An Ivy Hill Christmas

by Julie Klassen

  Richard led the way inside the shop, hoping his impulse would not prove to be a bad idea.

  “Happy Christmas, Mr. Knock. Jamie. We come bearing gifts.” He held the basket toward Jamie, but Knock swept in like a buzzard—arms spread and talons at the ready.

  “That is very kind of you, Mr. Brockwell.”

  The heavy man grabbed the basket and eyed the contents with interest. Richard imagined he could almost see him drool. They ought to have waited until Mr. Knock was out of the shop. He cursed himself for not planning a better strategy.

  Jamie gazed hopelessly at the basket. He seemed thinner and more careworn already.

  “Wait, Mr. Knock.” Richard kept his tone jovial. “These things are for Jamie to share as well. But this”—he extracted the cup-and-ball toy—“was chosen especially for the lad. What else are you partial to, Jamie? Perhaps the cheese?” He saw the boy looking at it longingly and handed the wedge to him.

  Mr. Knock turned and carried the basket through a curtain to a back room, out of their reach. Richard guessed the cheese would be the only thing Jamie would be allowed to eat.

  Richard gestured to his companions. Arabella lingered in the background, so he began with David. “Jamie, do you remember Mr. Murray?”

  “Oh yes, sir. It was so kind of you to offer me your place in the coach.”

  “My pleasure, son. I see you still sport a few bruises from your fall.”

  Jamie looked down at his arms, then sent a frightened glance toward the back room.

  “Yes, sir. Weren’t nothing. I’m all right.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Richard turned to include Arabella. “And this is our friend, Miss Awdry. Miss Awdry, may I present Jamie Fleming.”

  “How do you do, Jamie.” She came forward, smiling at the boy.

  “I . . .” He stared at her, tongue-tied, clearly struck by her beauty. Richard couldn’t blame him.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” Arabella added.

  “You too, miss.”

  Wally, whom they’d left with Horace and Penelope, hopped down from the carriage and began scratching at the shop door, begging to be allowed inside.

  “Someone is eager to see you,” Richard said and opened the door.

  Ignoring the others, Wally bounded straight for Jamie. The lad sank to his haunches and petted the dog, who licked his face. Then Wally caught the scent of something and headed for the stairs.

  Returning from the back room, Mr. Knock caught him by his collar. “No, you don’t. Nothing up there for you.” He looked at the others. “What’s this cur doing running loose in my shop?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Knock.” Richard picked up the dog. “Wally is mine, but he is fond of your apprentice here.”

  “Well, that makes one of us.”

  “No, Mr. Knock.” With a glance that encompassed the others, Richard leveled a hard look at the man. “That makes four of us.”

  The man met the look, then narrowed his eyes. “Anything I can do for you, Mr. Brockwell? I do have an order to print before Christmas, if you don’t mind?”

  “Then we shall leave you to it. Enjoy your gift.” Holding the door for Arabella and Murray, Richard left the shop, his stomach in knots.

  “He isn’t a very pleasant man, is he?” Arabella whispered.

  “No.”

  Murray pointed out a faded For Sale sign on the window, among the other notices and advertisements. “That looks like it’s been there a long time. No takers, apparently, and little wonder. I’m surprised a printer can make a go of it in a town this size.”

  Richard nodded his agreement. “Especially as rude as he is. My sister-in-law mentioned that most people go to the stationers in Salisbury even though it is farther, simply to avoid the man.”

  Arabella nodded. “I can well believe it.”

  Richard agreed. “A pity. Especially for Jamie.”

  At three, they met the others at the almshouse, each with a basket or two in hand for the residents.

  They were met at the door by the almshouse matron, whom Rachel introduced as her friend, Mrs. Mennell. The matron in turn led them into a snug parlour off the entryway, where several elderly women and one man were all taking tea together. Richard would have handed over the baskets and gone, but Arabella pressed each person’s hand, greeted them, and asked their names. She sat down next to a white-haired woman named Mrs. Russell who happily told her about her son, a sailor, and her great-granddaughter.

