The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill

  “Patrick? What are you doing in here?”

  “Just fetching John’s keys.” He turned and dangled them in the air. “Jane was busy—taking down curtains, if you can believe it.”

  He smiled, but something in his eyes sent a prickle of alarm through her. What had he really been doing nosing through the desk? Should she demand to search his pockets, like a mother of a child hiding candy? Or was she jumping to conclusions again?

  “And you, Mamma?” Patrick asked, customary humor returning to his expression. “What has you marching in unannounced?”

  Her mouth parted. “I . . .” What had she come for? Finding her son rooting around her daughter-in-law’s lodgings had muddled her mind. “I only wanted to ask Jane about the list for market. I thought she was in here.”

  “No. Just me.” Patrick gestured toward the door. “Shall we?”

  She gave him a pointed look. “After you.”

  On Tuesday morning, Jane was sitting behind the front desk when Ned Winkle appeared. The potboy cleared his throat. “Sorry to disturb you, ma’am. But Mrs. Rooke would like a word.”

  “Of course,” Jane said, though inwardly groaned in expectation of another quarrel. She rose from the desk and started toward the kitchen. Ned, she noticed, scurried off in the opposite direction.

  At the end of the passage, she saw Mrs. Rooke at the back door, a woman standing just outside with a toddler on her hip.

  “You asked for me, Mrs. Rooke?”

  The stout cook held a sack in one hand and with the other gestured toward the door. “I already told her we could not pay her today, but she asked to see you.”

  The thin woman in her early forties wore a cap over faded reddish-brown hair. Her narrow face was punctuated by high cheekbones and shadowed eyes. The child she held looked to be two or three years old—a pretty girl, who stared warily at their cook.

  Mrs. Rooke thrust a sack of something at Jane, and with a glance Jane recognized the folded pinstriped material as the ticks she had commissioned. She looked up at the woman who’d made them and gave her an uneasy smile. “Hello. Mrs. McFarland, I trust?”

  The woman nodded, eyes full of worry.

  Jane would not turn her away empty-handed. She would pay Mrs. McFarland even if she had to sell something, but she had already used the last ten pounds of her own money to pay for the feathers. Old Kelly Featherstone had delivered the sacks in his donkey cart first thing that morning.

  Jane looked at Mrs. Rooke and forced a casual tone. “There must be some mistake. There was sufficient money on hand yesterday.”

  “Well, there isn’t enough now, Master Patrick says. Not that and pay the brewer what he’s owed.”

  Jane felt her neck heat, embarrassed to not be able to pay for work as promised. She set down the sack and forced herself to meet the woman’s eyes. “Wait here a few moments, if you will, Mrs. McFarland. I shall return shortly.”

  As she walked away, she heard Mrs. Rooke huff behind her and tromp away into the kitchen.

  Reaching the office, she demanded, “Patrick. Give me sixteen shillings, please. I told you I needed that much last week.”

  “The brewer’s bill was larger than expected.”

  “The brewer gets plenty of our money. Let him wait.”

  Patrick reared his head back in surprise. “Shall I send the ill-tempered man to you when he comes?”

  Jane swallowed at the thought of the burly brute. “If you must.”

  Patrick clicked his tongue. “Feathers over ale, Jane? And here I’d thought you had the makings of a woman of business.”

  She lifted her chin. “Mr. Drake says that a good meal and a good bed are the underpinnings of a successful hostelry.”

  “Mr. Drake this. Mr. Drake that. I grow weary of hearing that man’s name.” Patrick sighed. “But you are the boss. . . .” He opened the cash drawer and extracted a few coins. “Here is a shiny new half sovereign and six shillings.”

  “Thank you.” Jane turned and swept from the office. She noticed Colin had taken her vacated place at the desk but at the moment was too mortified to meet his gaze.

  She returned to the back door and handed the woman the coins. “There you are, Mrs. McFarland. Thank you for waiting.” Jane picked up the sack and fingered a hem. “The stitching looks excellent. I will probably request more ticks eventually, though we may have to spread out the buying of feathers. Terribly expensive, I’ve learned.”

