The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill by Julie Klassen
“Mr. Ashford and his mother arrive tomorrow,” Rachel added. “I look forward to meeting her as well.”
“As do I,” Ellen said. “I have not yet met either of the people who will soon call Thornvale home.”
“Speaking of new residents,” Mr. Nikel spoke up in his craggy voice. “Have you heard Fairmont House is occupied at last? And soon to be a hotel, of all things?”
“I wonder how Jane Bell feels about that,” Justina said. “Is she coming tonight, by the way?”
“I’m afraid she was unable to join us,” Rachel replied. “Traveling and busy with the inn, I gather.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” Justina lamented. “I have not talked with her since I returned from London. Though Timothy has, more than once.”
“Only in passing,” he added.
Rachel’s smile stiffened.
Casper announced, “The Reverend Mr. Paley and Mrs. Paley.”
The arrival of the vicar and his wife completed their intimate party.
When dinner was announced soon after, Rachel noticed Sir Timothy look to her for a cue of how to process into the dining room. In lieu of precedence by rank, Rachel selected the lady most distinguished by age instead.
Meeting his gaze, Rachel said, “Sir Timothy, will you please escort Miss Matilda?”
He smiled approvingly. “Indeed I shall, with pleasure.”
If Ellen, as eldest sister and de facto lady of the house, resented it, she did not show it. It helped that everyone was fond of Miss Matty.
Sir Timothy led Matilda Grove to her place, and seated himself beside her at the head. The others filled in.
How good to see the dining room looking so well and adorned with familiar faces. To have old friends gathered together again. If only Jane were there to complete their party.
How bittersweet to have Sir Timothy seated nearby. Ellen had claimed the foot of the table as hostess. Rachel could have argued, insisted it was her place of honor, especially since Ellen had her own home, and Rachel had been the one to live at Thornvale the longest and the last. But she didn’t quibble. With Sir Timothy at the head, Rachel wasn’t sure she could manage to look across that long expanse and see him there. As if they were host and hostess. Husband and wife, as she once thought they would be. It would be difficult enough with him there at all, but this way she would not be obliged to hold eye contact for long. To smile easily and hope he didn’t notice the quiver of her lips.
She would get through this. For her father’s sake and even for her own. She would prove to Timothy and to herself that she was well and truly over him.
When they were finally all seated, Rachel stood on shaky legs, not accustomed to having so many pairs of eyes watching her. Or to giving speeches.
“Thank you all for coming. I look around this table at which I partook of countless meals with my parents and sister, and am touched to see your dear faces. I wish there could be a few more of my father’s contemporaries here, but sadly, many of his closest friends have passed on as well, or have fallen out of touch after his . . . troubles. That is why it means so much that you are here, Mr. Nikel and Miss Matilda. I also want to thank Mr. and Mrs. Paley for joining us. Mr. Paley visited my father quite often in those last days, and I shall never forget your many kindnesses to us both. Most of you know that my father was not overly concerned with social convention or niceties. But he did love a party. So please join me in a toast.”
Around the table, people picked up their glasses. “We are here to honor you, Sir William Ashford. Beloved father, husband, and master of Thornvale. You were not perfect. But who of us is? And so tonight we celebrate your life and your memory. You will always be missed and never forgotten. To Sir William.”
“Sir William” echoed around the table, glasses lifted high.
The footmen removed the covers, and they began the first course of soup and fish with a savory sauce.
Ellen asked, “Remember all those Twelfth Night parties Papa hosted, with dancing and charades—and Papa always playing the king?”
Miss Matilda spoke up, eyes shining. “He always assigned me the character of Miss All-Agog or Miss Fanny Fanciful. The imp. How he loved to tease.”
Sir Timothy said, “I recall the year an acting troupe passed through. Frank Bell did not invite them to perform at the inn, so Sir William set up an outdoor stage here and hosted a performance of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream—on the one condition that he be allowed to play Puck.”
Rachel chuckled at the memory, her heart warm to hear Sir Timothy share it.
