Rachel decided it would be best for everyone if she had her plans worked out by the time he arrived. He would not find her sitting here forlornly—a solitary figure in unrelieved black, hunched over clasped hands, awaiting his knock with weeping and worries, ready to play the helpless victim or grateful recipient of his benevolence. No. Her fate was not in his hands.
For a fleeting moment, she thought of Jane and wished she could go to her for comfort and advice. Instead, she turned to Mercy and forced out the humbling question.
“Mercy, you have offered before, and if the offer still stands . . . might I come to live with you and your aunt? I could pay a little something toward room and board. Well, a very little. Do you need any help in the school? I am not terribly well read, but I know a little French and my mother often praised my fine embroidery. And I am well versed in the rules of precedence, if nothing else.”
Mercy smiled apologetically. “My dear Rachel, most of our pupils are bound for lives as shopkeepers or farmers’ wives, not as genteel, accomplished ladies.”
“Oh . . .” Rachel’s spirits plummeted. Was Mercy rejecting her as well?
Instead, her friend leaned forward and pressed her hand. “You are welcome to move in with Aunt Matty and me—don’t mistake me. But we will work out the particulars later, all right?”
Rachel nodded in relief, and Mercy raised a forkful of cake high. “At least you know what you are in for,” she said with a smile.
Rachel smiled back and nibbled another oddly chewy bite. She realized that if she were going to honor her father’s request to hold a party in his honor at Thornvale, she would have to do so soon. Dare she do so while in mourning?
She asked Mercy’s opinion. “Do I honor my father’s request? Or the social rules that prohibit such entertainments during mourning?”
Mercy considered her dilemma. “Tongues will wag, true. But honoring your father takes precedence over honoring social conventions, in my view.”
Rachel nodded. “Ellen agrees with you. But how I dread the inevitable gossip and even more censure from my neighbors.”
“Perhaps ask Mr. Paley’s advice.”
“Thank you. I believe I shall.”
On the appointed day, Rachel Ashford waited in the drawing room, hands clasped tightly in her lap. She had never been one to fidget, but she fought the urge to do so now. Nicholas Ashford would arrive soon.
She wondered again what he would be like. Perhaps he would be as kind in person as he seemed in his letters, but doubt lingered. She ached to be sure Thornvale would be left in good hands. Smoothing her black silk skirt, Rachel glanced at the clock. Any moment.
Minutes later, footsteps sounded and the maid announced, “Mr. Nicholas Ashford.”
The gentleman who entered was younger than she had expected, and for a moment Rachel thought it might be his valet come in before him. But then she took in his fine striped waistcoat, pristine cravat, and tailcoat and readjusted her opinion.
He was above average height and thin, making him appear perhaps taller than he was. He had light brown hair and bluish-green eyes.
She rose, and he seemed to falter. He paused a few yards away, mouth ajar. His gaze made a quick sweep of the room, and he bowed deeply.
She curtsied.
“You must be Mr. Ashford,” she offered helpfully.
“I am. And you are . . . Miss Ashford?”
“Yes. Though I suppose you may call me by my Christian name. We are cousins of a sort, after all.”
“Only distantly.”
She felt a sting at his words. “Only distantly, yes. Please, be seated. I shall ring for tea. I hope you don’t think it presumptuous of me? It is your house and your staff now, after all.”
“Not at all.”
Rachel rang the bell. “I suppose you might wish to engage new servants? The few retainers we have are worried about that, as you might imagine.”
“I have no plans to replace anyone at present.”
Rachel nodded in relief. “I had hoped my sister would be here in time to meet you, but she won’t be able to visit until next week. She wants to see the house one more time. You understand.”
“Of course.”
They waited in awkward silence. Him clasping and unclasping his bony knee. Alternately looking at her and around the room.
“Is something wrong?” she asked. “Is the drawing room not to your liking?”
“Hm? Oh no, it’s lovely. Lovelier than I expected or was led to believe.”
