The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill by Julie Klassen
He winced. “I realize I possess not those happy manners to ensure my making friends easily.”
“I . . . would not know. I have not had time to sketch your character.”
“You reject my offer?”
“I think I must. I have no desire to give you pain. I am sensible to the honor of your proposal. But you need not feel responsible for me. Or bound by duty to—”
“Am I not your nearest male relation?”
“I suppose you are, excepting my brother-in-law. And it is kind of you to want to help me. But to marry me? It is beyond the bounds of what is expected in such a situation, trying though it may be.”
He lowered his head, and she saw that she had hurt and embarrassed him.
“Mr. Ashford. Nicholas. You need not worry for me. I am going to live with a dear friend and her aunt. Perfectly respectable people. True, we will not have extravagant dinners like last night’s.” She chuckled self-consciously. “But I will not suffer. The arrangements are settled. There is a room awaiting me.” A small and spartan room, but she did not mention it.
“You will not change your mind?” he asked somberly. “Alter these . . . arrangements . . . and remain here?”
She slowly shook her head. “I think not. It is all too sudden.”
His jaw tightened. “I see. And you are right. Since you have a safe and respectable place to go, we need not rush into anything. But will you do me the honor of not rejecting my offer outright? Will you think on it, and allow me to call? Allow our acquaintance to grow before you decide with such finality?”
She saw what it cost him to push out the words. The heat and mortification mottling his pale cheeks, his nervous, darting eyes. She was seven and twenty, and had not yet received an offer of marriage—unless one counted that near-miss, more than eight years ago now. She would be foolish to reject him. A successful man. A kind man. Not to mention the owner of her beloved Thornvale.
She ran her tongue over dry lips. “Very well. I shall consider what you say, and your proposal. Thank you for understanding my reservations.”
He looked at her almost blankly, as if afraid to believe her words. Then he drew in a breath. “Good. Thank you. We . . . understand one another, then. I shall give you time to settle in to your new situation, and then call. In the meantime, if there is anything you need, please do not hesitate to ask. It will in no way obligate you to any . . . future obligations.” He winced at his fumbled words.
Feeling sorry for the man, she impulsively reached out to comfort him, laying her gloved hand on his sleeve. He stared down at it, mouth loose. Before she could retract it, he laid his hand over hers.
She forced a smile and gently tugged free from his grasp. “Good day, then, Mr. Ashford.”
“Good day, Miss Ashford. And good-bye. For now.”
Rachel went belowstairs to say her final farewells to the servants, then made her way back upstairs and quietly across the hall. The library door was ajar and Mrs. Ashford’s grating voice reached her from within, along with a few lower, mollifying murmurs from her son.
“She would not have you, my own son? Who is she, Miss High and Mighty, to give herself such airs? She who lived in this house with so few servants and no carriage. Her father only knighted for some expensive token bestowed upon a grateful monarch. A man who lost his fortune and his good name, and besmirched hers in the bargain. I should like to know where she could find such another man as you, with such a noble heart. I don’t care if I am your mother—I am not blind, as she must be.”
Ears burning, Rachel slipped silently through the door, leaving Thornvale and the caustic words behind.
When Rachel reached Ivy Cottage, she thanked the cart driver—a woman named Mrs. Burlingame, who was accompanied by her young son.
Matilda Grove stood waiting in the open doorway, arms stretched wide. “Welcome, my dear.” She embraced Rachel warmly, and the kind gesture brought unexpected tears to Rachel’s eyes.
She blinked them back. “Thank you, Miss Matty.”
“Now, I’ll show you to your room and let you get settled. As soon as Mercy is finished teaching for the day, we’ll all sit down to tea and a nice long chat.”
“I would enjoy that.”
Mercy’s aunt led the way upstairs and down a narrow passage slanted with age. She opened a door and said, “Here it is. I wish it were larger, or boasted a better view.”
“Nonsense. It’s lovely, and I’m grateful.”
“No more of that now. You know we are happy to have you.”
The Groves’ manservant, the quiet, brown-skinned Mr. Basu, helped the cart-driver’s son unload Rachel’s trunk and packing case and carry them to her room. Rachel knew little about the manservant other than he was from the East Indies somewhere. During all her calls to Ivy Cottage over the years, Rachel had yet to hear him speak more than a simple word of greeting or acknowledgment, though Mercy assured her his English was very good.
When Mr. Basu delivered the last valise and bandbox, Rachel thanked the man, and he departed as silently as he’d come.
Alone for the time being, Rachel surveyed the small room that would be hers. For how long? Forever?
The room held a narrow bedstead, side table, dressing chest, washstand, and one small bookcase that would hold the tiniest fraction of her father’s collection.
Perhaps that was for the best.
As she began unpacking her possessions, Rachel felt another pinch of resentment that Papa had left Ellen all of Mamma’s jewelry, but she pushed the feeling aside. She set her toiletries on the washstand and arranged her mother’s framed silhouette and Bible on her side table, grateful to have these few mementos at least.