  The woman nodded her understanding. “I would be pleased to sew or mend anything else, ma’am. Though nothing too fancy, I’m afraid.”

  “I shall keep that in mind. We will eventually want new bedclothes, and perhaps curtains and tablecloths as well.”

  “Yes, ma’am. That I could do. And my Susie’s becoming a dab-hand herself, so we’ll work double quick.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. McFarland. Em . . . Colin is just down the hall at the front desk, if you’d like to say hello?”

  “That’s all right. I know he’s busy. We’d better be getting back—her Da is waiting.” She bounced the child on her hip.

  Jane wondered at the age span between Colin and this little sister. But she said only, “Very well. I’ll send word through Colin when I have something else for you.”

  Mrs. McFarland thanked her again and hurried away.

  Jane felt sure she had done the right thing. Even so, she returned to the office and wrote a sweetly worded apology to the pugnacious brewer.

  When the time came, Thora was having second thoughts about going for a drive with Charlie Frazer.

  She fastened the buttons of her pelisse over her grey carriage dress, put a few candies into her reticule, and walked downstairs, feeling unsettled and distracted. Seeing Patrick and Jane at the desk, she announced, “I had better stay and help you make the feather beds.”

  “No,” Jane insisted. “I can do it myself, and Ned will carry the sacks. You go with Charlie and have a grand time.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Deflated, Thora turned to the hall mirror and tied her bonnet strings. “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she muttered.

  “It’s an adventure—that’s why,” Jane replied. “All these years in a coaching inn. Have you never ridden on the coachman’s box before?”

  “Not since I was a girl and old Ollie Wakefield let me drive his horses across the yard.”

  “Well then, you’re overdue. Besides, I hear the Red Lion is the finest coaching inn in Salisbury, renowned for its excellent service. You can observe and take notes for me.”

  Thora humphed.

  Patrick crossed his arms and said, “You know, I like Charlie Frazer, Mamma. You could do worse.”

  “I am not doing anything, for better or worse,” Thora snapped. That phrase, for better or worse, echoed through her mind. Surely they didn’t all think this was some strange courting outing? Hopefully Charlie did not see it that way.

  “He reminds me of Papa in some ways,” Patrick added.

  Thora stared at her son. “Does he indeed? How?”

  “He’s witty, outgoing, charming. Popular with the ladies. Or at least with one particular lady.” Patrick winked at her.

  Then he opened the side door, and together they crossed the yard to where the Quicksilver awaited.

  While Colin assisted passengers and the guard stowed the mail, Charlie walked around his team, verifying that all the harnesses were correctly placed and fastened. He thanked the ostlers, then took hold of the reins, or “ribbons,” in one hand and mounted to his box.

  Once he settled himself, he reached his free hand toward Thora, assisting her up onto the bench, Patrick offering a helpful push from the rear. At least she was spared the indignity of having to be levered up with the crutch propped nearby for the purpose—usually to push older women or overweight men up onto the roof.

  Thora sat on the bench beside Charlie, him looking dapper as usual in his caped coat, his hat at a jaunty angle, a roguish smile on his rugged
, handsome face.

  “Ready for the ride of your life, lass?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Jane came out and stood on the back porch, an amused smile on her face.

  “Pray for me, Jane,” Thora called. “I am taking my life in my hands.”

  “No, you are putting your life in Charlie Frazer’s hands,” Patrick said with a grin. “Even worse!”

  Others boarded, the tall coach lurching as passengers climbed in and the guard loaded baggage. Then Jack Gander climbed onto his rear perch and took up his horn to play the start signal and the signal to clear the road.

  The ostlers released the horses, and Charlie called “Walk on” and “Get up,” and within a few minutes they rumbled around the corner and went barreling down the hill.

  “Hang on to your teeth, Thora!” Charlie called over the buffeting wind as their speed increased. At the bottom of the hill, they took the corner at a rapid clip. Thora held on to her bonnet with one hand and Charlie’s arm with the other.

  He laughed with delight. “I knew this was an excellent idea!”

  Behind her on the roof a man lost his hat, and a woman yelped and grabbed onto a sailor.