“Perhaps you would prefer a tour of the house instead?”
He rose abruptly. “I would, yes. I don’t mean to be rude. But I would like to walk. I have been sitting in a coach for a long time.”
“Of course.”
“Please don’t misunderstand me. It is not that I am so eager to survey my new domain or anything like that.”
“It would only be natural if you were. But if you would be more comfortable without me, I would be happy to ask the housekeeper to show you around. She has lived here since before I was born and knows its history better than I do.”
“No, no. You are fine. That is . . . please do show me. Or we might simply walk around the grounds first. I noticed a nice little garden and hedge maze . . . ?”
“Yes. My mother loved her flowers. And designed the maze herself.”
He looked down, face mottled red and white.
“I did not say that to make you feel guilty, Mr. Ashford. Truly.”
“You are very good, madam. Very . . . understanding.”
“I have accepted the situation. There is nothing for you to feel bad about.”
He slowly looked up and met her gaze. She smiled at him. “Now, let me show you the grounds in hopes you might come to enjoy them as I did.”
As she led Mr. Ashford down the corridor and through the conservatory, Rachel felt her chest tighten. How many times had she walked this way to her mother’s garden? She pushed the thought aside.
They emerged from the house and stepped onto the cobbled path. She glanced at him to measure his reaction. His arched eyebrows satisfied her pride in the landscape—she had always believed it to be Thornvale’s best feature. Today, with sunshine spilling over the lush green lawn, it looked especially beautiful, from the ornamental hedge maze to the garden blooming with all the flowers of summer.
She said, “We’ve had to cut back on the gardener’s time, so it isn’t as well kept as it once was. But it’s still wonderful, isn’t it?”
Mr. Ashford’s gaze wandered to her, then away. “Indeed,” he murmured.
As they neared the garden archway framed with cascading white clematis, he cleared his throat.
“I must say, Miss Ashford, that you are not at all what I expected.”
“No? You expected a bitter and resentful old harridan?”
He winced. “At least a woman of a certain age. Your father was several years older than mine, so I assumed you would be quite a bit older than me.”
“He married my mother later in life.”
“Ah. I see.”
She regarded his smooth boyish complexion. “Though I imagine I am a few years older than you are.”
“A very few, if you are.”
“Well, what does age matter?” she said.
“In this instance, a great deal.”
“How so?”
“In your reply to my letter, you kindly invited me to stay here at Thornvale during my visit. And I accepted, thinking little of it.”
“Why should you hesitate? It is your home now, or soon will be.”
“Yes, but . . . we are of an age, Miss Ashford. You are no elderly spinster aunt. You are . . .” He paused, his cheeks reddening again. He rushed on. “It would not be proper for me to stay alone with you.”
“My goodness, Mr. Ashford. Are you worried about your reputation?”
“Not mine, but I would never forgive myself if you were to become the object of gossip because of me.”
Rachel opened her mou
th to protest, but paused. Perhaps he had a point. Inwardly, she sighed. “Then I shall leave at once.”
“No! Heavens no! I did not mean that you should leave. I meant that perhaps I ought to stay at the inn for now. The coach stopped at a place called The Bell when I arrived in Ivy Hill, and—”
Rachel held up her hand. “I really don’t think that is necessary, Mr. Ashford. It is not as though I am without chaperone—not with my lady’s maid close at hand, and the housekeeper and housemaid about at all hours. However, if you think it best, I will concede. But tonight you must stay for dinner, at least. Cook would be heartbroken to see all of her haricot mutton go to waste. Not to mention her royal torte.”
“Very well.”
“And you needn’t worry—I plan to have left by the time you return to move in permanently.”
They walked on, and Rachel pointed out a stand of tall hollyhocks, a profusion of climbing roses, and a bush bursting with orangey buds. “It is a bit early for a few of the roses yet. But in a few weeks, you will see my mother’s favorite peach-colored blooms just there.”