Then she returned to the trunk and unwrapped the largest item within. She had taken down the portrait of the three of them—Mamma with Rachel and Ellen as young girls—that had hung for years in her father’s bedchamber. She didn’t care that it was not itemized in the will. It surely belonged to her, or perhaps Ellen. But not to Nicholas Ashford, and certainly not to his mother.
Rachel looked at the image of the former Lavinia Woodgate—not much older than Ellen was now. Ellen, dark like their father, might have inherited their mother’s jewelry, but Rachel had inherited her looks. Her honey-gold hair and bright blue eyes. Even the shape of her face, now that Rachel’s had lost some of the roundness of youth.
She would have to ask Mr. Basu to help her hang it. It would dominate the room, but that didn’t matter. Having it there would help her feel less alone. Less the orphan she felt herself to be, in her late twenties or not.
“He asked you to marry him?” Mercy echoed, looking as dumbstruck as Rachel herself had been at the time.
Rachel nodded and took a sip of tea in the Ivy Cottage sitting room. “I was shocked, as you can imagine.”
“But you only met him the once, is that not right?”
“Well, I met him a fortnight ago and then again last night. If I met him at any family occasion when I was a girl, I don’t remember it.”
“My goodness,” Mercy breathed, slowly shaking her head.
“Do you think he loves you?” Matilda Grove asked, hope warming her voice.
“How could he? Nor did he say he did—which is to his credit, for how could I believe it? Especially after that awful scene at the party.”
“You do not believe in love at first sight?” Miss Matty asked.
“Not in this case, no.”
“I hope you did not refuse him out of any sense of obligation to us,” Mercy said gently.
“No. Do you wish I had not refused him?”
“Of course not. You are more than welcome here. Is she not, Auntie?”
“Indeed. The more the merrier. What’s one more girl under our roof? Though we may have to put you to work!” Her eyes twinkled.
“Work?” Rachel glanced at the smear of flour on Matilda’s cheek and her splattered apron. Matilda Grove enjoyed baking but was notoriously bad at it—and messy. “Of course, I am more tha
“Oh, we didn’t mean that you should clean,” Mercy said. “We were thinking more along the lines of lessons for the girls on proper speech and manners? Even shop girls and servants would benefit from that.”
“Oh . . .” Rachel expelled a breath of relief. “I have no experience teaching either, but shall be happy to give it a go.”
Rachel thought of something, ducked her head, then said, “Mr. Ashford indicated that he might like to . . . call, after I am settled. Would that be a problem? I am sure you have rules here about gentlemen callers, for obvious reasons.” She gestured out the door to the girls’ bonnets on their pegs. “I can write to him and let him know if it would not be appropriate.” A part of Rachel almost hoped for a reason to put off his visits. Would such calls mean they were courting? Good heavens. She wasn’t ready for that.
“Of course he may call here,” Mercy said. “It isn’t a nunnery. Quite.” She shared a wry grin with her aunt. “You may receive him in the drawing room, just as our pupils receive guests. I know you will be a modest and ladylike example to our girls. I don’t doubt that for a moment.”
“Thank you,” Rachel murmured, half in relief, half in regret. She certainly hoped she could live up to the Miss Groves’ high expectations while living together in close proximity day in and day out. Rachel was not as consistently sweet tempered and well-mannered as they apparently believed. She had her faults, just as anyone did, and they would no doubt become aware of each other’s foibles before long. She hoped they wouldn’t come to regret asking her to stay.
Chapter
Thirty-One
Jane was alone at the front desk when James Drake came in wearing frockcoat, beaver hat, and his appealing smile. She had not talked to the man in several weeks.
“Hello, Mr. Drake. We have not seen you in some time.”
“Miss me?” he asked, removing his hat.
She had, rather, but did not admit it.
“I have been busy with the Fairmont,” he said. “And I see you have been busy too. The new sign and paint look well.”
“Thank you. We have yet to make all needed repairs, or enlarge the dining parlour—it seems the Kingsley brothers are too busy at Fairmont House.”
He chuckled, looking only mildly sheepish. “Yes. You must come and see our progress. In fact, I insist. Who better than you, who knew the place in all its former glory?”
“Have you changed it so much?”
“Don’t worry, the exterior retains all its old elegance. But of course we’ve had to make changes within. Say you’ll come and let me show you around.”
She was curious. And better to see it for herself than to try to piece together the transformation from secondhand reports.
“Can you get away?” he asked. “It’s a beautiful day.”
“Very well. Thora has gone to market, but I could come after she returns.”
His smile widened. “Excellent.”
Jane rode out to Fairmont later that afternoon. She took Ruby, since the boarded horse, Sultan, was no longer there, and Mr. Locke was not on hand to suggest an alternate mount. She was beginning to wonder about the man. He’d been gone over a week—several days longer than expected, although he had mentioned a few errands he needed to take care of before he returned. Mr. Fuller was happy for the work during a slow time at his forge, but the other horsemen were beginning to grumble. They much preferred working with Mr. Locke and worried he wouldn’t return. Jane worried too. Patrick laid odds that he’d found a better-paying position.
