The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill by Julie Klassen
The amount was not nearly enough to pay off the loan, or to buy Fairmont. Would it be possible to live off the interest, as her father thought, if invested wisely?
Jane asked, “What rate of interest might I reasonably expect?”
“Depends on the market and how the funds were invested—bank annuities or bonds, the navy five percents, stocks . . . I would estimate four percent per annum. You would have to talk with the bank.”
Could she live on eighty pounds a year on her own somewhere? It would mean no horse or carriage and only a servant or two—perhaps a kindly married couple—to do the plucking and wood chopping and fires. But might it be done? She doubted it. She would have to ask Mercy to help her estimate living expenses.
“Who invested the funds for my father? The banker here in Wishford?”
Mr. Coine frowned. “No. Your father chose Mr. Blomfield, since you would be living in Ivy Hill.”
Jane reared her head back. “Mr. Coine, I don’t know if you are well acquainted with him, but—”
He lifted a palm. “I am not privy to his dealings, Mrs. Bell. I have met him and his partners in Salisbury, but we are not close colleagues.”
“Well then, I should tell you that recently Mr. Blomfield made me aware of a large debt owed his bank—an outstanding loan John took out without my knowledge.”
The man grimaced. “I am sorry to hear it.”
Jane nodded. “So, am I correct in assuming I no longer have any right to the two thousand, since I owe the bank that much and thousands more?”
“No, Jane. This settlement is not subject to your husband’s debts. It was set aside out of your portion for your sole and separate use. You could use that money toward the debt, if you wish, but that is your decision, not the bank’s.”
“In that case, it surprises me that Mr. Blomfield made no mention of these funds.”
“That is surprising.”
Jane sat in thought, dark suspicions brewing.
But Mr. Coine conjectured reasonably, “Perhaps he simply assumed you would not wish to use personal funds to deal with business debts.”
“Perhaps. But I believe I had better pay a call on Mr. Blomfield and ask him myself.”
The lawyer nodded. “No doubt you will find everything in order. But if you have any problems, do not hesitate to return. Or send word and I shall come to you, at your convenience.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coine. I shall.”
Mr. Locke was waiting beside the gig when Jane exited the law office. He helped her in, and in a matter of minutes they were on their way back out of Wishford, passing a meadow and beginning the ascent up the hill.
“What did you learn?” he began conversationally.
She sent him a wry look. “That you are very inquisitive.”
He urged Ruby to more speed up the incline. “I could say the same of you, you know.”
She glanced over at him, and he smiled. “I saw you outside the bank.”
Her prepared excuses evaporated under his knowing smirk. “It is a public street. And you don’t have anything to hide, I trust?”
When he made no answer, she went on, “I also learned that you are surprisingly well known in Wishford. And that your banker seems a far more cheerful character than my own.”
Gabriel Locke chuckled. “Yes, Matthews is a good man. I like him a great deal. Trust him, too.” He glanced over at her again. “And the settlement?”
“It is as you said. My father settled money on me before I married. He intended it as a nest egg for the future, should the worst happen, though I doubt the amount sufficient to support me for long. That is, assuming . . .”
“Assuming what?”
“Nothing. I will just feel more confident about its existence after I speak with Mr. Blomfield again. He and his partners supposedly invested the funds on my father’s behalf. But he has never mentioned it to me.”
Jane wasn’t sure why she was telling this to Mr. Locke, when he already distrusted the banker. She supposed she hoped he would say, “Of course the money is still there. I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”
Instead he said, “Shall I take you there directly?”
“No. I shall go myself later. I should see if Thora needs anything first.”
He nodded and at the crest of the hill turned Ruby into The Bell courtyard.
The settlement of money in her name, if it existed, glimmered on the horizon like an oasis. It seemed to represent her last chance at independence—freedom from the burden of trying to save an inn she’d never wanted.
Chapter
Fourteen
Finding everything under control at The Bell, Jane walked to the bank, arriving just before closing time. She resolved to remain civil, and hopefully avoid angering the man who would decide The Bell’s fate.
“Hello, Mr. Blomfield. I am here about my settlement.”
The man stilled, his small eyes flat as he looked at her. “Oh?”
“I must say I am surprised you did not think to mention it before, knowing of our financial difficulties.”
He casually raised his hands, but his expression and posture were anything but relaxed. “You did not ask.”
She said, “I am asking now. What is the present balance?”
“I would have to check.”
“Then please do.” Jane sat down, though he’d not invited her to do so.
He shrugged. “If memory serves, perhaps a thousand pounds.”
Jane frowned. “But Mr. Coine said two thousand.”
“Did he?”
“Yes, I spoke to him in Wishford earlier today.”
Mr. Blomfield leaned back in his chair. “That may have been the original amount, but that was eight years ago.”
“So would it not have accumulated interest?”
“On the contrary. We have endured many difficult years and wars and shortages. Not to mention market crashes and bank failures.”
“Are you saying the amount may have actually . . . decreased?” Jane’s chest tightened.
“That is exactly what I am saying.”