  Standing there awkwardly, waiting for her to finish, Richard felt a bony hand take his. He looked down and found a kind-faced woman squinting up at him, thin grey plaits coiled and pinned atop her head.

  “Good day, young man. Aren’t you the handsome one.” She grinned, then nodded toward Arabella across the room. “You’ve got a caring, gracious woman there. Hold on to her.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Hornebolt.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hornebolt. I quite agree, but she is not mine to hold on to.”

  “Well, you had better get busy then. My vision isn’t keen anymore, but I’d have to be blind not to see that you admire her.”

  Richard would have liked to contradict her but, to his surprise and chagrin, discovered he could not.

  Returning to Brockwell Court, Arabella removed her gloves and bonnet and went upstairs to the room she shared with her sister. Penelope lingered downstairs with Mr. Bingley, having challenged him to a game of billiards. Although their mother deemed the game unladylike, society did not consider it improper for an unmarried lady to play in a private home, as long as she was not alone with a man. No fear of that—Lady Lillian was a diligent chaperone.

  In the peace of the quiet bedchamber, Arabella reflected with pleasure on the events of the last two days—assembling gifts, singing carols, and delivering baskets with Mr. Murray and Richard while Horace drove and Penelope accompanied him. Her sister had enjoyed the outing, she knew, though for reasons different from hers.

  She thought of Richard’s awkward willingness to go to the Mullins farm, his polite humility with the family. And afterward, she had been surprised and impressed by his initiative and interaction with young Jamie Fleming. Too bad the boy’s odious master had spoiled the otherwise jovial visit.

  Richard Brockwell was a conundrum unto himself, she decided. From his rude comments and indecorous teasing about sailor ditties, to behaving playfully with his nephew and generously with an apprentice he barely knew.

  Something else confused her too. At the start of the house party, he had made every effort to avoid her, and when he could not, he’d insulted her and her sister instead. But his manner had changed. Not only had he been kindness itself to Pen lately, but to her as well, praising her singing and inviting her to accompany him and his friend in delivering baskets. She did not believe his character had really changed, so what explained it? Had he decided that, since she’d announced she had no interest in him, he could leave off trying to repulse her and be civil and even pleasant, without fearing she might misconstrue his kindness as more than it was?

  Yes, that was likely it, and she would indeed take care not to read anything else in his polite deference. Certainly not admiration. Even so, she decided it would be wise to spend as little time as possible with Richard Brockwell.

  CHAPTER

  Six

  The next morning, Richard and Wally dressed warmly and started down the corridor toward the back door.

  Murray stepped out of the breakfast room and hailed him. “Going out? Would you mind some company?”

  “Oh, I . . . Normally I would be glad of it, but . . .”

  Murray winced. “Not regretting inviting me already, I hope.”

  “Not a bit of it. Just not sure you’d enjoy it. Thought I might pay a call on one of the widows who came here a few mornings ago. I knew her son, spent time with the family as a boy.”

  “One of the . . . what did you call them, mumpers? Kind of you. Well, I shall leave you to it.”


  “You know what? Do come along. It might help, actually.”

  “Very well, if you are sure. Let me fetch my coat and hat.”

  They set out together a few minutes later. As they walked along, Richard recalled his flippant words to Murray about pursuing Miss Awdry himself. Now he wanted to retract them. He told himself he was only trying to protect Murray from certain disappointment. He did not wish to see his friend get hurt.

  “I have been thinking. You were right. Better not pursue Miss Arabella. That’s a recipe for heartache.”

  His friend sent him a sidelong glance. “Is that a warning for me, or for you?”

  The man was too clever for his own good. “For us both, I imagine.”

  Illogical though it might be, he didn’t like the idea of Miss Arabella being courted by Murray—or by anyone else, for that matter.

  Remembering Mrs. Reeves liked cured ham, Richard stopped by the Ivy Hill butcher’s and bought a partial one and took the paper-wrapped parcel with him.