Ruby trudged down the hill, then managed a bone-jarring trot. Jane missed having a fine-spirited horse a little more with each plodding step. If she closed her eyes, she could still remember what it felt like to ride Hermione. Beautiful Hermione . . .
Jane recalled the day she and John came back from their wedding trip. He had postponed their return a few days, not eager to resume his workaday life.
Her father came to the lodge that very afternoon and broke the news that he had sold her horse the day before.
Eyes plaintive, he said, “I know you would have wanted a chance to say good-bye, but you did not return when you said you would.”
Too stunned to protest, Jane had only stared at him as though he were a stranger.
“I’m sorry, Jane. I waited as long as I could. But my time here is short. . . .”
A blackbird called a shrill alarm, startling Jane back to the present.
She rode through Fairmont’s gate, and James came out to greet her. He helped her dismount while a young groom took charge of her horse.
“Jane, thank you for coming,” Mr. Drake said warmly. “Allow me to present my new card. You shall be the first to receive one, fresh from the printer.” He handed her a white calling card, printed in elegant black lettering:
James Drake
Proprietor
The Drake Arms & The Fairmont
“Do you really mean to call it Fairmont?”
“Yes. Unless . . . do you mind?”
“I suppose not. It is nice to have a bit of the family legacy continue on.”
“I hoped you’d like that.”
She nodded, and then he lost no time in beginning his guided tour.
“As you can see, we’re building a new stable block to accommodate a larger carriage house and more stalls. I thought about masonry, but timber-framed construction takes less time. And we’ve knocked down the old privy—sad state, that. We’ve built a new washhouse and privy for the outside staff and are installing running water and water closets inside.”
“Goodness. That must be an expensive proposition.”
“But worth it, I assure you. Guests will share a commodious bathroom and water closet on each floor, while two of the best rooms will have private water closets.”
He gestured toward the garden. “I’ve had a protégé of Capability Brown come out and look at the landscaping. He plans to move the rose garden from the rear of the house to the side, and transplant the hydrangeas. . . .”
Jane’s stomach knotted. Move the garden? Transplant the roses and hydrangeas? When her mother and the late Mr. Bushby had spent years enriching the soil with lime, fighting insects, and trimming trees for optimal sunlight . . . ?
But she murmured simply, “Interesting.”
He led her inside the house, where memories instantly assailed her.
In the vestibule he began, “We’ve had to remove the old screen, and the tapestries had been left to fade in the sunlight for years on end, so they’ve been relegated to the attic.”
“I see.”
“We will eventually convert this large hall into a reception room, sitting rooms, and a coffee room.”
That beautiful open hall . . . Her heart gave a painful thud, but she only nodded her understanding.
“Let’s start belowstairs,” he suggested. “The inner workings of the place.”
Good idea, Jane thought. She was not attached to the kitchens and larders.
She thought wrong.
They descended the backstairs and passed the meat-and-game larder and dairy room without pause. But then James stopped outside the kitchen, gesturing to a pile of rubble being carted away by busy workmen, and the newly bricked-over door to the adjoining stillroom—the stillroom where she and her mother had often spent pleasant afternoons, drying flowers or making preserves, rosewater, and remedies like horehound syrup for Mamma’s increasingly bad chest cough.
James explained, “We did away with that ancillary workroom to enlarge and modernize the kitchen with a new stove and spit system to roast enough meat for a grand banquet if need be.”
Jane looked into the kitchen. Everything was bright and clean and shining, from the big new steamer for puddings to the dozens of copper pots and jelly moulds on the walls.
“Impressive. By the way, thank you for not hiring Mrs. Rooke as your cook.”
&nbs
“None taken.”
“I want a finer, more continental style of cookery here. French dishes and French flair.”
“Good luck with that. Skilled cooks are difficult to find in this area.”
“So I’ve discovered. I had to advertise farther afield. But I am happy to report Monsieur Poulet has arrived and is already preparing meals for me, the few servants I’ve engaged so far, and the workmen. Though he complains about having to cook amid this construction.”
“Monsieur Poulet?” Jane repeated. “You must be joking.”
James leaned near in a private aside. “Between you and me, his real name is John Poole. But I am trying to come up with a more elegant pronunciation for our ‘French’ chef.”
“Keep trying.”
He winked. “Touché.”
They made their way back to the ground level.
In the long room where she and her parents had dined together, and friends had gathered to share holiday meals, the table was gone. The room was in the process of being converted into three private dining parlours for august guests who wished to eat without mixing with the common man.
“I want to get all the walls moved and heavy building out of the way before we open to avoid disrupting guests’ stays.”
“Very thoughtful,” Jane said. “Will there be a public dining room as well, or will the coffee room suffice?”
“Ah!” He lifted a finger. “This way . . .” He led her into her father’s library, and she stifled a gasp. Mr. Drake had taken down all the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves between the room’s tall windows. “It is so much brighter and has a better view, with all these windows overlooking the pond and topiary garden. The old dining room was so dark.”
Jane supposed he was right, though it had never seemed dark to her. Filled with candelabra and people and conversations, it had always seemed a bright place.
“I see your point.”