“And an excellent Puck he was,” Mercy said, then quoted Puck’s final line from the play, “‘So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.’”
Across the table, she and Rachel shared a smile.
Mr. Paley looked from Ellen to Rachel. “I remember that occasion as well, though a little differently. As I recall it, Sir William knew your mother had her heart set upon seeing the play. And that is why he went to the trouble of hosting it. He would have done anything for her. She was the light of his life, along with you two girls.”
Rachel’s throat tightened. She glanced at Ellen and was touched to see tears brighten her sister’s eyes.
Mr. Paley extended one hand to Rachel, and the other to Matilda, beside him. With a sad smile, he echoed softly, “So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and we shall restore amends.”
Around the table, everyone joined hands. Tears filled Rachel’s eyes, turning individual candle flames into blurs of golden light.
Mr. Nikel stood. “To Sir William!” he repeated, again raising his glass, and dispelling the poignant moment before it grew too uncomfortable. Once again glasses were raised and the mood lightened.
At that moment, Casper stepped in and announced, “Mr. Nicholas Ashford, and Mrs. Ashford.”
Rachel gave a start, heart lurching. They were not expected until tomorrow! Around the room, heads swung toward the door.
Nicholas Ashford entered and drew up abruptly, as surprised to walk into a room full of people as Rachel was to see him.
Beside him stood Mrs. Ashford, a handsome, buxom woman with a thin nose and sharp, dark eyes. She gazed around the table at all the full glasses and arched one brow. “Emptying the cellars, I see.”
“Mother,” Nicholas hissed under his breath. He bowed to Rachel. “I apologize for the intrusion.”
Rachel rose and stepped forward. “I thought you said you would be returning tomorrow. I . . .”
“Yes, well . . .” He glanced pointedly at his mother. “We decided to come a night ahead of schedule. We never guessed we would be interrupting a . . . social gathering.”
Mrs. Ashford pursed her lips. “I can’t say I am surprised.”
Rachel ignored the comment and pasted on a smile. Since Mr. Ashford failed to introduce her, Rachel did so herself. “Mrs. Ashford, we have not met. I am Miss Rachel Ashford.” Rachel dipped a curtsy, then turned to Ellen. “And this is my sister, Mrs. Ellen Hawley.”
Ellen rose at her place, dipped her head to the mother, and smiled at the son. “How do you do.”
Nicholas bowed again.
Rachel said with more warmth than she felt, “Welcome to Thornvale. I hope you shall be very happy here.”
“Not as happy as I might be,” Mrs. Ashford said. “I had hoped for a quiet dinner and a good night’s sleep between freshly laundered sheets. Are we too early for that as well?”
Rachel noticed Ellen frown and open her mouth to protest. Mercy quickly pressed her hand to forestall her.
“Not at all,” Rachel replied smoothly, stepping to the door. “I shall just let Mrs. Fife know you’re here.”
Sir Timothy rose. “Miss Ashford, please stay. This is your last night in your home, after all. And we are here to celebrate your father. As he would have wanted.”
“While in mourning?” Mrs. Ashford asked skeptically, though Timothy had not been sp
Sir Timothy smiled at the woman, but it was a cold smile. One Rachel had seen before and recognized well enough to be glad it was not aimed at her. Then he turned back to Rachel and said, “Perhaps you would be good enough to introduce us?”
“Of course. Mrs. Ashford, allow me to present Sir Timothy Brockwell, Baronet. Sir Timothy, Mrs. Ashford and her son, Mr. Nicholas Ashford.” Rachel would not normally have introduced him in that way, nor included his rank, but in this instance felt she should.
“Mrs. Ashford. Mr. Ashford,” Sir Timothy began solemnly. “We are gathered this evening to honor Sir William’s last request: that we remember him not with mourning, but with a fine dinner and fine wine. His daughters have very graciously invited a few old friends to see them through this difficult hour.”