“I shall bring you a bouquet of them.”
She looked at him in surprise. “I . . . thank you.”
After weaving through the rest of the garden and the hedge maze, they returned to the house. Rachel led him through each floor, pointing out her favorite rooms and portraits of common ancestors on the walls.
Later, as they savored their haricot mutton and the rest of the fine meal, Rachel glanced with approval around the dining room. Mrs. Fife had obviously heeded her instructions to impress their guest, having spread a snowy tablecloth and meticulously placed the ornate china and silver reserved for special occasions.
In the flickering candlelight, Rachel studied the man across from her with fresh interest.
“Tell me about your business, Mr. Ashford. You mentioned you have been successful?”
“I hope that wasn’t terribly boastful of me. I only meant to assure you that I have the resources to maintain Thornvale as it deserves.”
He discreetly referred to the fact that her father had lost his fortune. Without private means of his own, Nicholas Ashford would have had the estate but no way to keep it up.
He said, “So many property-rich and cash-poor aristocrats these days. Not that I am an aristocrat . . .”
Rachel nodded. “My father made his fortune in business. But after he was knighted, he liked to gloss over that detail. We all did.”
She sighed and looked around her at the expensive wax candles, the platters of food, and the attending servants. “Yes, without money of your own, you would have to marry a rich heiress to keep up such a place.”
He swallowed and set down his wine glass, coughing a little. “Well, I suppose that is often done . . .”
Rachel’s neck heated. “Forgive me. Perhaps you plan to do precisely that in any case. It is none of my business.”
He did not, she noticed, insist that he had no plans to marry anyone at present. Her curiosity about the future residents of Thornvale overcame her usual polite reserve.
She said, “I am sorry to pry, but may I ask, do you have plans to marry? Perhaps you are engaged already.”
“No. I am not engaged . . . as such. Though I do hope to one day marry.” He hesitated, then asked, “And you, Miss Ashford? Do you hope to marry one day?”
Her stomach twisted. “I . . . once hoped to, yes. But at my age . . .” She let the words trail away on a shrug.
“But we are close in age, don’t forget.”
“Perhaps, but you are a man, and men may marry at any age, as my father proved. But women at my age are usually married or on the shelf.”
“Ridiculous. You can’t be what, five and twenty?”
“I can be, yes. And a few years more. And it is not ridiculous, I assure you. But please, let us leave this tiresome subject.”
“If you like.”
Thankfully, the bustle of dessert being served came to her rescue, and Mr. Ashford did not press her further.
After they finished their torte, Mr. Ashford sipped his coffee and gazed at her with a wisp of a smile on his lips. “Thank you for today, Miss Ashford. You have been most gracious.”
“You are welcome, Mr. Ashford. It has been a pleasure.”
“I look forward to introducing you to my mother, when we return in a fortnight.”
Rachel dabbed her lips with a napkin. “And I look forward to meeting her.” It was true, she reasoned, though the prospect of a new mistress of Thornvale stirred a bitterness in her she would rather not admit.
“I hope that interval will give you sufficient time to . . . prepare?” he asked.
Rachel forced a brave smile and assured him it would.
As he took his leave by the door, Mr. Ashford thanked her again, praised the meal, and pressed her hand. “Good-bye, Miss Ashford.”
“Good-bye.”
Despite her weariness, Rachel smiled at him with genuine warmth. From all appearances, Nicholas Ashford was the kind man she had hoped him to be. And in her last weeks at Thornvale, she would find comfort in that thought.
Chapter
Twenty-Three
Thora awoke on a bright July morning to see a man outside her window.
She bolted upright. What on earth . . . ?
Rising quickly, she tied her dressing gown around herself and walked closer to see what was going on. She saw the ladder then, and watched as the man’s legs climbed from view. From the glimpse and the position, she guessed it was stout Mr. Broadbent, the plumber. True, repairing the gutters was on the list of future repairs, but finances being what they were, Thora thought they’d decided to put that off for the present. Apparently she’d misremembered, or some new leak had sprung forth since yesterday.
