The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill by Julie Klassen
After receiving the letter from Bertha Rooke, Thora had remained in Bath long enough to attend her sister’s wedding and then returned to Ivy Hill without further delay.
She had been good at one thing in her life—and that was serving as housekeeper for her family’s inn. Would Jane accept her help? She must at least try.
Now here she was, back in her old room at The Bell. But something told Thora there would be no going back to her old life now. If things were as bad as Mrs. Rooke said, perhaps none of them would have a roof over their heads for long.
Thora came face-to-face with Colin McFarland when she walked downstairs the next day. She vaguely recognized him but was taken aback by the man in his midtwenties before her, compared to the adolescent of her memories. He was of average height, with sandy brown hair brushed neatly back. His broad face tapered to a pointy chin. Not a bad-looking man, she allowed. Though she wondered how long it would be until dissipation ruined his looks, as it had ruined his father’s.
“So you’re Liam McFarland’s boy,” she began.
He lifted a hand, a spark of sheepish humor in his eyes. “Guilty as charged.”
He wore a dark coat, waistcoat, and trousers, and old but well-polished shoes. His collar could have been whiter, but he was surprisingly well kempt. At least he looked the part of a Bell porter.
“Did your father put you up to finding a job here—to see what mischief you could get into?”
A frown creased his face. “I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Bell. I am here to work, and that is all.”
“Humpf. We shall see.” Thora would indeed see, for she would be watching him.
But first she wanted to talk to Walter Talbot. So she went out into the stable yard and asked Tuffy to hitch a horse to the gig.
The skinny old ostler pulled a face. “That rickety ol’ thing, missus? Ain’t safe, if you ask me.”
Thora sighed. “Very well. I shall walk.”
Thankfully, she had donned stout half boots that morning, as well as a bonnet.
The exercise would do her good, she told herself. And if memory served, the walk out to the farm was not too long.
Memory did not serve. Nor did her wool dress. She was warm and itchy well before she arrived. Passing the McFarland place on the way, she wrinkled her nose. As Thora surveyed the dilapidated outbuildings, weedy garden, and rubblestone house, she decided she’d seen better-kept sheep sheds.
Finally reaching Talbot’s farm, she let herself in through the wooden gate. Ahead lay a cobbled path to the farmhouse, and to the left, woodshed and barn, then fields and grazing land. She heard the clang of metal upon metal and saw a man bent over near the barn, hammering something. He wore a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, braces, trousers, and work boots. A low tweed cap covered his head. One of the hired men, she guessed. Perhaps Talbot was in the barn, just out of sight. She would try there first. She wasn’t ready to knock at the front door, unsure if Talbot’s sister-in-law was well enough to answer it herself or if she might be sleeping.
The hired man, bent over his work, did not see her approach. His hat brim shaded his face. She noticed his muscular forearms as he raised the hammer and brought it down in skillful, efficient strokes. The man glanced up and glanced again, the tool stilling in his hands. When he fully lifted his head, she saw his face, and drew up short in surprise.
“Talbot?” She blinked. Walter Talbot had always worn gentleman’s attire—coat, waistcoat, trousers, and polished shoes in his role as head porter and manager. Not workman’s clothes. She had not seen him in rolled-up shirt sleeves since adolescence, and certainly never with fine linen clinging to sweaty shoulders and chest.
“Hello, Mrs. Bell.”
“I didn’t recognize you,” she said, oddly irritated. “From a distance I thought you must be the hired man.”
“He has gone to town for a part. I’m trying to repair this plow blade, but it’s as stubborn as . . . my last boss.” He set down the tool, pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped his neck and brow. “Forgive my appearance. I was not expecting guests.”
She waved away the apology. “Never mind that. I just returned . . . for a visit . . . and was sorry to hear about Bill.”
He nodded, expression pinched. “Me too. I was updating the timetables when word came. I should have been here.”
“I was shocked to hear you’d left the inn.”
“I didn’t like to leave Jane on her own. But the farm is my responsibility now. It’s hard labor, though it is good to have the work of my hands mean something.”
“Your work at the inn meant something.” Thora shook her head. “Just to leave like that, after so many years . . .”
“You left. When it suited you.”
The bite in his voice surprised her. She said, “Jane didn’t want me there. And she didn’t exactly welcome me back with open arms.”
“If you came charging in, grim faced and disapproving, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Thora had a frank relationship withTalbot before, but now she noticed a complete lack of obsequiousness on his part. “I did not charge in . . . exactly. Though of course I was concerned. Word reached me that the place was going to ruin. I had to come.”
“Word of that reached you all the way in Bath? From Bertha Rooke, no doubt.”
“Yes.” Thora went on to tell him what she had learned, about the loss of several coaching lines and the unpaid bills. “Did you know about the inn’s . . . difficulties?”
“Not to that extent.” He shook his head, lips tight. “But don’t blame your daughter-in-law. At least not her alone. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but John—”
“Then don’t,” Thora snapped. “I won’t hear a word against him.”
Talbot looked down at her sharp tone and kicked at a clod of dirt. “Suit yourself.”
