The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill by Julie Klassen
“Wait,” Thora commanded, a thought striking her. “I suppose it can’t hurt. I am only dressing for church, of course. And if you make a mess of it, that won’t matter—I shall wear my bonnet. As long as you are careful with the hot iron.” She wagged a finger. “And no scissors.”
“Of course, ma’am. Thank you.” Alwena came forward, barely suppressing a smile of relief. Foolish of Jane to get the girl’s hopes up. Little call for a lady’s maid in a coaching inn like theirs.
Thora sat in front of her dressing table, and Alwena set to work. The maid unpinned and brushed out Thora’s shoulder-length, straight black hair.
“You’ve pretty hair, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying. And lots of it too.”
“Is that part of the service, Alwena—flattery along with a good brushing? Or is the flattery extra?”
“No, ma’am.”
From her apron pocket, Alwena withdrew a small pot and removed the lid.
“What is that?” Thora frowned.
“Just a bit of pomatum. Gives a little fullness.”
Oh well, Thora told herself. She would wash it out tonight if she didn’t like the stuff. She hoped it didn’t stink. She inhaled, relieved it didn’t have an overpowering fragrance.
Alwena worked deftly, applying pomade to the roots of her hair and brushing it forward, then pinned it to the crown of her head with soft height. She coiled the rest of her hair high at the back of Thora’s head, loosening the sides before twisting and securing the coil. Then she stood in front of Thora and combed strands free at each temple and curled them with more pomade and a small curling iron heated over the oil lamp.
“Please don’t make me look the poodle, Alwena. Or like mutton dressed as lamb.”
“No, ma’am. Not at all.”
“And do hurry. I don’t wish to be late for church.”
Alwena stepped away and stood behind Thora once more, both of them looking in the glass. “Well, ma’am?”
Thora had told herself to be kind, to think of something positive to say. Instead she blinked at her reflection. The height and fullness of the hair framed her face and flattered her cheekbones, while the delicate curls softened her features, downplaying her strong nose.
“I look . . . That is, I . . . like it. Well done.”
The girl flushed with pleasure. “Thank you. You look lovely, if I do say so myself. Would you allow me to try one more thing?”
“There’s more?”
“It’s only . . . I’ve been experimenting, see, and I’ve concocted a pot of lip rouge—”
“No. No rouge.” Thora lifted her hand. “I am not a trollop. And I am going to church, remember, not a ball.”
“Well, you see, that’s just it. I made this pot of balm to soften lips. But Mrs. Rooke says I didn’t put enough vermilion in it, so it’s not dark enough—you can barely tell it’s there. But I’d hate for it to go to waste. Could we at least try it? You can always rub it off if you don’t like it.”
Thora considered. “My lips are dry, I admit. If it will soften them and won’t be noticeable, then very well.”
Alwena uncorked it and offered it to Thora. “Just dab it to your finger and then to your lips. And here, just one more thing . . .”
Before Thora could protest, the maid dabbed a few dots of the stuff to each cheek and then patted it with a bit of cotton wool.
“Just a hint, you see, ma’am. Even the vicar shan’t be any the wiser. But you look five years younger.”
Thora studied one side of her face, then the other, then looked at herself full on. The rouge gave only the slightest rosy glow to her cheeks and lips. Nothing showy or tawdry. She did look younger. Prettier.
She held out her hand and Alwena’s smile fell. Thora accepted the wad of cotton and rubbed the rouge off her cheeks.
“You did well, don’t mistake me. But the hair is enough for now. We don’t want people staring. Or not to recognize me, now do we? Perhaps after church, we might . . . try again?”
Alwena released a relieved breath. “With pleasure.”
In the end, Thora decided to forgo her usual mobcap and heavy bonnet and instead wore a smaller one of black straw that sat farther back on her head. With its upturned brim, the front and sides of her hair showed a little. After all, there was no use in letting all of Alwena’s efforts go to waste.
After church, Thora went up to her room briefly to lay aside her prayer book and black cape. Alwena scratched on the door, a box under one arm.
