The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill by Julie Klassen
Talbot asked, “Where is Thora going in such a hurry?”
Jane hesitated. “She, um . . .”
Patrick said bluntly, “She is going after Charlie Frazer.”
Jane stole a glance at Talbot’s face as he watched Thora disappear down the hill. His lips slightly parted, his eyes . . . Oh, the pain written there nearly broke Jane’s heart.
“To thank him,” Jane hastened to add. “For the contest, you know. He drove, and had to leave right after. That’s all.”
Was that all? Jane wasn’t certain, but she had to do something to try to staunch the wound.
“Of course. Well . . .” Talbot cleared his throat. “All the best to them both.”
Fifteen minutes later, Thora entered the Crown for the first time in her life, a place she’d forsworn decades before. Her gaze traveled over the dim taproom. There . . . She expelled a relieved breath at the sight of a familiar figure at a back table.
She walked forward. “Sneaking away without saying good-bye? That isn’t like you.”
Charlie looked up in surprise. “Thora . . . ?”
She lifted a staying palm, not wanting to raise his hopes. “I’ve come to say good-bye in person. And to thank you. Eudora told me what you did. I can only guess what that cost you. And I deeply appreciate it.”
“I did nothing so great. I had been thinking of transferring for some time, even if I let Hightower believe it was a great sacrifice on my part to do so. You see how eager he was to be rid of me—insisted I leave this very day, and booked my passage himself.”
“Would you have come to tell me good-bye if he had given you more time?”
Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know. I thought it would be easier not to.”
“Easier for you or for me?”
“Both of us, I imagine.”
Thora sat down beside him. “I suppose you’re right. But difficult or not, I need you to know that I will never forget what you did for us, and you will always be welcome at The Bell, as long as I have anything to say about it. And I know I speak for Jane as well.”
“Thank you, Thora.”
She took a deep breath and forced herself to continue. “I know things didn’t turn out between us as you might have liked. But I will miss you, Charlie, and always consider you a close friend. And . . . I’ve come to give you something.” She swallowed. “Something you told me you’ve wanted for years. Though I don’t know if you still do . . .”
His brows rose. “If it is what I think it is, then the answer is yes, definitely.”
“Even though it means good-bye?”
He hesitated, a sad smile creasing his handsome face. “Must it?”
Tears heated her eyes. “I am afraid so.”
“Very well,” he said, a roguish grin overtaking his features. “Then I shall take what I can get. Beggars can’na be choosers.”
Thora recognized his bravado for what it was and admired his courage.
She leaned forward to plant a kiss on his cheek, but he turned his head and gave her a sound smack on the lips instead.
Her eyes widened in surprise.
He sighed theatrically. “I suppose you shall now feel duty bound to deliver a slap to that cheek instead of the kiss you intended?”
“Yes,” she quietly replied. “Will you turn the other cheek?”
He turned his cheek toward her and she surprised them both by leaning in close and delivering a second peck.
“A good-bye kiss,” she said, in benediction.
He leaned back, a satisfied grin stretching his mouth. “At last! A kiss from the belle of The Bell and the angel of The Angel! I can die a happy man.”
“Don’t die, Charlie Frazer. Live long and be happy.”
“I shall if you shall, Thora Bell.”
She held out her hand to him, a woman of business, ready to make a deal. “You strike a hard bargain. But I shall do my best.”
He pressed her hand, then brought it to his lips in final farewell.
Later that night, Jane sat on the doorstep outside her lodge, petting Kipper beside her. She was exhausted, yet too restless to sleep. What a day it had been.
The courtyard was quiet, and only the lamp illuminating their repaired sign still flickered. They were not expecting any more coaches that night, and inside the inn, candles were doused one by one.
Jane looked up at the stars, more visible now that the yard was dim. She thought of John. She had struggled all these months to come to terms with his death, and the news she learned earlier that day had rocked what little peace she had, yet at the same time, it answered lingering questions. Filled in missing pieces. Laid to rest other doubts and theories.
Jane had not told Thora. And wouldn’t, she decided, at least until circumstances forced her to. Thora idealized John, and Jane knew what a cruel blow it would be. And as her thoughts formed and her decision to say nothing solidified, Jane realized she was doing the exact same thing she had blamed Gabriel Locke for doing. She knew that didn’t justify her decision to shield Thora, but it did help Jane understand why Gabriel had withheld the information. And allowed her to forgive him. She wasn’t certain she could yet fully trust the man. But hopefully, in time, that would change.
The creak and slide of the stable door caught her attention, and Jane looked through the archway. Gabriel Locke walked out, leading Sultan, saddlebags bulging, and valise in hand.
Her heart lifted to see the man who had helped win the day, but a moment later she realized what the saddlebags and valise foretold.
She rose and stood there, conflicting emotions wrestling within her, and waited as he neared. “You’re leaving?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“But, I . . . I didn’t mean it when I said I didn’t want you here. I’m sorry. I thought you understood.”
He nodded. “I came back to help with the contest. And you won.”
“We won.”
