“Why should he agree,” Thora asked, “when he’s all but secured the contract already with his untried staff?”
“Oh, Jane has her ways”—Patrick smirked—“and that man wrapped around her little finger.”
Several raised-brow glances turned her way, including Gabriel Locke’s. Jane’s neck heated. “Patrick, I do not appreciate the insinuation. Mr. Drake and I are friends, colleagues. Nothing more.”
Jane went and saw Mr. Drake directly after the meeting. Seated in the new Fairmont reception room, she stated her proposal as positively as she could, while in full expectation of a refusal.
“Sounds like an excellent plan,” James replied instead. “Did you think of it?”
She shook her head. “No. I gathered all my staff and asked for ideas.”
“But that was your idea.”
“Well, yes—though I think it was Talbot who actually suggested a contest.”
James steepled his fingers. “Good thing Walter Talbot doesn’t work for The Bell anymore, because I’d have to try to steal him away from you. Impressive man. Sterling reputation around town and up and down the line from what I hear.”
“Yes, we were fortunate to keep him as long as we did.”
James pursed his lips. “So what are you thinking? Two coach-and-fours, our ostlers competing side by side?”
“Might be difficult to find two similar coaches not in use during the day. Not to mention two coachmen at their leisure. But if we had one coach, we could take turns, and have an official timekeeper. And you know Mr. Hightower would never approve use of an actual Royal Mail coach and risk any delays.”
James lifted a finger. “Except perhaps on a Saturday night.”
“Ah . . . good idea! Maybe the Quicksilver, before it returns to London. And its sister coach.”
“Yes, that could work. But why stop with the changeover? Why not involve the whole staff, and compare the entire experience from a passenger’s point of view: Who has the best porter, the best food, and the most charming innkeeper. . . .” He comically waggled his brows.
Jane rolled her eyes. “Let’s not get carried away.”
“Why on earth not? Who wants to go through life living halfway?”
“Not you, evidently.”
“Ah, Jane. Are you beginning to understand me at last?”
After the staff meeting, Thora and Talbot walked together out of the inn, down the High Street, and over to Ivy Green. It was a place they had spent many hours together during their younger years, playing cricket or tag, or flying kites on its open, grassy expanse. Across the green, a group of lads had gathered to play ball on the early August day—Delbert Prater and two of the Paley boys among them.
Thora said, “Thank you again for taking time away from your own work to come and help us.”
“When have I ever been able to say no to you, Thora?”
She sent him a wry glance. “Frequently, as I recall.”
“But never when you asked for my help. We have always worked well together, you and I.”
“We did, yes, once upon time. Until we left, each for our own reasons.”
Talbot nodded. “Your leaving like that came as quite a surprise to me, I admit. It made me realize I’d stayed on too long when I might have worked somewhere else at higher wages—and fewer headaches.”
“Glad to have helped,” Thora said sarcastically. “No one forced you to stay on as long as you did. Why did you?”
“Because I liked being your right-hand man.”
The ball was overshot and rolled their way. Talbot paused to pick it up and tossed it back to the waiting lads.
He continued, “And I hoped that after your mourning passed, our relationship might . . . change. You respected me as a manager but not as a man. Not fully. And privately, I very much wanted you to see me as a man.”
She looked at him, and then away again, her heart tripping uneasily.
“But eventually, I realized you would never see me as a potential partner as long as I worked for your family.”
She felt her throat tighten. “Do you mean . . . business partner?”
He shook his head, a bitter twist to his lip. “No, I don’t.”
He meant husband, she knew. But . . . marry Walter Talbot? The young man who had worked his way up from clerk to head porter to manager? Who had butted heads with her and could be as blunt as she was, and as decisive. Whom people admired and liked, where they were only intimidated by her. Who had earned her trust and friendship. . . .
Talbot ran a frustrated hand over his fair, thinning hair. “This is not at all how I wanted to say it. First you put me off at the farm and now here. Dash it, woman. You know how to confound a man.”
“And you know how to astound a woman.”
“You must have guessed how I felt. What I’ve wanted to ask you—”
She held up her hand. “Don’t. I have no intention of marrying again. I have promised myself that I will never again hand over the reins of my life. I am still reeling from the last time I did so. There is too much to lose.”
He frowned. “I understand how you felt about losing The Bell. First to Frank, then to John, and now to Jane. I was there, remember, when it was still called The Angel. When men vied for one of your smiles. But you married Frank, knowing the inn would legally be his one day, after your father passed on.”
“He swept me off my feet. Charmer that he was. And I was too young to know better.”
“I remember. All too well.”
Yes, handsome Frank Bell had swept her off her feet, and their relationship had progressed quickly. He had seemed so confident, and full of plans for the future. And he had seemed taken with Thora and her charms in return. Though in hindsight Thora wondered if it had been The Angel he’d found charming, and the prospect of becoming its owner one day. At a minimum the inn had certainly added to her appeal.
She said, “But you admired Nan back then.”
Talbot shook his head. “I admired you first, but you took no notice. Apparently that has not changed.”
“I had no idea . . .”
“You saw no one but Frank Bell. And you would not hear a word against him. But that was then, Thora. What are you so afraid of now? What do you stand to lose?”