“I hope I’m not in trouble, ma’am. Mrs. Jane Bell asked me to deliver this to you a few days ago, but I quite forgot ’til now.”
“What is it?”
“A few things you passed down to her before she went into mourning. She thought you might want them back now that you’ve returned.”
Alwena opened the lid. On top lay a Kashmir shawl of purple lilac with a border of yellow-gold in a swirling teardrop pattern. “This shawl is lovely,” Alwena breathed. “Such a soft color.”
“Yes . . .” Thora fingered the fine lightweight wool, remembering how the colors had once given her pleasure.
“This would look so well with your grey dress, ma’am. If you don’t mind my saying. There are a few others things in here as well.” She set the box on the chest at the foot of her bed. “I’ll leave them with you for now. No hurry to decide.”
Thora sat, and Alwena came forward and began reapplying the rouge.
As she did so, she shyly asked, “Did anyone at church notice anything . . . different about you?”
“One attends church to praise God, Alwena,” Thora mildly reproved. “Not to seek praise for oneself.”
“I know that, ma’am. I was only wondering.”
“I did receive one or two compliments, now you mention it,” Thora begrudgingly admitted. “Mrs. Paley said something kind. As did Miss Grove.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
Alwena touched up Thora’s hair, and then took her leave.
When the door closed behind her, Thora stepped to the box and lifted out the purple shawl. Spreading its length across her bed, she admired the patterned border on each end, noticing how well it still looked after all this time. Then she experimentally wrapped it around her shoulders, eyeing its effect in the looking glass. She barely recognized herself, what with the well-dressed hair and now this . . . color on her person. She had loved this shawl. It was one of the rare extravagances she had allowed herself. She’d bought it in the market from a man wearing a turban. It had come all the way from Kashmir, down into India, and from thence to England, he’d told her. It embodied fashion and wealth, which meant little to Thora. But it had also seemed to represent all the exotic, beautiful places she would never see. She had worn it often before Frank died.
Should she wear it now? Dare she? Wait . . . Thora Stonehouse Bell lacking courage to wear an article of clothing? Since when was she concerned about what other people might think? She let the shawl slip from her shoulders.
Perhaps she would just carry it, folded over her arm, in case it grew chilly on the way home that evening. Protection against the weather, that’s all. Perfectly practical.
Talbot had offered to come and fetch her in his cart, but Thora refused. She did not wish to be seen riding side by side with him as though they were some young courting couple. She had walked to the farm before and would do so again, though the basket would grow heavy.
But when she’d retrieved the basket from the kitchen and passed through the hall on her way out, Patrick stopped her.
“Wait, Mamma. I’ll ask Colin to drop you off. He offered to pick up an order of candles from the O’Briens, and Talbot’s isn’t much out of the way. He’s taking the gig, now that it’s repaired.”
Thora resisted the urge to curl her lip and refuse. Colin likely planned to go by way of the public house if he was anything like his father. Probably fall off like that drunken coachman, and Thora would be left to take the reins again. She sighed. Oh well. I’ve done it befor
Jane came outside to see her off. “Have a pleasant time.”
Thora nodded. “Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Patrick handed her in as Colin climbed in the other side and picked up the reins. He looked well kempt, as usual, though his hat was somewhat shabbier than his clothes.
They began the trip in relative silence. When they turned out of town and into the open, the wind picked up, and Thora wrapped her shawl around herself for warmth. She had been wise to bring it.
As they neared the McFarland place, Thora again surveyed the house with a jaundiced eye. Several panes of glass were missing from the windows, the gaps covered with paper. Its green door had more bare wood showing than paint. The stone-tile roof and brick chimney stacks were evidence that the structure had once been the home of a reasonably successful tradesman. The neglect—that the tradesman had fallen to drink.
“How is your mother?” Thora asked.
“Thankful to be busy—several village women have given her sewing to do.”
“And your father? Is he in good health?”
“No, ma’am. He is not . . . well.”
“Has he any work?”
Colin shook his head. “He has not been . . . able to work.”