As Thora made her bed, Alwena delivered hot water and left again. Thora washed and dressed herself, having long ago insisted on wearing fasten-in-front stays and dresses she could get into and out of without help. She brushed and pinned her hair in its usual severe coil at the base of her neck and went downstairs.
She made her way to the kitchen for her morning cup of tea and to see how Mrs. Rooke was getting on with her limited larder. In the threshold, she drew up short at the sight of a worktable overflowing with crates of produce and boxes of foodstuffs.
“My goodness,” Thora breathed. “The greengrocer have a change of heart?”
Dotty nodded. “Looks like it, ma’am. Mr. Prater too.”
Mrs. Barton came in with a large wheel of cheese. Mrs. Rooke poked her head out of the larder. “Right in here, Bridget. Thank you.”
Out in the yard, a youth pushed a wheelbarrow of coal to the woodshed, and Colin McFarland directed another man to stack cans of paint near the back door.
Thora turned on her heel and marched to the office.
Inside she found Jane with a stack of new invoices, entering and summing numbers in the ledger.
Thora snapped, “What did you do?”
“Hm?” Jane murmured, without looking up.
Thora said, “Mr. Prater, Mr. Holtman, and Mrs. Barton delivered our orders this morning when they refused to last week. The coal merchant is here, the ironmonger brought the rest of our paint, and Mr. Broadbent is working on our gutters and drain pipes as we speak.”
“I wondered what that clanging was,” her daughter-in-law said casually. Too casually.
“Jane . . .”
“I merely brought our accounts up to date,” she explained. “We cannot operate without coal for the stoves, feed for the horses, and groceries for Mrs. Rooke.”
“As I am very well aware. But—”
“And you were in the meeting when we decided on refurbishments and repairs.”
“Yes. But Patrick insisted the bills could not be paid. Not and pay even partial wages, let alone fund refurbishments.”
Jane glanced up at her, then away again, unable or unwilling to hold her gaze.
“I repeat—what did you do? Tell me you did
not withdraw your entire settlement and sink the lot of it into this old place.”
“We will be able to pay the rest of the wages now,” Jane said matter-of-factly. “And complete our plans for improvement.”
“But not pay off the loan?”
“No. There was not nearly enough for that.”
“But, Jane, that was your future security. Your nest egg. We could still lose the inn, and then where will you be? What will you live on?”
Jane rose abruptly. “We shall cross that bridge if and when we come to it.”
Her bravado did not fool Thora. She saw the uncertainty flash in her eyes.
“And if that bridge collapses?” Thora asked quietly.
“Let’s pray that doesn’t happen.”
When Thora told Patrick what Jane had done, a parade of emotions crossed his face in rapid succession: surprise, irritation, reluctant admiration. Then he tilted his head as a new thought struck him. Smug acceptance?
He pursed his lower lip and crossed his arms. “How kind of Jane to sink her money into our family business. Very manorial of her. The dutiful dowager investing her settlement into her husband’s crumbling property. Quite the self-sacrifice. Well, her loss is The Bell’s gain.”
“She could still lose the inn—lose it all,” Thora reminded him.
“Exactly.”
Thora frowned. “Patrick . . .”
“That is what makes it a sacrifice, Mamma,” he said warmly. “If success were guaranteed, then it would be in her best interests to do so. The risk, the gamble, is what makes it noble.”
“You want her to lose,” Thora realized aloud, feeling her stomach knot.
“Mamma . . .” Patrick chided, looking like a hurt child. “I would never wish any harm to come to Jane. You know that. I will talk to her and make her see reason before it’s too late. She can’t have spent all her money yet.”
At that moment, a wagon clattered into the yard. From the window they saw the butcher arrive with a side of beef.