  Thora wasn’t sure she agreed.

  When the road leveled out, Charlie leaned back and slackened the reins. “On level ground, it’s wise to let them take their own speed,” he said. The horses settled into a steady pace, and Charlie relaxed, only now and then shaking the reins when the horses seemed inclined to slow down.

  “Your turn, Thora.” He offered her the reins.

  “Are you certain that’s a good idea?”

  “It’s not exactly regulation, but most of us allow an eager passenger to drive now and again, when not in foul weather or on dangerous stretches of road.”

  She took the reins and felt the exhilaration of being in control, or at least the illusion of it, though each horse outweighed her ten times over. Holding the ribbons gave her a giddy feeling in her stomach—a sense of power and freedom and fun.

  Charlie looked over and caught her grinning. “Most first timers white knuckle the ribbons and grimace in concentration. But I should have known Thora Bell would’na be intimidated by something as mundane as driving His Majesty’s Royal Mail!” He winked at her, and she smiled back.

  He said, “Many wealthy gentlemen pay handsomely for the privilege of driving, you know.” He leaned nearer. “All I’m asking from you is a kiss. . . .”

  She nudged him back over with her shoulder.

  “Heartless woman!” he teased. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted a kiss from the belle of The Bell?” He leaned near again. “Thought once or twice I might have a chance too. But then you up and left for good. Or so I thought.”

  She felt his gaze on her profile but kept her eyes on the road and made no reply.

  Eventually, Thora returned the reins to Charlie and sat back to enjoy the rest of the drive from the privileged box position.

  As they slowed to pass through Wilton, Thora noticed three blond children performing antics along the road, no doubt hoping for a reward. The two youngest turned somersaults on the grassy verge, while their brother wheeled head over heels through the air. Thora pulled a few wrapped taffies from her reticule and tossed them to the youngsters as the Quicksilver passed. In return, the children rewarded her with waving hands and broad smiles of delight.

  When they reached the Red Lion in Salisbury, Charlie summoned a porter to help Thora down. “Wish I could stay with you, Thora, but we’re off again as soon as we change the horses.”

  “I understand.”

  “You have time for a nice dinner before the sister coach passes through. I recommend the roast beef.”

  “Thank you. And thank you for the ride, Charlie. I enjoyed it.”

  “Enough to earn me that kiss?”

  “You never give up, do you.”

  “Not if I can help it.” He tilted his head to one side. “No? Ah well. Perhaps another time. Good-bye, Thora.” He smiled and tipped his hat.

  “Good-bye.”

  Thora ventured into the dining parlour and, once seated, watched in impressed silence as the waiter brought out course after course: hot roast beef, cold chicken, green peas, salad, and gooseberry tart. She could not help but compare it to the sparse meals they served at The Bell to rushed coaching passengers. Seeing the spread before her pricked Thora’s conscience. Perhaps Jane had a point after all.

  Chapter

  Twenty

  Ned Winkle helped Jane lay canvas over the back porch, where she planned to work. Ned then spread out the first tick, while Jane opened the bag of feathers.

  How hard can it be? she asked herself. Just shove in feathers until the tick is full, then close it up. She shook out some feathers onto her aproned lap for ease of reach, scooped up a handful, and pushed them into the mouth of the tick. Then again. And again.

  The cat came over to investigate, drawn by the feathers and the possibility of a bird to eat amongst them. “Don’t get any ideas,” she warned the tabby. “I paid good money for these feathers—they are not for you.”

  “Shall I start on a second tick, ma’am?” Ned asked. Not seeing the cat, he tripped over him and landed on the sack, squirting more feathers onto the canvas.

  At that moment, wind came whistling through the archway, and sent the feathers flying.

  “Oh no . . .” Jane had not expected wind in the sheltered courtyard. In her haste, she forgot the feathers in her lap, and rose, scattering more feathers in her wake.

  As if brought by the wind itself, four women strode through the archway—caps, aprons, and pragmatic expressions in place. Jane recognized the carter, Mrs. Burlingame, and the middle-aged spinsters, the Miss Cooks. They were shepherded in by Julia Featherstone, like a mother hen herding her chicks, though Julia was the youngest among them.