No wonder he had not mentioned the settlement. Jane said, “Mr. Coine thought I could count on four percent?”
“That might have been the case were it all in government annuities, but your father entrusted that money to us, and we preferred a diversified approach.”
She took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. “But why would you invest a woman’s settlement in some risky venture?”
“Investments are never without risk, Mrs. Bell. As my partners and I know all too well.” He gave her a significant look.
Jane forced her chin up. “In any case, I would like to know the present value. Please check, Mr. Blomfield. I shall wait.”
He spread his hands. “What is the sudden hurry? Have you decided to live on your own and let Patrick Bell assume the debt? Or to sell the inn and buy another property?”
“I have not decided anything, Mr. Blomfield. How can I, when you refuse to give me the information I ask for?”
“Pray do not upset yourself, you—”
“I do not upset myself. You do. Shall I return with Mr. Coine? He kindly offered to intercede if I discovered any problems with the funds.”
“No need to inconvenience Alfred Coine,” Mr. Blomfield said with a sour twist on his lips. He rose. “I am sure we can settle this satisfactorily on our own. Please wait here, Mrs. Bell. I shall return as soon as may be.”
He returned ten minutes later with a ledger. Opened it, then pronounced, “I must remind you of the nature of this firm. People deposit money, which my partners and I invest in the hopes of earning a profitable rate of return. However, due to a few unfortunate investments, especially one particular loan”—here he coughed twice—“instead of a return, the account has lost money. The value is now just over one thousand.”
One thousand . . . Not enough to invest in a government annuity and live off the interest. Not enough to support herself for the long term.
Jane shook her head. “I may be female, Mr. Blomfield, but I am not stupid. I will not sell the inn for far less than it is worth. You may convey that to Mr. Gordon on my behalf.”
“Then will you put the settlement toward the loan?”
“No. But I would like every penny of it in ready cash or bank draft.”
“But . . .” His face reddened, and the cords in his neck protruded. “Mrs. Bell, that is not how this works. It is not as though I have all that money sitting in a vault in the back room. Some of it is tied up in loans and Consols and other stock. Nor is withdrawing such a sum advisable. Most ladies in your situation invest the principal and spend only the interest.”
“What interest? The investment has lost money. Apparently, I would be wise to withdraw the rest before more is lost.”
“Then I will help you transfer the remainder into a secure little annuity.”
“No, thank you. I would rather entrust it to the bank in Wishford. Mr. Matthews seems very obliging.”
“You have met him?” The banker’s composure began to crumble at last.
“He seems a most personable man,” Jane replied. Let Blomfield think she’d been in Wishford to meet the banker.
She rose. “I will give you until the end of the month to produce the full amount.” She hoped he didn’t hear her voice tremble. “If you fail, I shall send Mr. Coine to retrieve it for me. Good day, Mr. Blomfield,” she said, and took her leave before he could object further.
The next day, Jane went looking for Mr. Drake, hoping to talk with him again. He was still lodging at The Bell, as far as she knew, but she had not seen him since the day before. Nor was he in any of the public rooms now. She asked Colin, and he reported that he had seen the man go out that morning but had not yet returned.
The vicar’s wife stopped by and asked if Jane would be willing to bring flowers for the pulpit a week from Sunday. One of the older women in the rotation had recently resigned her place. Jane agreed. She could easily manage a vase of flowers at this time of year.
Mrs. Paley thanked her and bustled out as quickly as she’d bustled in, no doubt off to attend to a dozen other parish duties.
After she left, Jane spent an hour in her small garden behind the lodge, removing spent flower heads, weeding, and watering in preparation for the following week.
Late that afternoon, Jane returned to the inn. She glanced into the taproom and saw Mr. Drake sitting at his ease, pint at his elbow, talking companionably with the barman, Bobbin, while the potboy gathered up the glasses and tankards left here and there on tables.
Bobbin screwed up his face, gazing upward at the beamed ceiling. “Miss Payne . . . ?” he said. “No, can’t say the name sounds familiar. But then, I don’t mix much with ladies.”
Bobbin looked over and noticed her in the hall. “Ah. There’s Mrs. Bell. Ma’am, do you know of a Miss Payne hereabouts?”
“I don’t believe so, no.”
Mr. Drake turned toward her and rose. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bell.”
“Good afternoon. I am sorry to interrupt.”
Mr. Drake smiled warmly. “Not at all. We were only passing the time.”
Jane said, “Perhaps if you tell me Miss Payne’s given name, I might—”
James waved away her offer. “Never mind. We have happier tidings to discuss.”
“Oh?”
A pair of militia officers entered, and while Bobbin took their orders, Mr. Drake gestured toward a quiet inglenook. “Come and have a drink with me, Jane. Help me celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
He spread his arms. “You are looking at the new owner of the Fairmont.”
Jane gaped. “You bought Fairmont House?” Her heart thudded.
“I hope you aren’t displeased.”
“I . . . don’t know what to think.” She sank onto the high-backed bench. “What about your hotel in Southampton?”
He took a seat opposite. “I will keep that as well. I have a capable manager, as I mentioned.”
