He inhaled through flared nostrils, then exhaled heavily. “Very well. But you will be careful?”
“I am always careful, Mr. Locke,” she assured him. She opened the lodge door, and with a look of challenge, let the cat inside.
But once the door closed behind her, her smirk faded. She sank to her knees and stroked Kipper, taking comfort from his soft fur. In truth, Jane was nervous about making the trip to an unknown town and about the unpleasant errand ahead of her. But she would hide that fear from Gabriel Locke. And from herself.
The next day, Jane walked down the High Street toward Prater’s Universal Stores and Post Office to mail a belated letter to Mr. Coine, thanking him for his help with the settlement and letting him know what she had decided to do with the funds. The Prater’s shop had served as post office for years, Ivy Hill being too small to support a separate building for the purpose. Jane recalled John coveting the role for The Bell, but he’d never made any headway with the deputy postmaster toward that end.
As she neared, Jane looked up at the storefront. Brooms and brushes were displayed in one bow window, baskets in the other. Painted in decorative lettering beneath the shop name were the words: Hardware, Fabrics, Housewares, Haberdashery. Jane had noticed the sign before, but looked closer to admire the fine lettering now that she knew Miss Morris had done it. Jane planned to ask her to repaint The Bell sign as well.
Ahead of her, a large man—the wheelwright, she believed—opened the shop door. Rachel Ashford appeared from the opposite direction at the same time, letter in hand. Jane nodded to her and together they followed the man into the shop.
Rachel opened her mouth to say something, but the conversation at the back counter silenced her. The ladies there must not have seen Jane and Rachel enter behind the broad man, because after a cursory glance at him striding toward the hardware section, Thora and Mrs. Prater went on with their discussion.
“You would never do such a thing, I trust, Mrs. Bell?”
“Do what?” Thora asked.
“Miss Ashford. Hosting a party—and her father not a month in his grave.”
Rachel stiffened and stepped behind a display of copper kettles and pots, shielding her from view. Jane followed suit.
“A party?” Thora asked.
“Yes, a dinner party. Mr. Holtman was just in, boasting of the big order he received for it. And the butcher, no doubt.”
Thora asked, “No big order for you, Mrs. Prater?”
Jane heard the wry note in Thora’s voice if Mrs. Prater did not.
“No. Not that we’d want to be a party to such a party. During deepest mourning yet. It just isn’t done.”
“No doubt she has her reasons.”
Jane glanced at Rachel, noticing her blush of embarrassment. Poor Rachel, Jane thought. At least Thora had not joined in the criticism.
Mrs. Prater finished measuring the coffee Thora had purchased. “Anything else, Mrs. Bell?”
Thora pointed to one of the glass candy jars. “Those lemon bonbons—are they popular with children?”
Mrs. Prater nodded. “Yes, though my grandchildren prefer taffies. But . . . you haven’t any grandchildren, have you, Mrs. Bell?”
Jane held her breath.
“You know I haven’t,” Thora coolly replied.
“My Lydia has three strapping boys, as you may recall. Such hearty appetites already. I do not covet her grocery bill! Thankfully her husband does well as a house agent. When I think how heartbroken she was all those years ago . . .”
Jane’s throat tightened. She felt Rachel’s gaze on her profile and feigned interest in a gleaming kettle.
“Yes, we can all rejoice that your daughter escaped the dread fate of marrying my son,” Thora dryly replied.
“My dear Thora, I did not mean—”
“Yes, Hilda. That is exactly what you meant.”
Jane felt the barb personally, having been the one to marry John and then failing to give Thora grandchildren. Ears hot, Jane turned away and slipped out of the shop without completing her business, hoping Thora did not see her leave. She wondered why Mrs. Prater would strike out at Thora. She must know Thora had been in favor of a match between John and her daughter. It was John who chose Jane instead, not his mother. And no doubt, not a day went by when Thora did not lament John’s choice.
The shop door jingled behind her, and Jane kept walking, head down, certain it was Thora. Instead Rachel called, “Jane? Wait.”