“Do you know whom she hired to try to replace you . . . ? Colin McFarland.”
“Yes, I heard.” He lifted his chin and studied her through narrowed eyes. “Don’t forget—Colin had nothing to do with that incident on the roof, or all that came after. He was only a lad at the time.”
“I know, but he is still Liam McFarland’s son.” Thora shook her head again. “Coming from where he has . . . How is he to know how to properly maintain a place, let alone how to keep books and timetables and the rest? Patrick is back and trying to help. Had you heard that as well?”
Talbot nodded but offered no comment.
Thora added, “He has his work cut out for him. You would not believe the condition of your desk.”
“It isn’t my desk any longer. Nor your inn to fret over.”
“I know. But the inn is part of me, like one of my children. And a mother never stops fretting over one of her own.”
“I can understand that.” He looked down in thought, again digging the toe of his boot in the dirt. He offered, “I could come by now and again, and show Colin a few things. If no one would mind.”
“Mind? I’d be eternally grateful. And so would Jane, if she is not a complete fool.”
“Jane is not a fool. Disinterested, inexperienced, ignorant at worst. Though certainly clever enough, if she wanted to learn.”
Thora huffed. “I’ll never understand why Jane chased after John if she had no interest in the inn.”
“She didn’t chase after John. I never saw a man pursue a woman like John pursued Jane Fairmont.”
Thora shook her head. “But she was completely unsuited and unsuitable. Well. No one asked my opinion. Nothing new there.”
Thora realized she must sound the shrew. Giving way to bitterness was a waste of energy. She inhaled and gentled her voice. “How is Nan bearing up?”
“Not well. She has been ill for a long time, as you know. And Bill’s death has laid her very low indeed. Consumption, Dr. Burton says. He calls when he can, but there is little he can do.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
He nodded. “Sadie Jones helps care for her. And the parson and Mrs
Thora asked, “Is it . . . strange . . . living in the same house together with Nan now that your brother is gone?”
“A little at first. But she can’t live on her own.” He tilted his head and looked at her askance. “Don’t tell me you are going to wag your finger at us, like some mean-spirited gossips do? There is nothing improper going on. Good heavens, the woman is an invalid. Sadie has to help her with everything.”
Thora said gently, “There was a time you admired Nan.”
He lifted his hat and combed agitated fingers through reddish-blond hair. “That was twenty years ago. Before she chose my brother. Now she is like a sister to me. An ailing sister, who needs me.”
I need you. The shocking words ran through Thora’s mind, but she bit her tongue. Where had that come from?
Walter Talbot grimaced and replaced his hat. “I seem to have a knack for admiring women destined to marry other men.”
Thora said cynically, “You haven’t missed much—except a lot of heartache and frustration. Marriage is more trouble than it’s worth.”
“I disagree, Thora. In the past, and even now, I miss . . . a great deal.”
She looked at him, not certain what he meant. How strange to hear her given name in his low voice after so many years of Mrs. Bell or madam. But she did not object.
He inhaled and drew himself up. “Would you like to go in and visit Nan? I’m afraid the house is a mess, but—”
“Another time, Talbot. If that’s all right. Do greet her for me, and give her my regards.”
“Of course.”
Was it her imagination, or did he seem relieved she wasn’t staying longer?
“Well. Good day, Talbot.”
“Good day, Thora. And don’t fret too much. I will come by in the next few days and talk with Colin.”
“Thank you. Are you sure you have the time?”
“I’ll make time.”
Chapter
Four
Jane had just sat down at her pianoforte when a knock sounded. A steady, determined knock. Had Thora returned from her walk already? Jane sighed, anticipating another unpleasant encounter.
Jane rose from the bench and found herself twisting her hands. She forced them to her sides, smoothing her skirts on the way, and opened the door.
It was not Thora. The banker, Mr. Blomfield, stood there. A small man, yet somehow ominous in his black suit of clothes. His hound-dog face was as dreary as a professional mourner’s, framed by long, bushy side-whiskers. Jane was not well acquainted with the man. She’d had to sign a few papers when John died, but the lawyer had taken care of most of the distasteful business for her. But she knew who he was. And had a sinking notion she would not enjoy his visit.
He bowed. “Mrs. Bell.” He smiled thinly, civility sheathing cool determination. “I regret the intrusion, but as you have not replied to any of the letters I sent, first by post, then by my clerk, asking you to call at the bank, I had no other choice. I have taken the liberty of reserving one of the inn’s private parlours and have ordered tea. I shall not leave until you oblige me with half an hour of your time.”
Jane nodded gravely. “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, Mr. Blomfield. Allow me a few minutes to gather my things”—wits—“and I shall join you there.”
He nodded curtly and turned on his heel.
Jane had not answered the door when a young clerk had attempted to deliver a letter last week. He’d left it on her doorstep. When he’d departed, she opened it but got no further than the first paragraph. She had little grasp of—nor stomach for—financial or legal language. She had laid that letter in the office, atop stacks of other correspondence related to inn business. She had hoped Patrick would work his way through them, even if Colin had not. Yet piles still crowded what had formerly been Walter Talbot’s desk. A larger inn would have employed both a head porter and booking clerk to manage the lodging and transport sides of the business. At The Bell, skillful Talbot had managed it all. But he was gone. And neither she nor, apparently, Colin or Patrick had assumed his duties.
