The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill by Julie Klassen
Still, he hesitated, and her old impatience returned. She never could abide wasting time.
“Oh, spit it out, Charlie.”
“The Royal Mail is . . . pulling out of The Bell.”
“What?”
He nodded somberly. “The deputy postmaster is making plans to bypass Ivy Hill in favor of Mr. Drake’s new hotel on the turnpike.”
Thora’s chest tightened, all other concerns evaporating. “You told me nothing like that was afoot.”
“I was wrong.”
“Charlie Angus Frazer admitting he was wrong about something? The world as we know it is about to end.”
He remained sober. “Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
Thora sank into a chair. “Can you not put in a good word for us? Use your renowned charm to convince the Royal Mail to award us the contract as usual?”
“Pander to Hugh Hightower, my old adversary? I’ve despised that man since boyhood.” He slouched in the chair opposite and tossed his hat upon the desk.
“What has he ever done to you?”
“He was the devil himself to me when we were lads. When my family moved to Andover from Inverness, he took great pleasure in making certain I knew I was not welcome. My father worked for his, and he never let me forget it. He told scurrilous lies about me to my fellows—and to Eudora Foster, the prettiest girl in the parish. I’d set my sights on her, see. And Hugh was determined to win her regard.”
“Did he succeed?”
“No. But she married him anyway.”
“Did she?”
“Yes. Apparently I overestimated my charms, as you tell me I often do. And underestimated her father’s influence. He wanted his daughter to marry Hugh. Better educated. Wealthier. But no doubt she’s come to regret it.”
“No doubt,” Thora echoed dryly, studying his perturbed expression.
He cleared his throat. “Even if I thought I might be able to influence Hightower, I’m afraid the time has passed. The contracts are up for review as I sit here.”
Thora thought. “There must be something we can do. Surely they won’t take the contract away without giving us a chance to prove our mettle.”
“I don’t know. But I’ll see what I can find out.” Charlie rose. “I’ll start with Jack. As a guard, he’s an employee of the post office, and may be privy to more details than I.”
“Thank you,” Thora said. “And, besides Jack, may we keep this between ourselves for now? I will tell Jane and Patrick, but I don’t want the staff to worry.”
“Of course. You’re the first person I’ve told.” He reached for her hand, taking it in his strong grasp. “I’ll do everything in my power to help you, Thora. You know that. I only wish I could do more.”
Thora had to leave on an errand, so it was Patrick who delivered the news to Jane about the Fairmont’s bid to take over the Royal Mail. He told her, and then walked casually to the coffee room, not nearly as upset about it as he should have been.
When he left the office, Jane picked up Mr. Drake’s new calling card from the desk. “Well, he lost no time, did he.” Irritation flared through her. “Friendly competitors, ay?” She tossed the card into the dust bin.
Cadi knocked on the doorframe.
“Um . . . ma’am? There’s a Mr. Hightower here to see you.”
Jane’s heart fisted. Oh no. Had the deputy postmaster overheard her grumbling? It would not help their cause.
Jane took a deep breath and straightened the piles on the desk.
“Show him in please, Cadi.”
A moment later, a tall man who lived up to his surname entered the office, dressed in a fashionable maroon frock coat the color of many Royal Mail coaches. Jane wondered if it was his “official” suit of clothes while carrying out his duties.
He began, “Mrs. John Bell, I take it?”
“Yes. How do you do, Mr. Hightower. Please, won’t you be seated?”
He remained standing. “I shan’t stay long. I had come out of professional courtesy to inform you of pending changes to the Devonport-London route.” He quirked a sardonic brow. “But I take it you’ve already heard.”
“Only just. Quite a shock, as you can imagine. But I am glad you’re here. It gives me a chance to show you the many improvements we are making to provide even better service to our customers, especially passengers of the Royal Mail. If you would like to follow me, I will show you what we’ve done so far, and—”
He raised a hand. “I’m afraid I haven’t much time.”