Reluctantly, Jane paused as Rachel caught up with her. “You may not believe me, but I was planning to come and see you after I stopped in the post office.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I heard that Fairmont House is to become a hotel and I wanted to—”
“To gloat?” Jane asked.
Rachel Ashford stilled, blinking, and Jane immediately wished back her words. It was the first time Rachel had sought her out in years, and this was the greeting she received? Jane steeled herself for a cutting retort or for Rachel to stalk away.
Instead Rachel said, “No. To commiserate. How could I gloat, when I am losing my home as well?”
“At least Thornvale will not become a hostelry for strangers.”
“No. Simply someone else’s home, thanks to the entail.”
Shame swept over Jane. “I am sorry. I have no right to complain about losing my former home when you are losing your present one.”
Rachel looked at her hands. “I suppose you like seeing me knocked down a peg or two.”
“No.” Once Jane might have felt some unworthy satisfaction, but no longer. “When must you vacate?”
Rachel drew a deep breath. “At the end of next week.”
“Will you move in with Mercy? She mentioned the possibility.”
“For the time being, yes.” Rachel paused to glance back at the shop. “No doubt you heard what Mrs. Prater said—about the party? I suppose you will judge me harshly as well.”
Jane shook her head. “It is none of my business.”
“Nor theirs. But my father always used to say, ‘When I die, don’t walk around with long faces. Instead, hold a party in my honor. Promise me; before you’re out on your ear, host the grandest dinner you can and clear out the wine cellar!’”
Jane managed a small smile. “You know, I do remember him saying that.”
“Well. I wasn’t going to do it,” Rachel said. “Not when my sister and I are in mourning. But Ellen insists. And I spoke with Mercy and Mr. Paley, and . . . I’ve decided to honor his last request before I depart Thornvale.”
“I understand. And again, I am sorry for your loss.”
Rachel lifted the letter in her hand. “I was on my way to post an invitation to Mr. Nikel, Papa’s old solicitor and hunting companion. If your father were still with us, I would have invited him as well.” Rachel bit her lip. “I . . . don’t suppose you would want to come?”
Jane could not tell from Rachel’s halting manner whether she had meant to invite her and anticipated a refusal, or if she had not intended to invite Jane but, since she had overheard talk of the party, now felt obligated to do so.
When Jane hesitated, Rachel added, “I am also inviting Sir Timothy and his mother and sister. Mercy and her aunt, whom my father loved to tease. Ellen, of course—though her husband cannot get away. And Mr. and Mrs. Paley. We have far too many females to males, so I’ve given up thoughts of trying to even our numbers. Unless you think I should?”
“Invite whomever you like, but not on my account.”
“Then I will limit the party to old friends.”
Old friends . . . Were she and Rachel still friends after all this time and cool distance? She noticed Rachel had made a point of mentioning that she had invited Sir Timothy. Was that her way of warning Jane that it would be awkward if she were there as well? Surely after all this time they could be polite and friendly together. But did Jane want to add to Rachel’s anxiety, when she was already uncertain about hosting this party?
“I don’t
know . . .” Jane said at length. “When is the great occasion to be?”
“The twenty-first.”
Jane hesitated, thinking of her upcoming travel plans. Depending on what she learned in Epsom, it was doubtful she would feel equal to a party when she came back. “I am going out of town, and am not certain exactly when I shall return, or if Thora and Patrick will be able to spare me when I do.”
“Oh. I see.” Rachel nodded. “Well. Have a good trip.”
“Thank you,” Jane replied, though she doubted it possible.
Rachel walked away, filled with guilt and disappointment. She had not missed Jane’s hesitation, the vague nature and duration of her supposed trip—an excuse, no doubt. Well, what had she expected, Rachel asked herself, when she had turned down invitation after invitation from Jane over recent years? She had put off Jane’s offers to visit, to come over for tea, to attend a theatrical in Salisbury together. She had turned down Jane’s offers of help, of comfort during her father’s illness and after his death. Rachel had been polite, but aloof. It was a wonder Jane had tried as long as she had. What else is Jane to think than I don’t want her in my life?