“But now it’s time for me to leave—amicably this time.” He managed a small grin. “I have unfinished business in Epsom, and in Pewsey Vale. I already spoke to Fuller. He will fill in again until you find another farrier.”
“But you’re so much more than a farrier.”
He strapped his valise handle to the saddle and then turned back to her. He slowly reached out and took her hand in both of his. How large, how callused, how strong.
“You’ll be all right, Jane Bell,” he said, voice low. “I know it.”
Her chin trembled. “Will I?”
He nodded. “I have every confidence in you.”
Chapter
Forty-One
Thora offered to remain at the reception desk for most of the following week, allowing her daughter-in-law to work on her written plan for Mr. Blomfield. Thora read over sections and gave her opinion when asked but otherwise said little. She tried to remind herself that this was her future too, but her heart was not convinced. After all the recent excitement with the contest, she felt oddly deflated.
Jane stepped out of the office and showed her the projected increase in income, resulting profits, and a proposed timeline for paying down the loan.
When Thora removed her spectacles, Jane asked, “Do you have any suggestions? Anything to add?”
Thora shook her head. “Looks fine to me.”
Jane sent her a skeptical look. “Are you all right, Thora?”
“Of course I am.”
“Is there . . . anything you want to talk about?”
“No.” Thora looked around. “I think all is in hand. The bills and staff are paid. Menus set. Repairs progressing.”
“I don’t mean about the inn. I mean, is there anything else you want to talk about. Anything . . . bothering you?”
A dear face passed through Thora’s mind, wearing a disappointed look—one she had put there. “What would be bothering me?” she said. “Now, go and finish that plan.”
Jane’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer. Then she turned and went back into the office.
She returned to the desk with a sigh.
Mr. Paley entered through the front door. “Hello, Thora. I stopped by to tell you. Nan Talbot died this morning.”
Thora’s heart fisted. “What?”
“Nan Talbot died,” he repeated. “Mrs. Paley is still there, helping Sadie for a while, but I had to get back. I just thought you would want to know.”
For one moment, Thora sank hard onto the chair, the breath knocked from her. But in the next instant, she was on her feet, striding across the hall.
“Thank you, Parson.”
“Thora? I can take you out there, if you would like. It looks like rain.”
But Thora made no reply, her steps growing more rapid, out the door, down the High Street, gaining speed. Making the turn out of the village, her walk became a jog.
Talbot.
The rain started as a gentle drizzle and grew heavier, seeping through her gown.
Thora reached the farm at last, damp, side aching, and winded. She paused at the gate to catch her breath, bending over, hands on her waist. When Thora straightened, she saw it, and her heart lurched.
A new sign hung on the gate, identifying Talbot’s homeplace.
The Angel Farm
Thora stilled, staring at it. Her eyes and cheeks became wet, and she swiped a hand across her face. Only the rain. . . .
Pushing open the gate, she ran through it toward the house, expecting he would be inside, grieving. As she neared, she heard the discordant sound of someone chopping wood in the rain. Thora paused, craning her neck toward the woodshed to see who it was, wondering who would be out working in this weather. Surely not Talbot, not at a time like this.
Sadie stepped outside, a grey shawl tented over her head, and followed the direction of her gaze.
“He’s been at it for an hour.” The woman shook her head. “He won’t stop. I tried. Mrs. Paley tried . . .”
Thora turned and strode toward the woodshed.
Sadie called after her, “Take an umbrella at least!”
But Thora paid her no mind.
She rounded the house and there he was, his head bare, in his shirtsleeves and trousers, his boots a muddy mess. She would recognize his profile anywhere, the long, aquiline nose, sharp cheekbones and chin.
“Walter Talbot,” she called. “What are you doing?”
He glanced over, and a rivulet of rain coursed down his forehead, between his eyebrows, and ran off his nose. His hair lay plastered to his brow, his shirt clung to his shoulders and arms.
With a determined expression, he turned back to his task. He lifted the ax high over his head and slammed it down on the chopping block with a solid thunk, splitting the log with ease. Again, he set up a log, split it, and tossed the pieces onto the pile.
Thora strode forward. “Talbot!” she repeated as she neared, but he either did not hear her over the pelting rain or chose not to respond.
She waited until he’d bent to pick up another log—the ax out of harm’s way—and then stepped close.
“Stop,” she commanded, gripping his arms to still his movements. “Nan is gone. Work is not the way to handle this.”
“Ha. It’s what you’ve done all these years.”
She blinked. “I know.”
Grasping his taut shoulders, she felt them tremble, and slowly turned him toward her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know it hurts.”
He tried to avert his face. His grief. But she saw, and understood.
Thora Stonehouse Bell was not one for displays of affection. Never had been. But she wrapped her arms around Walter Talbot and held him tight. For a moment he stood there, stiff and unyielding. Then he put his arms around her in return, and slowly, tentatively pulled her close. They had never touched like this before, never touched at all except in passing, and certainly had never embraced.
Thora gingerly laid her head on his shoulder. He, in turn, laid his cheek atop her head. They stood there in the rain for several achingly sweet moments, then Thora pulled away first.
“What are we doing standing out here like a couple of daft ducks? Let’s go inside before we catch our deaths. Sadie has enough to deal with as it is.”
