The Innkeeper of Ivy Hill

  The ostlers and postillions stood at the back nearest the side door, Gabriel Locke behind them. Clustered together near the front stood the maids, Alwena, Cadi, and Dotty. Beside them were Ned Winkle and Bobbin, the barman. Colin lingered near the front door, anticipating, perhaps, the need to make a hasty exit. Mrs. Rooke stood alone to one side, a hand fisted on her ample hip, an aggressive jut to her jaw, and Jane had not yet said a word.

  Patrick positioned himself beside Jane near the office door, and Thora stood on her other side. Pillars to hold her up. Jane was grateful for their display of support.

  She took a deep breath and began, “As you are probably aware by now, we are in a difficult season here at The Bell. Income over recent months has fallen below expenses, and that coupled with an overdue loan has put us behind with our creditors and suppliers. As you know, we are making improvements, cutting costs, and adding new services to help us become profitable again. But in the meantime, I am deeply sorry to say that, for the first time in the long history of The Bell, we have insufficient funds to fully meet our payroll.”

  Mouths dropped open. Groans and muttered complaints rumbled through the room—and if she was not mistaken, an epithet as well. Jane held up a hand. “I know it is not fair or right. I agree. I realize it will come as small consolation, but none of the Bell family are taking any wages for the quarter.” She forced herself to look straight ahead and not glance at Mr. Locke. “Instead of choosing to pay some and not others, we—I—have decided to pay each of you a portion of your normal wages. A small amount for now, hopefully enough to tide you over. And we have every intention of paying the remainder as soon as may be. If any of you have urgent needs, please tell me privately, and I will do all I can to help you. We don’t want anyone to suffer.”

  Thora added, “Please remember that your room and board are provided, so no one will go hungry until we can pay the rest.”

  Jane nodded. “I hope you will try to understand, and make the best of present circumstances. Together, we can weather this storm and come out the stronger for it.” She took a deep breath. “Are there any questions?”

  “How much is a ‘portion’?” Tuffy, the old ostler, asked.

  “Approximately a third of your regular wages.”

  He winced. “There goes my half pint on my half day.”

  The other stable hands chuckled.

  Colin, she noticed, paled. He opened his mouth to protest, she guessed, but closed it again, looking grimly down at his hands.

  Mrs. Rooke stood with a hand on each hip now. “Do you really expect me to work here for a third of my wages, when I could cook for the Crown in Wishford for twice my usual pay?”

  “Twice? Surely you exaggerate, Mrs. Rooke.”

  “I do not. I received such an offer once, and now I am more inclined than ever to accept it. Especially with the larder here all but empty as it is.”

  Jane didn’t know about the Crown, but she had seen Mr. Drake’s advertisement for a cook in the newspaper. The wages offered were indeed well above what The Bell paid. Had Mrs. Rooke not applied for the position after “quitting” before, only to do so now?

  Not again, Jane inwardly groaned, already dreading having to return to the kitchen.

  “Now, don’t be hasty, Mrs. Rooke,” Patrick crooned. “Here you rule the roost. But at the Crown, you would be under the thumb of Mrs. Phillips. And Mr. Drake wants French cookery. You wouldn’t like that.”

  Jane added, “I am certain we can come to some amicable compromise, Mrs. Rooke.”

  “You’re certain, are you?”

  “I hope,” Jane gently corrected herself. Thora, she noticed, said nothing.

  Jane turned and addressed the assembly once more. “I hope every one of you shall stay on. I realize I still have a great deal to learn. But I promise to work hard and do my best. I trust each of you will as well.”

  Then she stepped into the office, sat at the desk, and opened the wage log. A wooden tray holding folded paper envelopes sat at her elbow.

  She looked at the first name on the list and called, “Ned Winkle.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, ma’am.” The young potboy stepped inside, hat in hand.

  Jane initialed the column and handed him his portion. “Here are sixteen shillings, ninepence halfpenny.”

  “Much obliged.” He backed from the room.

  “And the next is . . . Robert Booth.”

