When she had finished, Thora came over and dipped out an experimental ladle full. “What is this? You were supposed to add a little hot soup to the egg yolks and vinegar gradually!”
Instead, the eggs for the thickening had boiled into a solid stringy mess.
“Oh no,” Jane groaned. “I will have to start again.”
“There isn’t time. We’ll have to serve it as it is.”
“But it looks . . . wrong.”
“We’ll call it . . . chicken and egg soup . . . and no one will be the wiser.”
Jane doubted that but was grateful for Thora’s quick thinking.
“The next coach arrives soon, and they’ll expect hot soup,” Thora said.
“Very hot,” Jane murmured, sending Thora a wry look.
A short while later, Colin knocked on the doorframe, a wary look on his face as he surveyed the kitchen crew. “Sorry to intrude, Mrs. Bell, but Miss Grove is here.”
Jane set down her spoon. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she assured the others. She stepped into the passage, wiping her hands on a dish towel as she went.
Mercy’s eyes widened at the sight of her soiled apron. “I dropped by to make sure you’d heard the news about Sir William, but . . .”
“I did hear, yes, and sent my sympathies to Rachel. I am sorry, Mercy, but I can’t stop to talk, as much as I’d like to. Our cook has quit.”
“Oh no!”
Jane nodded. “Thora, Dotty, and I are muddling along as best we can.”
“So I see.” Mercy took the towel from her and rubbed egg from her face.
Jane moaned. “Instead of improving The Bell’s food, I am making it worse.”
Mercy thought. “Our Mrs. Timmons might help, though she is a very plain cook indeed and rather slow at her age. She would not do well in the hectic environment of a coaching inn. Auntie would bake for you, but . . .”
“We buy most of our baked goods from Craddock’s.”
Mercy grinned. “Praise the Lord for small mercies.”
“Well, if you think of anyone who could help even for a few days while we try to find a new cook, let me know.”
“I shall ask the Tea and Knitting ladies.”
From the sound of the kitchen came the clatter of pots falling and Thora exclaiming, “Hang the gibbet!”
Jane looked back at Mercy. “Please hurry.”
Mercy nodded. “I will. Straightaway.”
Jane trudged toward the kitchen early the next morning, resigned to another day of toil, and wondering what dish she would spoil this time. At the door, she stopped short at the sight of Bertha Rooke stirring a pot of porridge. Before she could utter a word, Thora appeared, taking Jane’s arm and leading her down the corridor and out of earshot.
“Shh . . . let’s not risk angering her again already.”
Jane gaped at her mother-in-law. “What did you do to get her back, Thora?”
“Nothing.”
“You must have done or said something to placate her.”
Thora shook her head. “I didn’t. I came down bright and early and there she was. Her threat to go and work for Mr. Drake was bluster evidently.”
“But Cadi said she saw her walking down the Wishford Road yesterday in her smartest frock and hat.”
Thora nodded. “I know. And Patrick told me he overheard her boasting how much more Mr. Drake pays than we do. Apparently she saw his advertisement for a cook.”
“Perhaps Patrick persuaded her to stay,” Jane said. “He could if anyone could.”
Thora looked at her closely. “I thought perhaps you charmed your friend Mr. Drake into not hiring our cook away from us.”
“No. I did not think to try.” Jane had not seen James Drake in several days, since he paid his bill and departed for Fairmont House. Had he hired a different cook out of deference to her? She would not put it past him.
Thora said, “Well, whatever the case, I shall not look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“Nor I.”
Thora joined Charlie in the coffee room for breakfast after all, though she’d thought she’d be unable to until they’d replaced their cook. She said, “Bertha Rooke is back at her post, and I for one am grateful. I’d forgot how much work managing that kitchen can be.”
“Hard work is good for us, Thora. Keeps us young.”
“Oh? And what do you know about hard work?” Thora challenged, spreading her table napkin on her lap.