  Nearing Honeycroft a short while later, Richard heard children’s voices talking and laughing as they ran through the woods in some game.

  Glancing at Murray, Richard explained, “Mrs. Reeves’s grandchildren.”

  “Ah.”

  They reached the garden gate, and Richard saw his friend’s eyes widen in surprise as he studied the rather dilapidated cottage.

  “You spent time here growing up?”

  “I did indeed.”

  The front door opened, and Susanna appeared, calling in a cheerful voice, “Peter! Hannah! Time to come inside.”

  Murray’s gaze fixed on her. “That is no grandmother.”

  “No, that is her daughter, Susanna Evans.”

  “She is lovely.”

  “Yes.”

  He felt his friend’s gaze shift to him, studying his profile. Perhaps bringing the observant man along had not been a good idea after all.

  As Richard stepped through the gate, Susanna noticed him, and her expression hardened. “Mr. Brockwell. I told you, we don’t need any—”

  “Mrs. Evans, please allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Murray.” He turned, revealing his friend behind him.

  “Oh.” She faltered. “I did not realize.” She managed a smile. “How do you do.”

  Murray bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Evans.”

  Richard lifted the parcel. “We’ve brought a little something for your mother. Is she here?”

  “She is, yes, but she is feeling rather poorly today, I’m afraid.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. Shall I send for Dr. Burton?”

  “No, we cannot . . . That is, we don’t need a doctor. Mamma has a cold. That’s all. I am sure it is nothing serious. But thank you for stopping by.”

  “Very well.” Richard again held out the wrapped parcel, and for a moment Susanna made no move to accept it. “Just some ham,” he said.

  Reluctantly, she took it from him.

  The children came running, eyes on the parcel. “What is it, Mamma?”

  “Some ham for grandmother.”

  “Will she share?” the boy asked.

  His sister nudged him. “Silly! She shares everything!”

  Richard turned to go. “Do greet your mother for me,” he said.

  “I shall.”

  “And tell her I was sorry to miss meeting her,” Mr. Murray added. “Richard has spoken so highly of her.”

  “Indeed I shall. Thank you, Mr. Murray.”

  He touched his hat brim. “Mrs. Evans.”

  On the walk back, Murray said, “Explain it to me, please. Why would a boy from Brockwell Court spend time in Honeycroft?”

  “Because the Reeveses were the best of people. And their son, Seth, a dear friend of mine.”

  “And his sister?”

  “She was . . . a friend of mine as well.”

  “There is more to it than that, I can see. But I shan’t pry.”

  “Thank you.”

  Richard looked back over his shoulder. “Honeycroft may be humble, but when I was a lad the family kept it in spruce condition. Apparently, times have been difficult for Mrs. Reeves since her husband died. I wonder what might be done about that.”

  With that thought in mind, Richard and Murray walked into the village and down Potters Lane to the workshop of the local builders, the Kingsley Brothers.

  The brick building had an extended roof over an open work area on one side and double doors to an enclosed workroom on the other. The sign above read:

  KINGSLEY BROS.

  MASONS, BUILDERS & CARPENTERS

  PLANS MADE & ESTIMATES GIVEN

  They entered through one of the broad double doors. Inside, a tall sandy-haired young man sawed boards to length. Wally sniffed eagerly at the wood shavings and sneezed.

  Richard explained the situation at Honeycroft and asked Aaron Kingsley what inexpensive stopgap repairs might be made to the cottage before winter’s damp and cold worsened.

  “I can tell you exactly what it would entail and cost, for I gave Mrs. Reeves an estimate earlier this autumn. She didn’t like it. Said she’d find someone else or do the repairs herself.”

  “Mrs. Reeves repair her own roof?” Richard echoed, voice rising with incredulity. “She’s an elderly woman and not in good health. And I know for a fact she has hired no one. No doubt can’t afford to. Truth is, I haven’t much money either, but there must be something we can do.”

  The tall young man scratched his head. “Afraid we’re not a charity, Mr. Brockwell. Materials cost money. And at all events, we’re too busy to take on another project for at least a month.”