Jane swallowed her disappointment and summarized what they had started and what they yet planned. It all sounded rather mundane as she described it. She wished she’d had more notice and time to prepare her case.
“That’s all well and good, Mrs. Bell. But speed and efficiency are uppermost in my decision. And the fact is, Mr. Drake’s hotel is conveniently located right off the new turnpike. Stopping there to change horses would allow our coaches to avoid the taxing uphill climb, saving time as well as the strain on the horses. I would be remiss not to take those factors into account.”
“I understand, but The Bell has a long, successful history with the Royal Mail, and we have undertaken refurbishments with the Royal Mail in mind, whereas Mr. Drake’s hotel is untried and unproven.”
Mr. Hightower stroked his chin. “The Bell has enjoyed the privilege of servicing the mail for many years, it is true. But it is my duty to look to the glorious future of the Royal Mail and not behind to the past.” He replaced his hat. “Well. Thank you for your time and understanding. Good day, Mrs. Bell.”
The outer door had barely snapped closed before Patrick popped his head into the office, all eagerness.
“So? How did it go? What did he say?”
Jane rested her head in her hands. “We’re doomed.”
Chapter
Thirty-Three
Four days later, Thora sat at the front desk, racking her wits to think of something to save their Royal Mail patronage and the inn. She noticed the Salisbury newspaper lying there, the employment section face up. Had Colin been perusing the Help Wanted notices, already looking for a position in case The Bell failed or was sold? She ran a finger down the advertisements. Perhaps she ought to start looking as well. . . .
Charlie swept in, a spring in his step. Considering the bad tidings he had recently brought them, she was surprised and a little peeved by his cheerful demeanor.
“It is Saturday, Thora,” he said. “You know what that means.”
She replied flatly, “Everyone will want bath water tonight?”
“That too, no doubt. But more importantly, it is my night off.”
Because there was no delivery of letters on Sundays, Saturday nights were an occasion for revelry among many Royal Mail coachmen. Even though clocks might be set by their passing at any other time, on Sundays the Royal Mail coaches returned to London at the drivers’ convenience. They would first meet at junction towns such as Andover, Hounslow, and Hockliffe, for an evening of merrymaking.
“Ah yes,” Thora replied, turning over the broadsheet. “Your night out with your fellow coachmen.”
“Come out with me instead, Thora. Let’s live a little.”
She paused and looked up at him, surprised by his earnest expression, and the offer. “Your cohorts would miss you.”
“You know I would happily sacrifice time with the fellows for time with you.”
When she made no reply, he pressed his advantage, leaning against the counter. “Come with me to Andover. I’ve been invited to a party there—a rout. And I would be proud to have you by my side.”
“Considering the bleak news you recently delivered, I hardly think now is the best time to attend some ribald party.”
“On the contrary, it is the perfect time. And it is a perfectly respectable occasion. In fact, more than respectable. Fashionable even.”
“Oh? And where is this grand occasion to be?” She made no effort to conceal her sarcasm. “The Stag?”
“No. At
Thora raised her own eyebrows in reply. “The deputy postmaster? But I thought you told me there was enmity between you. Why would your old rival invite you to his party?”
“He did not. His wife did. I happened to see her yesterday, and she invited me to come.”
“Because you and her husband are both involved with the Royal Mail—or because she is still smitten with you?”
“That was years ago, Thora. And regardless, the only woman I am smitten with is you.”
Was that true? Thora wondered. She felt winded and a little queasy at the thought.
“Thank you, Charlie. But I cannot go with you. Jane needs me here.”
“No I don’t,” Jane interrupted, poking her head out of the office. She quickly amended, “Of course we need you, Thora, but we will manage without you for a night. It is not one of our busy nights after all.”
“But all those baths . . .”
“I will ask Dotty and Ned to start heating water early. Don’t worry. You just go and have a good time.”