Charlie picked up his coffee cup. “A great deal.”
“Oh come now. Since when does sitting on a bench for hours at a stretch count as hard work?”
Charlie shook his head. “Thora, you disappoint me. How can you have grown up in a coaching inn and doubt the rigors of a coachman’s life? Especially a coachman for the Royal Mail?” He sipped his coffee, then continued, “I do far more than sit. I inspect the team and harnesses thoroughly before setting out—that’s extremely important. A broken strap can halt the coach or even overturn it. I have to stay alert, gauge when to rotate the horses to avoid callusing their mouths on one side. I have to know when to push and when to rest them, so as not to exhaust the horses unduly, like my counterpart often does, the scapegrace.”
He glanced at Thora. “You don’t look convinced. Tell you what—ride with me as far as Salisbury next Tuesday and see me in action. I’ll send you home in a sister coach driven by Jeb Moore, and you can compare for yourself.”
Thora shook her head, about to turn him down, but something in his expression stopped her. He expected her to refuse. “Next Tuesday, hmm? What time shall I be ready?”
It was worth it to see the look of surprise on his face.
Rachel Ashford sat wearily down at the writing desk with its delicate carved legs and highly polished surface. How much longer would she be able to sit on any piece of furniture in this house?
It was only a matter of time now until she would be put out of her own home—the only home she’d ever known. Well, Thornvale had never been hers. Not truly. She had always known it was entailed away to the male line. But that fact had never really bothered her or seemed tragic. It wasn’t a fate she had regularly contemplated or fretted about growing up. As an idealistic young lady, she had thought her father would live to a ripe old age. And that she would marry a handsome, wealthy gentleman and be mistress of his fine house long before the entail could affect her personally.
She’d been wrong.
With a sigh, Rachel pulled forth a sheet of writing paper, uncorked the ink, and dipped her quill pen.
Dear Ellen,
The funeral is over. The callers gone home. The will read.
No, I am not angry with you for not coming home for the funeral. Of course you are right that women do not typically attend. But it would have been helpful to have you here during all the arrangements and calls and condolences. I grew weary of making your excuses, but I did so, never fear. And you were wrong in assuming Jane and I have reconciled, and that she and Mercy would serve as my companions in your absence. Mercy does visit when her school responsibilities allow, but I don’t see much of Jane. That has not changed in all these years. Not since . . .
Rachel broke from her usual fastidiously neat writing and blotted out those last two words. There was no reason to explain. No point in going into the whole mortifying ordeal again. Not when her sister had a perfect husband, a perfect marriage, and a perfect home.
In your last letter, you asked about Papa’s will for property not tied up in the entail. I trust you were not hoping for money. Mr. Blomfield has made it perfectly clear that the little remaining will be used to pay down Papa’s debts. Thankfully, you received your dowry years ago. Papa has also left you what remains of Mamma’s jewelry—her topaz ring, cameo, garnets, and pearls. They are too valuable to send by post, but I will put them aside for you.
Mamma had left no will or instructions, so all of her personal belongings became her husband’s to dispose of as he wished. They’d had to sell a few of her more valuable pieces o
ver the years to keep Thornvale limping along, but why had he given all of Mamma’s remaining jewelry to Ellen? Why nothing for her? Ellen was welcome to the pearls and gems. But might she not have had the less-valuable cameo at least?
Papa has left me his books . . .
Rachel made no mention of how their father’s act had cut her. She told herself that in his view, he had left her the greater bequest, so perhaps she should be grateful. But the entire collection of scholarly tomes felt like a weighty millstone around her neck. She knew what Ellen’s thoughts would be. She would probably visit her nearest bookseller to ascertain what the collection might be worth—make sure Rachel had not inherited more than she had. Books were expensive. Especially these. These were no slim volumes on cheap paper. They were thick leather or board-bound books with gilt edges—histories, biographies, science texts, and works of philosophy. Books like these were only valuable if you could sell them, however. And her father had stipulated that Rachel would have his entire library on the condition that she neither sell the books nor give them away piecemeal. They must be kept together, the collection intact. And if, at the end of her life, she had no offspring to leave them to, she could bequeath the collection in its entirety to her father’s alma mater, or to whichever institution of higher learning would value them most and agree to keep them together for posterity.
