinner party, Mercy and Rachel walked over to The Bell together, wearing pretty dresses and long pelisses against the evening chill.
When they arrived, Jane met them in the entry hall. “Thank you for coming to celebrate with me, Mercy. And thank you for joining us, Rachel, even though you are too young to empathize.” She winked.
“Yes,” Mercy agreed. “But Rachel has her own reason to celebrate.”
“Very true. And I am delighted for her and Timothy both. And doubly glad we are having this dinner.”
Mercy smiled. “Hear, hear.”
The three sat down in the coffee room to a meal of green pea soup, spare rib, and New College puddings—a fried dough of breadcrumbs, butter, currants, and nutmeg, which Jane knew Mercy was especially fond of.
Mercy raised her glass of cider. “I wish you joy of your birthday twenty times over, Jane. And to you, Rachel, I wish you joy in your upcoming marriage.”
“I do too,” Jane said. “With all my heart.”
Rachel’s eyes sparkled. “Thank you. And you will be glad to know that for my wedding present, Sir Timothy has offered to lease the old bank building so I can relocate my circulating library there. Anna Kingsley will take o
ver the day-to-day management of the place”—she grinned—“as I will be more agreeably occupied.”
“That is excellent news.” Jane beamed, and glanced at Mercy. “Does this mean you’ve decided against Mr. Hollander?”
“It means I can make that decision without worrying about the fate of Rachel’s library. Though Mr. Kingsley will not enjoy having to remove all those recently installed bookshelves.”
“Oh, now he’s finished with our stables, he will be glad for the work, won’t he?”
“I don’t know. I have not seen him in some time.”
Jane and Rachel exchanged looks at that, and then the three moved on to talk about other things. They reminisced about old times, studiously avoiding the topic of Mercy’s school, and Rachel, Jane, and Timothy’s uneasy past. But they could not exclude Timothy from their tales altogether, for he was an old friend to all of them and had featured in so many memories of their younger days—Twelfth Night plays, group lessons with the Salisbury dancing master, picnics and parties, and so much more. In fact, Jane began to feel that she might have been remiss in not inviting him to join them.
Over Rachel’s shoulder, Jane saw Gabriel Locke stroll through the entry hall, strikingly well dressed in dark evening clothes. Her breath hitched at the sight.
He stopped and talked to Colin, and she had a good view of him framed in the coffee room doorway.
Rachel and Mercy noticed and followed the direction of her gaze.
“Who is that?” Rachel craned her neck.
“Mr. Locke.”
“Is he not your former farrier?” Mercy asked. “I recognize him from the coach contest.”
“Yes.”
Rachel stared, incredulous. “He was your farrier?”
“Mm-hm.”
“And what is he now?”
Jane’s gaze lingered on him. “That is the question.”
Mr. Locke glanced over and noticed all three women looking at him.
Jane sent him a sheepish smile.
He walked in and paused before their table. “Good evening, ladies. Was there . . . something you needed, Jane?”
The Ladies of Ivy Cottage Page 40