“You are more than welcome to join us,” Rachel added, relieved to have Sir Timothy defending her and observing that his title and gallant address had impressed Mrs. Ashford, and some of the ire had faded from her eyes.
Nicholas said, “We would not wish to intrude on your celebration.”
“Nonsense,” Rachel insisted. “You are family, after all. And Thornvale is your home.” Rachel turned toward the table. “In fact, allow me to introduce a few of your new neighbors. This is our vicar, Mr. Paley, and his wife, Mrs. Paley.”
Mrs. Ashford’s thin brows rose. “The vicar? I am surprised. You approve of a party so soon after a death?”
Mr. Paley smiled. “In this case I do. You see, I had the bittersweet privilege of visiting Sir William several times during his last illness, and heard him ask his daughter to do this very thing. Not one for tradition for tradition’s sake was our Sir William. Or for solemn displays and long faces. Were you acquainted with him, madam?”
“I met him only once or twice. My husband knew him better, and my son not at all.”
Ellen suggested, “Well then, do dine with us, and we will each share a few favorite memories of Papa, so you might become acquainted with him, at least in a small way.”
Rachel added, “Yes, do join us. Cook has outdone herself, and we have more than enough of everything.” Seeing Mrs. Ashford was softening, Rachel gestured to the footmen. “Add two more places, if you please.”
Nicholas looked about to accept, but his mother held up a decisive hand. “No. Don’t go to any trouble on our account. You go on with your private soiree. Nicholas and I will turn in early, if you would send up a modest supper?”
“Of course,” Rachel replied.
Mrs. Fife appeared and offered to show the newcomers to their rooms.
When they departed, dinner continued with awkward reserve and decorum, and afterward, the party quickly drew to a close. A disappointment for all, and worrisome for Rachel, who had not planned to move her things to Mercy’s until the following day. She dreaded a confrontation with either Ashford, but especially with Nicholas’s shrewish mother.
Ellen was staying the final night as well, and as they climbed the stairs to their respective rooms, Ellen whispered that she and her maid would gather up the last of her belongings and leave first thing in the morning.
On the landing, Ellen reached out and grasped Rachel’s hand. “You’ll be all right on your own, won’t you?”
“I will,” Rachel replied with more confidence than she felt. What other choice did she have?
Chapter
Thirty
The next day, Rachel rose at dawn and roused an exhausted Jemima to help her dress. Ellen’s coach was leaving very early, and Rachel wanted to see her off.
When her sister was ready, Rachel walked with her from Thornvale to The Bell—Ellen’s poor maid laden with parcels and trudging behind.
In front of The Bell, Rachel embraced her sister and wished her a safe journey. “Give my love to my nephews.”
“Of course I will.” Ellen gestured toward the inn door. “Will you come in and wait with me?”
“I had better not. I need to return and finish my own packing.”
Ellen gave her a knowing look. “Before the she-dragon awakes?”
“Something like that.”
Ellen said, “I hope I don’t see Jane inside, mopping floors or something. How awkward.”
“Ellen . . .” Rachel hissed. “You are haughtier than I am.”
Her sister smirked. “And that is saying something!”
“Don’t forget,” Rachel added. “You were the one who encouraged her romance with Mr. Bell in the first place.”
“He needed no encouragement!” Ellen retorted. “But if I did, I certainly hoped for a better outcome for both of you.”
With that, Ellen kissed her cheek and disappeared inside the coaching inn.
Returning to Thornvale a short while later, Rachel let herself in as quietly as she could and tiptoed across the hall.
Mrs. Fife hailed her as she climbed the stairs. “Mr. Ashford asks to see you in the library at your earliest convenience.”
Rachel’s stomach cramped. So much for slipping away to avoid a confrontation. She swallowed hard. “Very well. Tell him I shall be there in a few minutes.”
She hurried to her room and, with trembling fingers, packed the last of her personal items she had used that morning—toothbrush, powder, perfume, and the like—into a small valise. Her trunk, traveling case, and bandboxes were already packed and waiting out in the porte-cochere to be transported to Ivy Cottage.