Rachel wondered if her refusals in the past had cut Jane as deeply as her reticence cut Rachel now. In the strained distance between them, Rachel imagined the worst possible scenarios: Jane hated her. She had no interest in being her friend. She had probably complained to others of how Rachel had treated her. To Mercy, or worst of all, to Timothy.
I am sorry, Jane, she thought. I did not mean to make you feel like I feel now. I am sorry, God. I know my resentful behavior and selfish superiority cannot have pleased you. I know you love Jane, and that her value as a person has not diminished because of whom she married, or because Timothy loved her more than me. . . .
Rachel looked over her shoulder, surprised to see Jane still standing there in her black gown, watching her go. The two of them might have been sisters, both of them dressed in mourning. Surely Jane would give it up soon. It had been over a year now since her husband died. Or did she wear it like a suit of armor?
Please forgive me for the way I’ve treated her, Rachel prayed. Please help me repair the damage I’ve done. Help her to forgive me too. Oh merciful heavenly Father, help me not be so full of myself that there is no room for anyone else. And worse, no room for you.
Chapter
Twenty-Five
On the day of her departure, Jane and Thora sat down together to go over a few details and the tasks that would need to be taken care of in Jane and Cadi’s absence. She dared not ask Thora to feed a stable cat, but Joe had agreed to sneak treats to Kipper now and again while she was away.
When they finished, Thora set down her quill and removed her spectacles. “Tell me again why you are going?”
“I . . . feel I need answers about John.”
“About his death, do you mean?”
That too, Jane thought, but only nodded. She did not want to tell Thora what she really wanted—needed—to find out. She could not bear to reveal it, not to his own mother.
“Again, I am sorry for taking Cadi and leaving you shorthanded.”
“We’ll manage.”
But in Thora’s glittering gaze, Jane saw questions and suspicions sparking. She wondered again if Thora had any idea that Hetty had moved to Epsom after leaving Ivy Hill. Apparently—hopefully—not.
Thora dug into her apron pocket and drew forth several wax-paper-wrapped taffies. “By the way, give these to Cadi after a few hours. She is fond of them.”
Jane accepted them with vague politeness but silently wondered why Thora had sent nothing for her.
Thora stood at the window, observing the scene in the yard. Jane stood in her black bombazine gown and bonnet, a small valise in hand, as forlorn a figure as a new widow. She thought of her own dark, serviceable dresses. Was Jane remaining in mourning for her sake? She hoped not.
Beside Jane’s sedate form, Cadi could hardly stand still, all joggles and hand gestures, eager for her first trip out of Wiltshire and her first journey with the Royal Mail, well beyond the means of a chambermaid. More of Jane’s money spent. And for what?
Across the yard stood Gabriel Locke in the mouth of the open stable, leather apron over his trousers and shirt, leaning his forearm against the doorframe. His eyes were trained on Jane. Jane looked up and for a moment held his gaze. He did not smile or wave. He simply stood there, watching her. Jane looked away first.
What made Jane so ill at ease? And what was really behind this sudden excursion of hers? As far as Thora knew, Jane had not traveled much at all in the last eight years, except a trip or two with her friend Mercy. And not with John since their wedding trip, even though he had traveled often in the last few years of his life. She wondered anew why Jane had not gone along. At the time, Thora had smugly assumed their marriage was not the bed of roses John had been certain it would be. But now she wasn’t so sure. Had Jane refused to go? Or had John not asked her to accompany him?
Their conversation of a few days before ran again through Thora’s mind—Jane’s unexpected question about Hetty Piper. Thora had not thought about that girl in months. The redhead had worked at The Bell quite briefly, and as far as Thora knew, she and Jane would have seen each other only in passing, since Hetty worked primarily upstairs and Jane had so rarely left the keeper’s lodge. Had Jane’s unexpected question been somehow related to this trip? How could it be?