Charlie added, “Just think, Thora. It will give you a chance to charm the deputy postmaster, improve The Bell’s chances of keeping the Royal Mail.”
“If my charm is all that stands between losing and keeping that contract, heaven help us all.”
“Nonsense, Thora,” Charlie insisted. “You underestimate your charms, as much as I overestimate mine. Between the two of us, we should make quite an impression.”
“No doubt. But . . . if there’s any chance it will help our cause, I shall go with you.”
“How you flatter me,” he quipped, holding his hand to his heart and giving her a mock bow.
Then he said, “We’ll go in the Quicksilver. In style and speed.”
“Is that not against regulations?”
“Not to Andover—it’s on the route anyway. But delivering you home after the party? Well, I shan’t tell if you don’t.”
“I could find another way home.”
“Nonsense. And deprive me of a moonlit drive back, just the two of us?”
She sent him a sidelong glance. “I thought we were going to help The Bell’s cause?”
“That is why you are going. I am going to be with you.”
Thora rolled her eyes. “You certainly live up to your nickname.”
“Which nickname is that?” He struck a pugilist’s pose. “Lightning Lefty? Fabulous Frazer?”
“Charming Charlie.”
“Ah. That one. I am glad you think so.” He grinned at her. “I would tell you to wear something pretty, but I don’t wish to press my luck.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Wise man.”
When Charlie left them, Jane pleaded, “Thora, do wear something pretty. Frank has been gone a long time, and John for over a year. No one will think less of you if you dress in something else. You’ve been wearing mourning too long.”
“That’s the pot calling the widow black,” Thora dryly replied. “When are you going to put off mourning, Jane?”
“I . . . didn’t think you’d want me to.”
Thora looked at her somberly. “I don’t want you to wear black for my sake, but for John’s. I don’t want you to forget him.”
“Of course I won’t.”
Thora picked a loose thread from her sleeve. “I was thinking of my grey-and-black evening gown.”
“Very festive,” Jane teased.
“At least that is half mourning, rather than full.”
“It’s a start,” Jane allowed.
While Alwena helped Thora prepare for her evening out, Jane settled in to take care of things at the reception desk.
A coach arrived. As Patrick and Colin went out to meet it, Jane stepped to the window, watching the Zephyr passengers alight in the courtyard. One particular woman caught her eye. Her fashionable bright green carriage dress and pert hat made her stand out from the dark-suited gentleman and one elderly woman with a young maid in dark, nondescript traveling clothes. It was fairly uncommon for a female, especially a gentlewoman, to travel alone. So Jane noticed the woman in green, wondering where she had come from and where she was bound.
Curiosity piqued, Jane returned to the desk and observed the passengers as they entered the hall. Most of them hurried into the dining parlour for a quick meal—hopefully with time and at a temperature to actually enjoy it. But this woman walked gingerly, subtly pressing a hand into the small of her back, probably trying to ease the inevitable stiffness from hours of long confinement in a lurching coach. Yard duties done, Patrick returned inside. But seeing Jane at the desk, he waved to her and disappeared into the taproom.
The lady in green broke from the others and approached the reception desk.
“May I help you?” Jane asked, still feeling the newness of her unexpected role.
“I need a room—a private one. And . . . not too many stairs, if you please.”
The woman must be in pain, Jane thought, for she looked too young to have difficulty climbing stairs otherwise. She was, perhaps, in her late twenties. “Of course. Just for the one night?”
The woman managed a tight smile. “I don’t know.”
“May I . . . help you make arrangements to travel on to another destination? I assume you’ve gone as far as you can on the Zephyr?”
“I . . . am not certain. May I tell you later? I am so tired . . .”
“Of course. You just let me know. The room is yours for as long as you need it. And in the meantime, don’t hesitate to let us know if there is anything else you need.”
“Thank you.” The woman signed the registry and Jane noticed another wave of pain contort her lovely features.