  “I see. Well, thank you anyway.”

  The two men walked out and continued down the street. Richard asked his friend, “Any carpentry or roofing experience?”

  “Afraid not. You?”

  “Zero.”

  Arabella put on her warmest pelisse and went out for a walk. She wanted to visit the Ivy Hill High Street and take a little exercise.

  As she passed Potters Lane, Richard Brockwell and his friend came out of a builder’s workshop. Richard had his dog on a leash. Even her brother, Cyril, would have left his dogs at home.

  The men bowed and greeted her, and Richard said, “Good morning, Miss Awdry. What errand brings you out on this chilly day?”

  So much for avoiding Richard Brockwell, she thought and replied, “I merely wished for a solitary walk.”

  “May we walk with you awhile?”

  Murray hissed, “She said solitary, Richard.”

  Mr. Brockwell pressed a hand to his chest. “Pray, forgive me. Do you not want our company? I would never force my company on anyone when it is not wanted, except perhaps on my tailor.”

  Arabella hesitated. There was no polite way to refuse. “You are welcome to join me, if your dog is not too tired.”

  Mr. Brockwell smiled. “Not at all. We are all in fine fettle.”

  Did he have to be so handsome? She reminded herself that he was too much the dandy for her tastes, not to mention a reputed rake.

  She turned and continued up the High Street, shifting her attention to his friend instead. “And how are you enjoying your time in Ivy Hill, Mr. Murray?”

  “A great deal. It is far more peaceful than London. And the people far friendlier.”

  “I agree,” she said. “Though there is something about London. So much happening. So much to see. Such a savory stew of different cultures and walks of life. Rich and poor, influential and voiceless . . .”

  “Although, as with any stew, one must take the gristle along with the good,” Murray added.

  She nodded. “True. Even so, I find London compelling, fascinating, at times repulsive, but never dull.”

  “You have quite a way with words, Miss Awdry. Have you done any writing?”

  “Goodness, no.”

  Had she imagined it, or did Mr. Brockwell roll his eyes at his friend’s flattery?

  When they reached the end of the street, a cold wind
gusted up Ebsbury Hill and shivered down her neck.

  In response, Richard murmured what seemed to be a bit of verse, “‘See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year. . . .’”

  She looked at him with interest. “Who wrote that?”

  “The poet James Thomson, almost a hundred years ago.” He sighed wistfully. “What must it be like, to write something people will still be reading and quoting a century from now.”

  “Instead of using it to wrap fish the next day?” Murray quipped.

  “Exactly.”

  They turned right and started up Ebsbury Road. A woman walked in their direction, basket in hand, head bowed as if in thought. As she neared, Arabella saw that she was an attractive, dark-haired woman of perhaps thirty years, dressed in a simple gown and wool shawl.

  Beside her, Richard’s step faltered, then slowed. Arabella glanced over at him and noticed a strange tension in his profile.

  The woman looked up. Her gaze flicked from her to Richard and back again, her expression inscrutable.

  As she passed them, Richard and Mr. Murray bowed in acknowledgment. Murray said, “A pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Evans.”

  The woman dipped her head in return but made no reply.

  After she passed by, Arabella said, “We could have stopped to talk with her, if you’d liked.”

  “No need. We have already spoken with her today.”

  Watching Richard’s face, Arabella asked, “Do you know her well?”

  “No. That is, we were acquainted when we were young.”

  They passed Church Street, Arabella intending to follow their current path out of the village. But Mr. Brockwell stopped. She turned around to see what had caused the delay.

  He said, “Em . . . how far did you want to walk?”

  “I am not sure.” She gestured up the road. “I thought a brisk walk down country lanes might be just the thing before another rich meal.”

  “Well, you and Murray go ahead. Wally and I will head back.” He gestured to the right along Church Street.

  “Are you tired?”

  “No. I usually avoid . . . That is, I think Wally is done in. Shorter legs, you see.”