But standing there, looking at her daughter-in-law in black, thoughts of Hetty quickly faded and Jane’s destination returned to the fore. Epsom. The place where John had died, and in such a senseless manner.
Thinking of it now, as she rarely allowed herself to do, a suffocating lump rose in her throat, burning her chest and making it difficult to draw breath. Her son. Killed like that. In a strange city so far from home. She should have been there. Someone he loved should have been with him. Gabriel Locke was a friend of sorts, though not of long standing. That was some comfort. But he was not family.
Thora swallowed. Yes, she could understand Jane’s questions. Her desire to see the place where John had died. If Jane had asked her to go along instead of Cadi, she would have. But Jane had not asked.
And that was for the best, Thora told herself, inhaling and squaring her shoulders. If the landlady was going to go gallivanting about the country, some level-headed, experienced person needed to remain behind to oversee things. Especially with their lead horseman leaving for several days as well.
Patrick had mentioned the coincidence with a suggestive smirk, but Thora didn’t believe it. She could read Jane well enough to know she was hiding something, yes. But no matter Patrick’s theories, she was certain Jane’s plans had nothing to do with Gabriel Locke.
But what Mr. Locke might have in mind . . . ? She was far less certain about that.
Jane was very fond of Cadi. She really was. But after an hour in her company she had to stifle the urge to grasp her hand to stop her constant gesturing out the window at this sight or that, and to ask her to please be quiet. The girl, understandably excited about her first journey, chattered and exclaimed and asked questions nonstop, giving Jane a headache, and probably their fellow passengers as well.
Suddenly Jane remembered the taffies in her reticule. At the time, Jane had slightly resented that Thora had sent something only for Cadi. Now Jane understood. She smiled to herself at Thora’s unexpected thoughtfulness and humor, and offered Cadi a chewy candy. The girl accepted with pleasure, and since she was too polite to talk with her mouth full, they all enjoyed several minutes of blissful quiet.
After the first leg of their journey by Royal Mail, they alighted and ate a meal in a coaching inn on the route. Then they had another hour to wait for the stage to Epsom. They sat in the parlour on a padded bench side by side, biding their time. Cadi’s chatter slowed to the occasional question or comment about the inn’s fine food, “the best I ever ate—don’t tell Mrs. Rooke,” to her assessment of the inn’s cleanliness, to wond
ering what the rooms were like.
When Jane ceased replying, Cadi finally drifted into silence. Jane did not mean to be rude, but her thoughts were consumed with the encounter ahead—hoping she would be successful in locating Hetty Piper. Would she be able to find her at the seedy establishment a year later? If not, might someone there tell Jane where she could be found? How would Jane answer any questions about what business she had with the girl?
Soon after settling into the stagecoach to Epsom, Cadi, exhausted at last, nodded off, her head bobbing and finally resting against Jane’s shoulder. Jane breathed a sigh of relief and prayed for the strength and grace to face whatever lay ahead.
When they reached Epsom and halted before the Marquis of Granby, a two-story red-brick coaching inn, it was quite late. Jane secured a room for her and Cadi, and the two prepared for bed. Cadi fell asleep almost instantly, but Jane slept fitfully in the strange room, plagued by unsettling dreams.
In the morning, they rose, dressed, and went downstairs. Jane found a porter and asked him to direct her to the Gilded Lily, and how far it was. The man looked at her askance, surveying her top to toe, no doubt assessing her fine, if outmoded, widow’s weeds.
“Not far at all, ma’am. Only a short walk. Though it isn’t a place for a lady like you.”
She thanked him without explaining herself, and then led Cadi into the coffee room.
“You wait here for me, Cadi. I shan’t be long.” I hope.
“But, madam, I am supposed to accompany you.”
“And you have done, most capably. But you heard the porter. It is only a short walk.”
She glanced around the cheerful coffee room, busy with chatting couples, well-dressed gentlemen, and a mother traveling with two children.
“You will be perfectly safe here until I return.”
“But will you be safe?” Cadi asked. “I heard the man say it isn’t a proper place for ladies.”