Hmpf, Thora thought. Not able or not willing?
She asked, “What does your father think about you working at The Bell? I suppose he was happy when he learned you got the job?”
“No, quite the opposite. In fact, it was the only time he—” Colin broke off abruptly.
Thora glanced over and noticed his clenched jaw. “He . . . what?” she prompted.
“Never mind. Let’s just say he was not pleased. But my mother is glad I have the work.”
In the yard, Thora saw three girls in ill-fitting dresses. With a start, she recognized an old yellow gown she’d donated to the charity guild a decade ago, now dingy and faded, so long on the girl that it dragged on the ground. Another girl was barefoot, in a coarse brown dress and tattered apron. The third wore a green skirt too short for the leggy adolescent, showing scuffed boots and mismatched stockings, a red knitted shawl wrapped around her torso, hands tucked inside.
As if expecting the gig’s approach, the girls came forward eagerly, then stopped short, one girl running into her sister when they saw Thora. Their smiles quickly faded. Apparently, they had been expecting Colin. And Colin alone.
She noticed Colin try to discreetly wave the girls off, his index finger raised as if telling them to wait. Suspicion pricking her, Thora glanced over her shoulder at the back board of the gig and spied a burlap sack pressed into the corner.
She looked back at Colin and saw that he’d followed the direction of her gaze. His Adam’s apple rose and fell.
Was he stealing from The Bell? Is that what he’d been doing in the larder? She’d suspected as much.
“Your sisters seem to be expecting you,” she said. “Or something from you.”
“Oh, that’s all right, ma’am. I shall see them later.”
“No, by all means, let us stop now,” Thora insisted, a note of challenge in her voice.
“Please, ma’am. I . . . Let me take you where you’re going. I can stop on the way back, or . . . not at all, if you prefer.”
“Heavens, no. Don’t keep them waiting on my account.”
Colin halted the horse, tied off the reins, and stepped down, reluctantly waving the girls forward.
Thora stepped down as well and followed him to the back of the gig. He picked up the sack, preparing to hand it over to the girls, unopened.
“Go on. Open it,” Thora urged. She stepped to a nearby barrel head and tapped its top surface. “Let’s see what you brought for them. Some of The Bell cutlery, or a silver spoon? I hope it fetches a good price. Or perhaps some rashers of bacon or smuggled tea?”
Colin obeyed and dumped out the sack onto the barrel.
But instead of the silver spoons and costly meat or tea she had expected, all that rolled out were bread rolls as hard as rocks, several wrinkled potatoes, and shriveled apples from last year’s harvest that Mrs. Rooke had cleaned out of the cellar the day before.
Colin avoided her gaze. “It’s only a few things put by from my own meals, ma’am. Or things Dotty said would go to waste. I didn’t steal anything, I promise.”
Shame swamped Thora. Shame and guilt over her suspicions and humiliating accusations.
Thora looked at the girls’ thin, frightened faces, and for the first time, noticed the hollows in Colin’s embarrassed cheeks as well. She turned and strode purposely back to the gig.
“Please don’t dismiss me,” he called after her. “I won’t do it again.”
“Yes, you will,” Thora commanded, turning back. “And moreover, take this.” She handed over one of her pies. “We don’t need two. Talbot would only grow fat. And it’s not charity—you’ve got it coming, since you had to wait for your full wages.”
Colin held her gaze a moment, and she guessed he was about to refuse. Then one of his sisters clutched his hand.
He cleared his throat. “Well, then, thank you, ma’am. I know they’ll enjoy it.” He turned to his sisters. “Girls, thank Mrs.—”
“No.” Thora held up her hand. “You owe me no thanks. Just get me where I need to go and that’ll be an end to it.” She climbed back into the gig and waited for him to follow suit.
The pie had been a lot of work, Thora reflected, but it was far easier to give than an apology. Besides, apologies did not fill bellies.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
When Colin urged the mare up the farm drive, Walter Talbot came out to greet them, dressed not unlike Colin in a dark coat, waistcoat, cravat, and trousers, his hair well groomed. The polished Talbot of old.