“Oh, since I don’t own anything, I might as well marry anyone, because I have nothing to lose?”
“I did not think I was just ‘anyone’ in your eyes.”
“Of course not. But I still have a great deal to lose—my independence most of all.”
“Is independence so important to you? Is there something you fear I would forbid you to do?”
“Forbid me?” Thora echoed. “The very thought that a man would have the right to forbid me anything spurs feelings of rebellion in my heart.”
He turned to face her. “Do you trust me?”
“Trust you with what—my life? My heart? My future?”
“Yes, all of those things.”
Did she? She considered Talbot a friend, yes. But she was not about to hitch her wagon to anyone else. To wash another man’s dirty socks and lose what little independence she had. But nor did she want to lose his friendship. . . .
He stepped nearer and gentled his voice. “Thora. A husband is to be the head of the family, yes. But don’t forget he must be willing to lay down his life for his wife.”
“I don’t need anyone to lay down his life for me.”
“No one?” His fair brows rose.
She shook her head. “I don’t need saving.”
“There I disagree with you. We all need saving. But you’re right—you don’t need me. Nor, when it comes down to it, do I need you. But I do want you, Thora Stonehouse Bell. I want you to be my wife.”
Thora swallowed. Hard. Images of Charlie and The Bell and Jane revolved through her mind, not to mention her own warnings to her sister.
It was time to heed her own advice.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Talbot. But no.”
Thora returned to the inn and was surprised to learn that Mr. Drake had readily agreed to the contest—the contest Talbot had suggested. Thora was both relieved and worried. Now they had to convince Hugh Hightower to agree. Heaven help them.
Mr. Drake had informed Jane that the deputy postmaster was coming to the Fairmont the next day to make an inspection of the new stables. So the following afternoon, Jane took the gig back out to speak to Hugh Hightower there, allowing her to avoid the longer journey to Andover.
Thora waited in The Bell office with Patrick, hoping and praying for a good outcome.
But Jane had not been gone long at all when she returned, looking defeated. She strode into the office and flopped into the extra chair.
“He refused. Point-blank, refused. Didn’t even hear me out. ‘Ridiculous’”—she mimicked his blustery voice—“‘Not regulation. A waste of time.’” Jane pulled out the paper upon which she and James Drake had outlined the terms of the proposed contest and threw it on the desk.
Thora heaved a sigh.
Patrick crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “I could say I told you so, but I shan’t.”
“Now what?” Jane asked.
“Now we pray,” Thora replied.
Jane threw up her hands. “What do you think I’ve been doing?”
Thora glimpsed Charlie crossing the hall toward the coffee room, hair damp and slicked back, fresh from a bath. She rose, deciding to join him. Perhaps he would have some advice. He might know Hightower’s Achilles’ heel. Or if the man was open to bribes, she thought, half-serious, recalling the man had a secret.
Over a light meal, Thora told Charlie everything that had happened since he was last there—well, almost everything. She left out Walter Talbot’s offer of marriage.
Charlie listened intently. His eyes took on a distant light as he searched his mind for solutions, but he offered little advice and little hope. Noticeably absent were his ready smiles and bravado. He made no jesting offers to box with Hightower or challenge him to a duel. Instead the coachman’s face was perfectly serious and grimly resolute.
The garden behind Ivy Cottage was surrounded by a stone wall with a gate on one side, and another at its far end, leading onto the village green. The enclosed space held a tree with a swing, a bench, and a kitchen garden. The rest was open lawn, given over to the girls to play games.
During that afternoon’s recess, Rachel had agreed to play battledore and shuttlecock with three of the girls. Meanwhile, little Alice sat on the swing, the oldest pupil obligingly pushing her. Another girl reclined on the bench, reading a book of poetry.
Thwack. Ping. The shuttlecock flew right at Rachel’s face. It was the third time in as many minutes. Fanny was doing it on purpose, Rachel guessed. The girls enjoyed watching her flinch and duck. Oh, if only she had grown up with brothers. . . .
Thwack. Ping. Here it came again. Rachel let out a little squeal and winced, missing the shuttlecock completely. The girls tittered. Worse yet, when she opened her eyes, she noticed a man standing at the gate, witnessing her humiliation.
Nicholas Ashford.
Her face heated.
Rachel handed her battledore to one of the girls. “Here, take my place, please.”
Matilda Grove opened the gate, all but pushing the man through it and into the garden, when he was clearly reluctant to do so.
He was well dressed in deep blue frock coat, striped waistcoat, trousers, and a beaver hat atop his head. In one hand, he held a rustic bouquet of roses. Peach roses.
Her smile came naturally then. “Hello, Mr. Ashford.”
“Miss Ashford.” He bowed over the flowers, and she curtsied.
Around her, the girls buzzed with a rush of whispered curiosity.
Matilda spoke up. “He said he would just leave the flowers, but I thought, what a shame not to see you while he was here. He didn’t want to intrude, but I assured him it was no intrusion at all.” Eyes twinkling, Miss Matty retreated from the garden. “Well, I shall leave you.”