With trembling fingers Jane put on a black lace cap—hoping it made her look more mature and capable than she felt—and followed the man’s footsteps to the inn, solemnly answering her summons.
When she entered the private parlour, the second maid, Alwena, was setting down a tea tray, and Jane noticed her strained expression. Did she know something Jane didn’t? Did all the servants? Would they eavesdrop?
“Shall I pour?” Alwena asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Jane replied, not trusting the steadiness of her hands.
When the maid left them, Mr. Blomfield positioned spectacles on his rather thin nose and opened the leather portfolio beside his teacup. He asked, “Would you like to have anyone else present during our meeting?”
Jane blinked. “I don’t know.” Did she really want to face . . . whatever this was . . . alone? The recently returned Thora went through her mind, but Jane instantly dismissed the notion. She did not want her mother-in-law to know how negligent she had been in dealing with the bank—and everything else as well. She swallowed and suggested, “Should I ask my brother-in-law to join us?”
“If you would like to. Though you are the legally responsible party.”
Legally responsible for what? Jane thought with queasy dread.
She rose. “Yes, I think I will ask him to join us, if you don’t mind. He has far more experience than I do, and has been acting as manager, now that Mr. Talbot has left us.”
He nodded, and Jane rose and opened the door. But she had barely closed it behind her when she saw Patrick in the corridor, leaning against the wall. Seeing her, he straightened to his full, lanky height. She was disconcerted and slightly annoyed to find him loitering about, but who was she to complain?
Oblivious to her irritation, he smiled his slow, easy smile. “Thought you might want reinforcements.”
In spite of herself, she smiled back. “I would, yes. Mr. Blomfield is here and has news—bad news from the looks of it.”
“I thought he might. I saw his grim figure arrive.” Patrick gestured for her to precede him back into the parlour.
The banker rose as she entered. He and Patrick met and locked gazes. Something passed between them, Jane saw, but what, she could not identify.
She resumed her chair, and the men sat as well.
Mr. Blomfield began. “I need not remind you, Mr. Bell, that you are present in an advisory capacity only. Mrs. Bell does not require your permission or agreement in any decisions she makes. Understood? She is legal owner of The Bell, per the terms of your brother’s will.”
“As I am very much aware,” Patrick replied evenly.
Jane wasn’t sure if she saw resentment in his blue eyes or not. Certainly, Thora had been shocked and displeased when John’s last will and testament had been read. The announcement had stirred similar emotions in Jane, but Patrick had not even been there at the time. It wasn’t as if he’d been waiting around, hoping to inherit the place. Who could have predicted John would die so young?
For a moment, Mr. Blomfield peered at the pages within the portfolio, and then he interlaced his fingers and looked at her over the top of his spectacles.
“I trust you recall that your husband took out a loan to finance improvements he planned to make on the inn?”
Jane frowned. No, she did not recall that. John had either not mentioned it, or she’d paid little attention, having left business affairs to him.
“Payment on the loan is overdue,” Mr. Blomfield went on. “I requested an extension from the partners when Mr. Bell died, and they kindly extended the due date a twelvemonth. But that time has come and gone.”
Jane sputtered. “But . . . this is the first I am hearing of it.” She glanced at Patrick. Was he as surprised as she was?
“I did send letters, Mrs. Bell,” Mr. Blomfield said. “Tactful, discreet letters, I hope. Though in hindsight, perhaps too dis
“How much is owed?” Jane asked, clenching her hands.
The banker looked at her skeptically. “Do you not know?”
Jane shook her head.
He asked, “Your husband never mentioned the amount, or showed you a copy of the loan papers?”
“No. As I said, this is the first I am hearing of it.”
The banker glanced again at Patrick, who shook his head as well. Then Mr. Blomfield pronounced, “Fifteen thousand pounds.”
Jane gaped. Asked him to repeat it. But the sum did not change.
She felt as though she were lurching awake from one of those tedious dreams, hurrying to the coaching inn to meet the stage, only to realize she’d forgotten her valise. Or facing an exacting schoolmistress on the day of the final examination, but having failed to study and unable to answer a single question.
The difference, Jane realized, was that she was wide awake.
She stared at the banker, mind blank, as he asked her question after question. Was the inn profitable? What improvements were underway or future renovations planned? Would she be able to repay the loan by the due date?
Jane forced herself out of her stupefied trance. “I . . . don’t know. I was unaware of the loan, or of the seriousness of the situation.”
She looked again at Patrick, who watched Blomfield with furrowed brow. He turned and met her questioning gaze. “Business has slowed,” he said. “Especially since the new turnpike was completed.”
“And our profits?”
“Precious little of late.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know exactly. I am still learning my way around the books. I have been back less than two months, remember.”
“Can you at least estimate the inn’s profits for last month?” Mr. Blomfield asked.
Patrick puffed out his cheeks in a weighty exhale, then named a figure. A dishearteningly low figure.