  She leaned forward to survey as much of the hall as possible. No one moved.

  “Robert Booth?” she repeated uncertainly, not recalling who it could be.

  In the hall, Ned elbowed the barman, and he lurched toward the office. “Oh, sorry, ma’am. I’ve been called Bobbin so long I almost forgot that was me.”

  Several others chuckled.

  Jane pulled forth the appropriate envelope. “Two pounds, one and sixpence is a third of the sum due to you.”

  “That’s right. I’ll make do. Never you fear.”

  “Thank you, Bobbin.”

  He stepped out, and she called the next name on the list. “Colin McFarland.”

  Colin came in, looking agitated.

  She began, “And a third of your wages is . . . one pound, eighteen and fourpence.”

  He looked behind him, then lowered his voice. “I’m sorry, but I need more. The money for the ticks helped, but it’s not enough. I wouldn’t care for myself. But my mother depends on me—her and my sisters.”

  “I understand. How much does she need?”

  He named a figure, and she penciled it in, more thankful than ever for Mr. Locke’s offer to forgo his wages.

  Colin accepted it with a sheepish nod of thanks.

  One by one, Jane worked her way through the names until she came to Gabriel Locke’s. Knowing his desire for secrecy, she called out his name just like every other. He came in, dark brows high in question.

  “I have something for you.”

  “But—”

  She lifted a hand to cut off his rebuttal and lowered her voice. “Something of John’s.” She handed him an envelope with his name in it. It held something weighty, but not wages.

  He opened the paper pouch and looked at the items within.

  “I found them in John’s bedside table.”

  Gabriel first held up a Roman silver denarius John had found as a boy, with an image of Diana on one side, an ax and ear of corn on the reverse.

  “But this might be valuable.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “They were once plentiful in the area. Many boys collected them.”

  Then he held up a copper token engraved with The Earl’s Menagerie and sent her a quizzical look.

  “I thought the two of you might have gone together, for I have never been to a menagerie.”

  “Ah. John was fond of them, I recall.”

  Mr. Locke did not, she noticed, confirm or deny he’d attended with him. He returned the items into the envelope. “Thank you, Mrs. Bell,” he said, loud enough to be heard by those in the hall.

  Last on her list was Bertha Rooke.

  With the remainder of Mr. Locke’s wages, Jane was able to give Mrs. Rooke the majority of what was owed her. The woman humphed but returned to the kitchen apparently mollified.

  Jane closed the book with a heavy sigh, longing for nothing more than a warm bath and an early bedtime.

  Rachel had spent the week answering correspondence and packing up her father’s clothes to donate to the almshouse. The matron, Mrs. Mennell, had been very appreciative.

  At the end of the week, she received a reply from her sister.

  Dear Rachel,

  Horrors! What you have been through, you poor dear! I should not trade places with you for the world. Though I will say your lot sounds easier to bear than mine some days, what with two little boys underfoot, not to mention one very naughty pug and an equally naughty husband. Nanny can barely keep up with William and Walter, and neither can I! My poor nerves.

  Some days I envy you your quiet solitude in d
ear old Thornvale. Such a pity about the entail, for I’m sure I could convince Mr. Hawley to quit this place for Thornvale, were it ours. And you might have lived with us as beloved aunt to my children! Ah well. Fate has not been kind in that regard. Perhaps I will yet convince dear Robert to send me on my own to Ivy Hill, for I cannot bear the thought of traveling with these young rogues. Trapped for hours with their constant chatter and runny noses? Goodness, no. I love my darlings, of course—don’t mistake me. But a respite from the noise and demands of motherhood would be a welcome change, I don’t deny. Besides, I should like to meet this distant cousin of ours. Make sure he isn’t a greedy old lecher out to seduce you. Pray don’t let him dismiss Jemima and leave you without a chaperone!