When the gate closed behind her, Mr. Ashford cleared his throat. “I thought you might be in a drawing room or parlour. I did not realize you would be out here, with all of these . . . pupils.”
What had he meant to say—witnesses? Eavesdroppers? Either of those descriptors would have been perfectly accurate.
“Yes, supervising the girls out-of-doors is one way I can help,” Rachel explained. “Though I am afraid I am not very good at their games. I have never been athletic.”
“Well, there are more important qualities.”
His shy, admiring gaze rested on her, and she felt her face heat anew.
He looked down, and suddenly seemed to remember the bouquet in his hand. “I wanted to bring you these. I said I would, and I am a man of my word.”
And that was worth a great deal, as she had learned.
“I hope I chose the right ones,” he said. “I thought it would be easy—gather a bunch and off we go, but I’m afraid the arrangement leaves much to be desired.”
True, some of the roses were already bowing their heads, and the stems were uneven.
“Never mind,” she said. “It was very thoughtful of you. And no doubt the Miss Groves have a vase I can use to—”
“A vase!” With his free hand, he smacked his temple. “You don’t have one. Of course you don’t. What an idiot; I should have thought of that. I shall bring you another bouquet. A better one. In a Thornvale vase, which you must keep, and . . .”
She pressed his arm to halt his self-reproach. “Mr. Ashford. Nicholas. It is all right, I promise you.”
At her touch and the sound of his given name on her lips, he fell silent and held her gaze a bit too earnestly for comfort.
She tentatively held out her hands. “May I?”
“Oh. Of course.” He thrust the roses forward and relinquished them at last, and only then did she notice the cloth strip bandages around three fingers and thin red scratches on the backs of his hands.
“Oh, dear,” she murmured.
He looked down at them as well. “I know. I should have worn gloves. Again, I misjudged the thorny endeavor.”
She smiled at his little joke. “Does it hurt?”
He shook his head. “It was well worth it, if you are pleased.”
“I am.”
“Good. Oh, you will be glad to know that your gardener has agreed to resume his duties full time. He’ll keep everything shipshape, or whatever the gardening equivalent is.”
“I am happy to hear it.”
“I hoped you would be.” His eyes darted toward the girls. “I . . . know this isn’t the proper place. But I had hoped to arrange a time to call on you . . . formally.”
Nearby, two of the girls giggled, hands cupped over their mouths.
“Girls, please give Mr. Ashford and me a moment of privacy.”
“Oh! Privvv-ah-seeee . . .” Fanny drawled. “He must want to kiss her.”
“Fanny!” the oldest pupil hissed in reprimand.
Nicholas Ashford reddened, neck to brow.
The students would never have behaved so inappropriately if Mercy were there.
“I am sorry, Mr. Ashford,” Rachel said. “Perhaps you might call again, or write and suggest a better time?”
He nodded, and with a sigh of relief, backed out the garden gate. “Yes, yes. Good idea. I will call again. Or write. Good day, Miss Ashford.”
“Good day, Mr. Ashford. And thank you again for the roses.”
Two days after Mr. Hightower’s rejection of Jane’s proposed contest, a note was delivered for her by messenger. She was sitting in the coffee room with Thora and Charlie when it arrived, and she opened it then and there.
“It’s from Hugh Hightower.”
Jane read it, then looked up from the page, dumbfounded. “He’s changed his mind. The contest is on for next Saturday.”
Thora’s brow furrowed. “What? Why?”
“I have no idea.” Jane handed over the note.
/> Thora slipped on her spectacles, read it, and then looked at Charlie over the rims. “What did you do?”
“Me?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Tell me you didn’t threaten to expose his secret?”
He frowned. “What do you take me for?”
“You threatened him once.”
“Ach. I threatened him all right.” Charlie playfully lifted a fist. “To reacquaint him with my left hook!”
“Charlie . . .”
“I am only teasing you, Thora. You should know me better than that by now. Upon my honor, I did not threaten the man.”
“I suppose you charmed Mrs. Hightower into persuading her husband to agree?”
Charlie opened his mouth to refuse but then changed tack. He said, “If I’d thought that would work, I might have.”
Jane rose. “Well, whatever the reason, I’m thankful for the chance. Let’s make the most of it.”
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
They gathered in the courtyard that very afternoon to start working with the horsemen. Jane and Thora stood on either side of Charlie Frazer and Gabriel Locke, in a show of support to get them started.
They did not have a Royal Mail coach available to them to practice with, but Jane had swallowed her pride and asked Sir Timothy to lend them his town coach, which was reasonably similar.
Charlie had risen after only a few hours’ sleep to join them. To please Thora, Jane guessed.
Colin was late. Again. But Jane knew this time it was because Thora had insisted he move a guest’s belongings from one room to another. Apparently, Colin had failed to give the regular customer his usual room. The guest had not complained, but Thora had.
In some ways, things had improved between Colin and Thora, Jane noticed. Thora was not as critical about him as a person—or as a McFarland—as she had been. But she still found fault with the way he carried out his duties.
As they waited for Colin to join them, Tall Ted asked Charlie, “Gable says he saw ostlers change a team in two minutes flat. Is it really possible?”