. . . on the condition that I don’t sell them, but keep the collection as is. Keep it where? That is what I would like to know.
What had her father been thinking? Had his faculties faded before his body? He had to remember that the manor housing his library would become the property of his heir—the son of a cousin he had barely known. And she would have to find somewhere else to live. How was she to afford a house or rooms large enough to hold such a collection? Perhaps this heir of his would allow her to leave the books where they were for now. She hoped so. The thought of the work required to box up and move those hundreds of volumes struck her as daunting, not to mention fruitless. Move them where? Mercy and her aunt had offered her the use of their spare room. But the room was too small to hold a fraction of these books.
Rachel knew their solicitor, Mr. Nikel, had written to Father’s heir. She had seen his name in print. But beyond that she knew little of the man who now owned Thornvale.
We are each to have one of Grandmother Woodgate’s sets of china. I know you prefer the rose pattern, so I will take the willow. The rest of the china and silver, as well as the furniture and art, goes with the house to Papa’s heir, Mr. Nicholas Ashford. Have you ever met him? I cannot recall doing so. If you know anything about the man, please write and tell me.
Would he be a tyrant? Rachel wondered. An uncouth money-grubber with no concept of what the house and furnishings were worth—or the history behind them? Her stomach churned at the thought of a stranger taking over Thornvale. Especially if the stranger had no appreciation of the home or the family that had once lived and died there.
She thought of Jane Bell’s childhood home. Sold out of the family, and now long abandoned and forlorn.
Which fate would be worse? Rachel wondered. She wasn’t certain.
On Sunday, Jane arrived at church early to deliver the requested flowers—an arrangement of bright calendula, sweet William, and stocks, with spiky digitalis for height.
She positioned the vase before the pulpit and stepped back to review her work. Satisfied, she turned and walked down the aisle and took her usual seat. She looked forward to some time sitting alone in the reverent silence to think and pray. She gazed through the chancel arch, where sunlight from three gothic windows gave the altar a golden glow. Beautiful.
The vestry door opened, and she glanced toward it. She expected Mr. Paley, but instead saw the sexton, Mr. Ainsworth, carrying a brass candle holder. With the candle, he lit the lamp on the lectern, then started toward the pulpit, clearly unaware he was being observed. He stopped midstride, attention caught by something on the floor.
“Oh,” he said, in polite address. “Good morning, Jerome.”
Jane saw no one. Was he talking to himself? Surely he did not address God by such a nickname. She tried to remember what Mr. Paley had said about the man.
The sexton looked up, and Jane feigned interest in something in her reticule to spare him any embarrassment.
The sound of purposeful footfalls echoed through the nave, followed by Mrs. Paley’s voice. “Thank you, Mr. Ainsworth. Now, is it not almost time to ring the bell?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured and shuffled on. As he passed, Jane caught the mingled scent of tallow, cigars, and furniture polish.
Mrs. Paley noticed her there. “Ah, Jane. Good morning.”
“Hello, Mrs. Paley.”
Jane waited until Mr. Ainsworth had disappeared into the bell tower, then said, “I just heard the sexton greet someone named Jerome, but I saw no one.”
Camilla Paley waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, he was probably talking to the church mice again. He makes pets of them. I hope he didn’t frighten you?”
“No.”
“Good. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought I was alone in the church, when suddenly he appears and scares me half to death. But he’s harmless.” The vicar’s wife turned toward the pulpit. “How lovely your flowers look, Jane. Well done.”
“Thank you. It was my pleasure.”
“By the way, I trust you heard Sir William passed on early this week?”