  Yes, I had better come and see what sort of a man he is. I will also help you plan the party Papa always said he wanted after he died. I fear on your own, you will let the thing drop. And of course, I could fetch the jewelry and china at the same time. I hope the dishes won’t break. Do be a lamb and ask Mrs. Fife what she would suggest by way of packing and cushioning, will you? And I suppose I shall have to hide the jewels within my unmentionables should we be besieged by highwaymen. How thrilling that would be! Life as mother to wild scamps has prepared me for such an encounter, I assure you. I shall stare them down, take away their favorite guns, and send them off without their tea and biscuits!

  I joke to cheer you, my love. I hope you know that. I am not such a ninny to forget you are no doubt unhappy and fearful as you face an uncertain future. If only our snug house were larger! But we have such little space. Especially with Robert’s mother living here and another child on the way— Oh! But I meant to wait and tell you in person, so you could be the first to congratulate me. I will purr myself into Robert’s good graces and write again when I have a date for a visit. Sooner than later, in my condition. My maid hates to travel, but it can’t be helped. She will sigh upon the hour, but at least she will not tug on my skirts and repeat “Mamma, mamma!” until I go mad.

  Until then, I send my love,

  Ellen

  Rachel was surprised to find tears in her eyes, even as she shook her head at her sister’s dramatics. She had not cried at her father’s death. Not even on the day of his funeral. But now, tears heated and overflowed. Strange. She would not have guessed her sister’s chatty letter could evoke such a response. But it was the closest thing to sympathy she had received from family—annoying sister or not. Ellen’s words touched her. . . . Well, some of them. There would be time later to read between the lines, to bemoan her sister’s self-absorption and petty concerns. To feel the sting of rejection that Ellen would not at least offer, however halfheartedly, to make room for her at their house. But for now, Rachel held the letter to her chest and let the tears come.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Two

  As the summer days passed, sweetened with sunshine and rising temperatures, Jane spent more time working in the inn than she ever had before. Slowly, the burden of ownership warmed to excitement as she carried out improvements and planned more for the future, all the while wishing she might implement every one now. Though a layer of doubt lingered, hope began to sprout through it.

  One of Jane’s favorite moments from those long days of toil came when she walked past the open door to a guest room one afternoon, then backed up and looked again. There lay Thora atop one of their new feather beds, sound asleep.

  A floor board creaked and Thora jerked awake, sputtering, “I was only testing the new beds. . . .”

  Jane grinned. “And apparently, they are quite effective.”

  On the first Sunday in July, Jane and Thora attended church together. Ahead of them, Rachel sat alone in her pew, head held high, profile serene—by all appearances perfectly composed.

  After the service, Sir Timothy and his sister paused to speak with her. Justina impulsively embraced her, and Sir Timothy quietly reiterated his sympathies. Rachel stoically thanked them and assured them both she was well. Lady Brockwell coolly inclined her head but otherwise passed by without a word.

  A few minutes later, as Jane waited her turn to thank the vicar, her attention was drawn into the south aisle chapel. There, the sexton, Mr. Ainsworth, bent and picked up something from the floor. He held up a wooden trap pinning a dead mouse.

  He sucked in a breath, staring at it aghast.

  “Poor Jerome . . .” he moaned.

  Hearing the mournful words, sadness crimped Jane’s stomach.

  Beside her, Thora turned to see what had arrested her attention. Jane expected some critical remark, but instead Thora shook her head, a regretful downturn to her lips.

  “Pitiful creature,” she murmured.

  And Jane wasn’t completely certain if she referred to the mouse or the man.

  Jane turned away from the disheartening sight, thanked the vicar, and started down the churchyard path. But the image of the sexton’s grieving face remained with her the rest of the day.

  Rachel sat in the drawing room Sunday afternoon, still puzzling over a letter she had received the day before. The maid stepped in and announced that Miss Mercy Grove had arrived. Rising, Rachel felt her spirits instantly buoyed. “Please show her in, and bring tea when you can.”

  Mercy entered, a smile warming her lovely brown eyes. She wore a simple blue frock, and in her hands she held a curiously lopsided cake streaked with icing of an indeterminate shade of puce-brown. Rachel suspected Mercy’s aunt had sent the confection.