“You two look worse than wet cats,” Sadie muttered as they bustled, dripping, into the house. “Sit by the fire and I’ll bring hot tea to warm you. Add another log, Mr. Talbot. By the looks of that pile, we’ve got enough to last us ’til the second coming.”
Talbot complied.
Later, after they’d dried off as best they could with towels and left their shoes to dry by the fire, Talbot slipped away. He returned a few moments later and handed Thora something.
Her purple shawl, folded neatly.
Thora protested, “But I gave that to Nan.”
“I know you did. But she asked me to give it back to you after she passed. And her brooch with it.” He pointed to the cameo, still pinned to the shawl. “She said, ‘Tell Thora to remember what I told her about gifts.’”
Thora wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and fingered Nan’s cameo. Warmth and memories instantly enveloped her.
Excusing herself, Thora tiptoed into Nan’s room. Sadie and Mrs. Paley had bathed and dressed Nan in fine satin and carefully arranged her hair. She looked as though she were sleeping peacefully. But when Thora approached the bed and viewed her inanimate form more closely, it was perfectly clear to Thora that the real Nan—her soul, her spirit, her essence—was not there any longer. She had gone somewhere far better.
Thora reached out and touched Nan’s cool hand, then once again touched the brooch. “Thank you, Nan,” Thora whispered. “I will remember.”
Rachel Ashford lay atop her bedclothes, hoping for a midafternoon rest. Since her arrival the month before, she had endeavored to make herself useful at Ivy Cottage—mending, knitting mittens for next winter, and overseeing the girls’ recesses in the garden—but she knew it was not enough. She could not take advantage of Mercy’s hospitality much longer. She needed to find a way to secure her own livelihood.
Out in the passage, girls hurried past, as they seemed to do in a near-constant stream—calling out questions, arguing about borrowing another’s hair comb without asking, or giggling over some girlish trifle. Had she been just as loud and frivolous at their ages? Ellen certainly had. Rachel and Jane had talked a lot as girls, though their conversations had mostly been whispered dreams and softly shared secrets high atop those evergreens. . . . But all that was a long time ago.
Life in Thornvale had been a quiet affair—at least for the last several years. Rachel was not yet accustomed to sharing a house with so many people, with all the accompanying noise and activity. She would get used to it, Rachel told herself. She would.
As often happened, Rachel found her gaze drawn to the mother-daughter portrait, which Mr. Basu had quietly and efficiently hung for her. In the pose, Mamma was seated with a young Rachel on her lap, her long, graceful hand affectionately holding Rachel’s small one. Ellen stood beside Mamma, leaning against her shoulder.
Their mother had been gone a long time, but Rachel still missed her. It was something else she and Jane had in common. She wondered for the first time in years how Jane had felt, moving from the grand expanse of Fairmont House to that tiny innkeeper’s lodge—a mere two or three rooms Rachel had secretly disdained. Yet now here she was, with her belongings crammed into only one.
And unlike Jane once had, Rachel had no husband to share her snug second home.
Rachel had been with Jane when she first met John Bell all those years ago. Rachel, Jane, and a newly engaged Ellen had traveled to Bath together to visit the modistes and milliners of that larger, fashionable city. Ellen had sought wedding clothes
While out shopping, Jane had pulled them into a book shop “just for a minute,” she promised, knowing Ellen and Rachel would far rather look at hats.
Inside, the three of them had been intrigued by the sight of a strikingly handsome man perusing a novel. He had looked slightly familiar to Rachel, though she could not place him. She had a few acquaintances in Bath, but did not think he numbered among them. Perhaps she had met him at a ball or dinner given by a mutual friend, she guessed, not recognizing him out of context.
Ellen had whispered none too softly, “Who is that handsome man? My goodness, Jane, how he looks at you! I think it must be love at first sight!”
Perhaps if they had known who he was from the beginning, things might have turned out differently. For all of them.
Sometimes Rachel still found it difficult to believe proud Jane Fairmont had married an innkeeper. Had she lived to regret it?
Rachel wondered again if Sir Timothy had ever asked Jane to marry him. Or only wished he had. Did he regret not marrying at all? Or did he thank God he had escaped with his family’s reputation intact? She doubted she would ever know.
With a sigh, Rachel looked once more around her small room, her single bed, and the still-empty bookcase. Then, remembering, she turned her head toward her side table, her gaze lingering on the bouquet of peach roses Nicholas Ashford had so thoughtfully given her from Thornvale’s garden. The blooms were fading now and the petals falling. Perhaps she ought to consider his proposal more seriously. And soon.
The following week, after Nan Talbot had been laid to rest, many friends and neighbors called to express their sympathy and see how Walter was getting along. Thora had spent time at the farm as well, helping to clean Nan’s room and the sitting room, and catching up on household tasks that had gone undone while Sadie had rightly focused on Nan.
The visitors had gone home now, though the table still overflowed with offerings of food. Talbot had given Sadie a few days off to rest and spend time with her family. She had worked such long hours over recent months, caring for Nan, and deserved some time away.