“Yes, I did hear that sad news.” Rachel’s only reply to Jane’s letter of condolence and offer of help had been a cool note acknowledging her sympathies, but saying there was nothing she needed.
“Sad, yes, but not unexpected,” Mrs. Paley said, then studied her face. “I . . . imagine your friend’s loss reminds you of your own father. You don’t talk about him, I notice. I suppose it is a painful subject.”
Jane met her speculative eyes a moment, then looked away. “Yes.”
She felt Mrs. Paley’s gaze rest on her a moment longer, then the woman drew herself up. “Well. I had better go and see if my husband is ready. Thank you again for the flowers.”
Jane nodded, and as Mrs. Paley’s echoing footfalls faded, Jane closed her eyes to savor the reverent silence once more. Then she bowed her head and prayed for wisdom, guidance, and favor. She prayed for Rachel as well.
Chapter
Nineteen
On Monday, Jane stood on a chair in the hall, taking down the curtains for the laundress, hoping a good cleaning would brighten them up until they could afford to replace them.
Patrick stepped out of the office. “I need John’s keys for the wine cellar, Jane. Do you have them?”
“They’re in the lodge. I’ll get them for you in a few minutes.”
He ran his hand over his face. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. Would you mind if I ran over and fetched them myself?”
“I suppose not. They’re on the desk in the corner.” Jane hoped she had not left out anything personal, or any undergarments lying in the open.
“Thanks.” He hurried out, intent on his errand.
A few minutes later, Mercy walked in the front door and stopped abruptly at seeing Jane upon her perch. “Jane . . . may I help you?”
“Yes, actually. Could you unfasten that end? It’s caught on something.”
Mercy reached up and, being taller than Jane, easily loosed the trapped edge.
“Thank you.” Jane laid the curtain into a mounding basket.
Mercy said, “I’ve just come from Thornvale.”
“Oh? How is Rachel bearing up?”
“Rather well, actually. Sir William suffered such a long illness, she’s had plenty of time to prepare herself.”
Rachel had even attended church the day before, Jane had noticed, though she’d left immediately after the service without speaking to anyone except the vicar.
Jane said, “I was surprised to not see her sister in church yesterday. Did Rachel say why Ellen has not come?”
“Only that she
is busy with her two small children. Speaking of busy, I’m afraid I haven’t made any progress in finding you a new cook.”
“Oh, I should have told you yesterday. Mrs. Rooke came back.”
“I am relieved to hear it. By the way, there’s another meeting of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society tonight. Will you come with me again?”
“Another meeting?” Jane suppressed a frown. “I’m afraid I’m busy here at present. When I’m through with these, there are rugs to beat, and after that I am making feather beds.”
“Are you indeed?”
Jane nodded. “Mrs. McFarland is sewing the ticks. And Julia Featherstone is providing the goose feathers.” Remembering the last meeting, Jane added sheepishly, “And fear not, I paid her in advance this time.”
Mercy nodded her understanding. “When are you planning to fill them?”
“Tomorrow afternoon. If the ticks are ready.”
“I would come and help you,” Mercy said, “but I am administering examinations all day.”
Jane gave her a saucy grin. “Mercy Grove, have you ever filled a tick in your life?”
“No. But a woman can learn anything she sets her mind to.”
Jane pressed her friend’s hand. “That is exactly what I am counting on.”
Thora walked through the inn archway on her way to market, basket and list in hand. She hesitated near the lodge, her conscience niggling her. She realized she ought to ask Jane to review her shopping list before spending Bell money. It grated to have to ask permission to do what she had done by her own authority in the past, but she knew she should. Jane was in charge now, for better or worse.
The lodge door was slightly ajar, so Thora knocked once and let herself inside, stopping abruptly at the sight of Patrick bent over the desk in the corner. He whipped his head around, quickly shut the drawer, and if she was not mistaken, shoved something into his coat pocket.