  “Rachel, my dear, how are you keeping?” Mercy’s kind voice was a balm as she leaned near and kissed her cheek. Stepping back, she inspected Rachel with the practiced eye of a schoolmistress.

  “I am well,” Rachel answered, motioning for Mercy to sit. “Certainly better now that you have come. I have sent for tea.”

  “Thank you.” Mercy set the cake atop the table and slanted Rachel a playful glance. “Aunt Matty sent this with her regards. I think, with a little tea, it shall be edible.”

  Rachel smiled. “Be sure to thank her for me.”

  “I shall. And . . . I know Jane has wanted to visit as well.”

  “Oh. She did write to offer, but I told her not to bother. I know she is busy.”

  “Not too busy for you . . .”

  Mercy paused as the maid entered and set a tray before them. She cut and served the cake before taking her leave.

  Mercy noticed the letter on the table. “Have you heard from your sister?”

  Rachel nodded and poured tea. “I received a letter from Ellen last week. But this one is from Nicholas Ashford, the heir to Thornvale.”

  Mercy’s eyes widened above the rim of her cup. “Oh?”

  Rachel picked up the letter, her gaze once again roving the bold, elegant script. “Shall I read it to you?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Rachel cleared her throat and began:

  “My dear Miss Ashford,

  I was sorry to hear of the passing of your father. Please accept my sincere condolences. And believe me when I say the news brings none of the self-interested anticipation, which would be so distasteful and rightly disdained by you and anyone of feeling and conscience. Having lost my late honoured father two years ago, I understand at least in part your grief. I confess that knowing I was next in the entail of Thornvale has given me much uneasiness. Not because of your father’s recent misfortunes, but because I realize the entail must be a source of vexation and added grief for you and your sister.

  I have been so fortunate as to become financially successful in my business and am in a position to maintain Thornvale. So perhaps there is some happy fate at work here after all, though I realize that is easy for me to say, and probably difficult for you to see at present. I take no pleasure in being the means of injuring you or your sister, but especially you, as I understand your sister is settled and lives elsewhere.

  I hope it is not presumptuous of me to ask. But may I beg leave to call upon you, to assure you of my readiness to make you every possible amend
s for the present circumstance? If you should have no objection to receive me, I propose myself the satisfaction of calling on you on the 8th of July, by four o’clock. If that is not suitable, please write to me at the following direction and suggest an alternate arrangement.

  Until then, I remain madam, yours sincerely,

  Nicholas Ashford”

  When Rachel finished reading, she looked at Mercy over the top of the letter, awaiting her reaction.

  “The eighth?” Mercy began. “That is less than a week from now. Will you receive him?”

  “I suppose I must.”

  Mercy considered, then said, “The letter is well composed, and his sympathies are kindly expressed.”

  Rachel folded the letter, pressing and re-pressing the seal. “He seems a conscientious and polite man,” she allowed.

  Mercy nodded, and added, “Perhaps he will prove a valuable acquaintance. Especially if he is disposed to make you and your sister any amends.”

  “Ellen would like that, and I shall not be the person to discourage him. Though it is difficult to guess how he can make us the atonement he thinks our due . . .”

  “Is it so difficult?” Mercy asked gently.

  Rachel looked at her. “What do you mean? He cannot help being next in line in the entail. He owes me nothing.”

  “The gesture does him credit. I am predisposed to like him. How old of a man is he, do you know?”

  Rachel shook her head. “No. If I ever met him, I don’t recall doing so.”

  Mercy observed, “He has already made his fortune, lucky man. So he cannot be very young, I don’t suppose.”

  Rachel shrugged. What did she care about Nicholas Ashford’s age? The crux of the matter was that he was the legal heir and she would have to find a new home and a way to support herself. She supposed it was kind of him to offer to make some amends. A few pounds, perhaps, to help her settle elsewhere? But she had always hated the thought of accepting charity. Her pride smarted at the thought of doing so now. To have this stranger offer to give her some token of what had always seemed hers already. Or was he thinking of giving her some annuity from his proudly vaunted financial success in his trade—whatever it was? She shivered at the thought.