Jane’s mind spun and clattered to a jarring conclusion. “You were the man who put an offer on The Bell! Quite a low offer, as a matter of fact.”
“I did, yes. I admit I came here with that purpose in mind. When I saw the plans for the turnpike, I guessed the inn might be acquired at a good price. But after becoming acquainted with its charming landlady, I retracted my offer.”
“After I refused it, I think you mean. I told Mr. Blomfield yesterday I would not sell at such a low price.”
“Good for you.” He nodded approvingly. “But by then I’d already set my sights elsewhere. I considered buying land and having a place purpose-built. But it seemed unlikely such an investment would yield quickly. So I decided instead to convert an existing property with all the stately elegance and fine architectural details so often overlooked in modern buildings. It will still take time and expense, especially with the place sitting empty so long. But in the end, I believe it shall be worth it, especially considering its advantageous location.”
“Wait. . . . Are you saying you plan to make Fairmont House . . . a hotel?”
“Of course. What did you think I meant to do with it?”
“Live in it, like a normal person.”
He chuckled. “There’s no profit in that. Besides, I already have a perfectly good suite of rooms in Southampton if I simply wanted a dwelling.”
“But . . . but . . .” she sputtered. “It’s a manor house. With a long history. Meant for a family . . .”
“Mrs. Bell. Jane.” His brow furrowed. “I am surprised at your reaction. The agent mentioned you had grown up there and hated to see the place rot. I thought you’d be relieved.”
“Relieved? To see my family home become a hostelry for strangers?”
“But your family sold it years ago. I had no idea you still felt any claim to the place.”
“I . . .” Jane ducked her head, knowing how illogical and futile her feelings were. If her father could have foreseen the future, would he still have sold the house so abruptly?
“Had you intentions for the property?” he asked.
She lifted her chin. “I had thought I might buy it back one day.”
He sobered. “Did you? I had no idea. I am sorry. I shall go to Mr. Gordon and retract, if possible.”
“No. Don’t. Thank you, but don’t do that. I am being utterly foolish. Reclaiming the place was only a girlish dream. I haven’t the means to do so, nor likely ever shall. Please, forget I protested.” She managed a smile. “I wish you happy in your new venture.”
He regarded her steadily, then murmured, “Brave Jane.”
Another realization struck her. “Oh no! You will not only own my old home, you will also be my new competition! You mean to steal business from us, don’t you, JD?”
“Oh come, Jane. You are not afraid of a little healthy competition, are you?”
“Afraid is exactly what I am. You know we are struggling already.”
“I also know you’ve lost several coaching lines and have never enjoyed much post-chaise traffic. I hope to gain the lines you’ve lost and court private post travelers as well. A place like the Fairmont would appeal to the upper crust, you must admit.”
Jane could not deny it. She said sarcastically, “And of course you will turn away any of our current customers.”
“Jane. Keep your customers satisfied and they shall have no cause to stray. Once the novelty wears off at any rate.” He winked at her.
“If we have any customers left by that point! When will you open?”
“I’m not sure. I need to meet with an architect and hire a builder. But I shall keep you apprised.”
She regarded him curiously. “Will you? Why?”
“I see no reason why we cannot be collegial, even friendly competitors.
“Do you not? Your optimism is inspiring.”
“Why, thank you. I do what I can.” He smiled, which emphasized the deep grooves on either side of his mouth, masculine and appealing.
“I shall remove to the Fairmont as soon as I am able,” he added. “I plan to reside there while I oversee construction of new stables as well as repairs in other parts of the house. By the way, I’m acquainted with a builder in Salisbury, but if you can recommend a good local man, I would be much obliged.”
“The Kingsley brothers build most things around here—from my little lodge to the conservatory at Thornvale. Everyone speaks highly of them.”
“Excellent. Thank you.”
Something niggled at Jane. “I have to ask—why here, of all places? We’re not the only village threatened by the turnpike. There must be better places to open a hotel.”
“I have my reasons.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could pry further, he tapped a finger to her nose. “Personal reasons.”
On Sunday, Jane walked out of church beside Mercy, while Aunt Matilda went on ahead with their pupils. Rachel had been absent again that morning, no doubt home at her father’s bedside. Mr. Paley had prayed for Sir William during the service. Apparently, he was weakening by the day, though remained in good spirits, and still enjoyed his favorite books.
Jane thought of her own father. And as they walked, she told Mercy about the settlement he had arranged and admitted that perhaps she had somewhat misjudged him.
“I am glad to hear it, Jane. I know he did some things that hurt you, but I hope this will help you forgive him.”
Forgive him? Jane thought, lapsing into silence. For the house, and Hermione, and betraying Mamma’s memory? Besides, he was no longer there to forgive.
“So . . . will you join us?” Mercy asked, apparently for the second time.
“Hm?”
“The Ladies Tea and Knitting Society meets tomorrow night.”
“The Ladies Tea and Knitting Society?” Jane repeated dubiously. “I don’t know, Mercy.”
“Oh, do come, Jane. I think you will find it . . . edifying.”
“Heavens. That sounds serious.”