  Jane had no time for a social call. “Hello, ladies. I am afraid you’ve caught me at a busy time.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Mrs. Burlingame explained in her lingering Cornish accent. “Mercy told us you were planning to do this today, and we’re here to help you.”

  “My dear . . .” The younger Miss Cook, Judith, frowned at the scattered feathers. “I believe the feathers are supposed to go within the ticking.”

  “I know, but the wind blew up unexpectedly.”

  “Could you not have done this inside?” her sister, Charlotte, asked.

  “And have feathers everywhere?” Jane said.

  “And you don’t have that now?”

  Miss Featherstone drew herself up. “Well, we shall help you from here. You go on, Ned.” She waved the potboy away. “We’ll take the situation in hand.”

  Jane hesitated. “Thank you, but I had planned to do it myself to save expense. . . .”

  Charlotte Cook tsked. “We are not here to earn money, Mrs. Bell.”

  “Pray, do not be offended, Miss Cook, but have you ever filled a feather bed either?”

  “No. Judith and I deal primarily in lace, as you know. But we wanted to offer our help, just the same.”

  Miss Judith sighed. “I adore my feather bed, especially come the first frost. Charlotte saved and saved, and made me a gift of one a few winters back.”

  Her sister nodded. “I cannot abide down myself. Makes me sneeze. But I am glad you are happy with your bed, Judith.”

  Jane looked at the woman in bemusement. “If the task will make you sneeze, Miss Cook, then I am not sure you should—”

  “I don’t need a feather bed,” Mrs. Burlingame interjected. “Mr. Burlingame gives off more heat than a hot brick, year round.”

  Jane bit back a smile.

  The cat came by again and rubbed itself around Charlotte Cook’s hem. She sneezed.

  Miss Judith hurried forward. “Poor sister. Let me take puss from you.” She lifted the cat and held it in her arms. Jane was surprised the skittish creature would allow it.

  “Oh, look at this handsome lad!” Judith purred, st
roking its fur. “I do so adore a kitty, but they make dear Char sneeze, so I’ve never been allowed to keep one. Have you any milk I might give him, Mrs. Bell?”

  Charlotte frowned. “Put the cat down, Judy, or you’ll be of no help whatever.”

  Instead, her sister sat on the bench, stroking him. “Pray, what is his name?”

  “I don’t know,” Jane replied. “I’ve been thinking of calling him Kipper after his favorite treat.”

  Miss Judith nodded her approval. “Perfect. I’ll keep Kipper here from chasing the feathers. He looks ready to pounce.”

  Her sister sighed. “Very well. Now, let’s get these feathers gathered before . . .”

  But she spoke too late, for the wind surged again and the feathers scattered, flying up and swirling in the air like snowflakes.

  “Not my clean feathers!” Julia wailed, running to catch them before they landed in the muck of the yard. The other women ran about as well, spreading their aprons wide to catch all the feathers they could.

  Across the yard, Jane noticed Gabriel Locke standing in the stable doorway, shaking his head.

  Jane surveyed the calamitous scene before her and instead of the dread she should have experienced, felt an unexpected bubble of mirth at this odd collection of women, two old enough to be her mother, running about like girls chasing white butterflies, or trying to catch snowflakes as they fell. A laugh escaped Jane and she ran to join the chase.

  They rebagged what feathers they could and separated those soiled in the day’s misadventure, which would need to be rewashed. Then the women filled two ticks and promised to return the next day to help Jane finish the rest. A kindhearted Dotty brought out tea for them without being asked and, Jane guessed, without Mrs. Rooke’s blessing.

  They sat sipping tea and talking, the older women on the bench and wooden chair, and Miss Featherstone on one of the filled ticks, looking as comfortable as a broody hen on her nest.

  Charlotte Cook began, “Do you know what Mrs. Barton said when Mercy announced you were making feather beds, and asked if any of us might help? She said, ‘No feather beds for me, thank you. If straw bedding is good enough for my bossies, it’s good enough for me.’”