“Hello, Thora. Colin.”
Colin nodded. “Sir.”
Talbot held out his hand and helped Thora down, taking the heavy basket from her.
“Thank you, Talbot.” Was she supposed to call him Walter now that he no longer worked for the inn? She would find it difficult to do so.
She turned to Colin. “No need to return for me. I shall walk back. Once this basket is empty it shall be no trouble at all.”
“Are you certain, ma’am? I don’t mind.”
“No. You go on. You have more important things to do.”
Thora waved him on, and Colin urged the horse forward.
“By the way,” Thora said, as they watched him go. “I still don’t think Colin is the man for the job, but I was wrong to suspect him of taking advantage as his father did.”
Talbot studied her, then nodded solemnly. “That’s a start.”
He led the way up the walkway and opened the door for her. “Hopefully this wind will die down. I wanted to show you around the place after we eat.”
“I’ll not blow away, Talbot.”
His gaze swept over her again. “You look . . . well,” he said. “I have not seen that shawl in years. The color suits you. And you’ve done something different with your hair.”
Thora had not expected him to notice, or at least not to comment. She felt her neck grow warm and, as they entered the house, quickly pulled the shawl from her shoulders. “I had not intended to wear it, but the wind was brisk.”
“Here, put down your things. Something in here smells good.” Talbot set the basket on the table, while she peeled off her gloves.
“Nan is awake but still in her bed,” he said. “I thought we would help her to the table when all is ready.”
Thora nodded her understanding. “May I go in and greet her?”
“Of course.” He stepped to the partially open door, knocked, and stuck his head into the room. “Thora is here and would like to say hello.”
“Send her in” came Nan’s muffled reply.
Talbot turned and smiled at Thora, opening the door wide. “I’ll get started in the kitchen.”
On impulse, Thora too
Nan was sitting upright atop the made bed, bolstered by pillows, a lap rug over her legs. She looked a little brighter than during Thora’s last visit, her complexion displaying a bit more color. She wore a pert, frilly cap, a daydress, and a smile.
“Hello, Nan. It is good to see you sitting up and dressed.”
“I am grateful to feel well enough to do so.”
“I thought you might like this shawl,” Thora said, holding it forth.
“Oh no, Thora. It’s too fine for me.”
“Not at all. It’s an old thing. I left it with Jane when I went into mourning, but I don’t think she ever wore it. Someone should. It will keep you warm when the wind blows, as it seems to do out here.”
“But it’s yours.”
“Nan, I know I have not been good about visiting, so it would mean a great deal to me if you would accept it.”
“Very well, then. I shall.” Nan winked. “If it makes you feel better.”
She allowed Thora to help her wrap it around her shoulders and straighten its length across her bodice and onto her lap. Nan stroked the smooth wool and silky fringe. “Ah yes. I shall sit here in fine state to greet my visitors. I daresay Dr. Burton shall declare me cured when he sees me in this!” Nan grinned. Then she leaned toward her bedside table.
“What do you need?” Thora asked, stepping over to help.
“Hand me that hinged box there, will you?”
Thora did so, and from it Nan extracted a cameo brooch. She crossed over the two sides of the shawl and used the pin to fasten them together across her chest. “Now let the wind howl all it likes—I shall not feel it.” She fingered the brooch. “This was a wedding gift from my husband.” She looked up at Thora’s bare neck and wrists. “You don’t wear jewelry, do you? Besides your wedding ring, I mean?”
“Not often. It is not that I disapprove. I simply don’t take the time to bother with it. I’ve been given a few trinkets over the years, but I rarely wear them.” Thora looked down at her hand, the plain thin wedding band, the unadorned wrist, and a memory struck her. She said, “Frank gave me a gift once—a fine gold bracelet with a blue enamel heart dangling from it. He said it was to remind me that I was more than his helpmeet and housekeeper, but also an attractive woman. I was sure I’d break the delicate chain, and the heart clacked against the desk whenever I wrote in the ledger. So I put it back in its box, and there it has remained ever since.”