She looked around her neat and tidy bedchamber—the high bed with its tasseled bed-curtains, the dressing table, and rose-patterned wallpaper—with a stab of nostalgia. She would miss it. All of it. She inhaled deeply and drew back her shoulders. She was the daughter of Sir William Ashford. His forebears had not been good stewards, and the family’s wealth had declined over the generations. So he’d had to go out into the world and make his own way and his own fortune. She would do the same. A fearful inner voice reminded her that her father had also lost his fortune, his good name, and his health, but she would not dwell on that now.
Spine stiffened in resolve, Rachel tied a bonnet under her chin, pulled on gloves, and picked up her valise. She left the room hoping that her outdoor apparel would signal her intention to leave immediately and thereby discourage a lengthy conversation—or reprimand.
Stepping silently into the library, she saw lanky Mr. Ashford standing before one of the windows, hands folded behind his back, spinning his thumbs in impatience or nerves. Was he dreading the setdown to come as much as she was? She had a little money. She supposed she could offer to replace the wine from the cellar, though the idea that she had no right to share the bottles her father had collected irked her.
She cleared her throat, and he turned sharply. She waited until he faced her, then purposely set her valise at her feet. See, I am halfway out the door already. . . .
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple convulsing up and down his long pale throat. “Miss Ashford. Rachel. May I call you Rachel?”
“Of course. If you like.” A strange way to begin a reprimand.
“Would you, um, care to sit down?” He gestured toward a chair with an agitated jerk of his hand before clasping both before himself.
“No, thank you. I shall stand. I am on my way out, as you see.”
“I do see. But . . .” He pressed dry lips together. “That is what I wished to speak with you about.”
“You needn’t worry. I shall be out of your way shortly. My trunk and case are already outside, and I have my last few things here. I hope you don’t mind if I leave my father’s books for the time being, until I find other accommodation for them?”
“I don’t mind at all. And you are not ‘in my way,’ as you say.” He winced at his unintentional rhyme, then ran a hand over his face. “For the first time in my life I wish I were better with words.”
Rachel endeavored to help him along and end this awkward interview as soon as possible. “I know your mother did not approve of my dinner party last night. No doubt you hoped to give her an excellent first impres
“Miss Ashford, I did not ask you here to speak of that. As far as I am concerned you did nothing wrong. I am not here to redress any grievances. I am sorry if I gave you that impression.”
“Oh. Then . . . ?”
“I asked you here to . . . to ask you to marry me.”
Rachel’s mouth fell open. She felt her brow furrow. “Excuse me . . . what?”
“I realize it is sudden. We are barely acquainted. But I think it is wrong to put you out of your lifelong home. A woman without protection. How can I live here happily, knowing I am the cause of your . . . unhappiness? Not to mention inconvenience and discomfort and, I pray not, deprivation. When I first visited Thornvale, I thought I could simply allow you to remain in a suite of rooms. Like an . . . elderly spinster aunt. No trouble and no impropriety. But then I met you. A beautiful young woman. And I . . . froze. I had to think. And this is what I have concluded. I pray the notion is not repugnant to you.”
Rachel stared at him, dumbfounded, and the longer she did so without speaking, the redder his face became. He looked away from her to his clasped hands. “But I see that it is.”
She forced herself to speak. “Not repugnant, exactly, but . . . shocking, yes.”
A mirthless laugh escaped him. “Not ‘exactly,’” he bleakly echoed.
“We are cousins. . . .” she protested. It was a stupid objection, and she wished the words back as soon as she uttered them.
“Cousins more closely related than we are marry all the time.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Did your mother put you up to this?”
“Ah . . . no,” he replied with a snort of incredulity and lift of his brow.
“She doesn’t like me,” Jane said.
“She doesn’t know you.”
“Neither do you.”
“I will come to, and so will she. Whether she likes you or not is immaterial.”
“But whether you and I like each other is material.”