“Are you feeling all right, Mrs. . . . North?” Jane asked, with a glance at the registry.
“A little ill from all that jarring travel, but I trust it shall pass. Quiet rest is all I need.”
“I understand,” Jane said. “Why don’t I show you the way myself. It isn’t far.” She noticed Colin carrying a pair of freshly polished Hessians for another guest, and called, “Colin, when you’re finished there, please see Mrs. North’s baggage carried to number three, and ask Alwena to bring up water when she’s finished helping Thora.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jane escorted her guest up one flight of stairs. “I’ve put you in my favorite of our rooms. It has a fine new carpet and feather mattress.” She bestowed a warm smile on Mrs. North, and the woman mustered one in return.
Jane led the way to a door not far along the corridor, unlocked it, and gestured the woman in ahead of her. Jane ran her gaze over the airy room with new rose curtains and bedclothes with a strange sense of pride. “We’ve been doing a little refurbishing.”
“It’s very nice,” the woman said obligingly.
“Here are a few towels, and soap. Alwena will be your chambermaid. She will be up any moment with warm water for your washstand.” Jane pointed and said, “There is a commode cabinet there. Or a new privy especially for ladies outside in the garden.” She gestured toward the window. “If you are hungry after you rest, dinner is available downstairs. Breakfast tomorrow will be served from six to ten. But let Alwena know if you prefer to have a tray delivered to your room: chocolate, toasted muffins, eggs—whatever you like.”
“Thank you, I shall, Mrs. . . . ?”
“Forgive me. I am Jane Bell.”
“Are you the innkeeper?”
“Um . . . the landlady, yes.”
The woman’s eyes sparked with humor. “You don’t sound very certain of that.”
Feeling self-conscious, Jane explained, “It was my husband’s inn. I am still growing accustomed to the title.”
“I’m sorry. Has he been gone long?”
“A year.” Jane quickly diverted the woman’s sympathy, saying lightly, “But we are managing. You may also meet my brother-in-law and another Mrs. Bell—my mother-in-law, in the course of your stay. It is a
A tentative knock sounded on the open door. Colin stood there, valise and bandbox in his hands.
“Come in, Colin.”
He set down the woman’s baggage and quickly departed. On his heels came Alwena, who bobbed a curtsy and managed not to slosh any water from the can she carried.
Jane stepped to the door. “Well, I shall leave you in Alwena’s capable hands. Again, do not hesitate to ask for me if there is anything you need.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Bell. I shall.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask the woman to call her Jane, but she refrained. This was not a social call.
“I hope you feel better soon. Good night.”
Duty done, Jane went back downstairs. When Patrick came out to relieve her, Jane slipped away to the stables to visit and groom Athena. She hoped Mrs. Rooke would not miss the three choice carrots she’d helped herself to from the larder.
Chapter
Thirty-Four
At the appointed time that evening, Charles Angus Frazer swept into the hall dressed in formal evening coat, white jabot, and . . . kilt. Stockings, black brogues, and sporran. Full Scottish regalia.
Thora shook her head. “Goodness, Charlie. You certainly know how to blend in.”
He bowed. “Thank you, lass.”
Privately, she acknowledged that he looked extremely handsome in the attire of his homeland. But she would not admit it. The man had far too much confidence as it was.
“You look lovely, Thora.” He opened the door for her. “Shall we?”
As she had the last time, Thora sat next to Charlie on the coachman’s box. But tonight he seemed in no hurry, allowing the team to trot on at a leisurely pace, content, he said, to enjoy the temperate evening and her company.
It was pleasant, Thora allowed. She was secretly glad the slower pace meant less wind to wreak havoc on her hair, which Alwena had again dressed with care.
When they reached Andover, Thora surveyed the town with new interest. “So this is where you grew up.”
“Yes, after my father moved us here from Inverness. He and Mr. Hightower, senior, had served together, and afterward, he offered my father a job.”