This was news to Jane. “What, exactly?”
“I have heard talk of a private gentleman’s club, like those in London. Or dividing the building into private residences and renting them out like townhouses.”
“A gentleman’s club in Ivy Hill? Private dwellings? You must have heard wrong.”
“And if I did not?”
“Well, I admit the idea of a gentleman’s club sounds outlandish, but I see no harm in townhouses . . .”
Gabriel shook his head. “Think about it, Mrs. Bell. Like it or not, the future of the inn not only affects you and Patrick and Thora Bell. It affects everyone.”
“You’re worried about your job.”
“Not my job. Dozens of jobs. Maybe more. Townhouses would require few stable hands. A groom, maybe, but no ostlers or postillions. No porter or clerk. Residents would probably engage their own servants. So Patrick would employ few domestic staff, unless he keeps the kitchen open.”
“I see . . .” Jane murmured, thoughts whirling.
“And that’s only the top of the carrot. This coaching inn provides employment and trade not only to those who live and work within its walls, but also to many others in Ivy Hill.”
For a moment, Jane stared at him, measuring his words. Then she drew herself up. “Well. You have given me a great deal to think about, Mr. Locke. I hope I do not discover it is all scurrilous rumor.”
“I hope you do. In this instance, I would be relieved to be wrong.”
Jane went and found Patrick in the office and lost no time in raising the matter.
“Is it true you are thinking of converting The Bell into a private club or residences?”
Patrick shrugged. “Maybe. If you don’t sell it to someone else. And why not?” he defended, leaning back in his chair. “Wealthy gentlemen who can afford to travel by mail or post chaise would not hesitate to pay more for exclusive accommodations. A place to eat fine dinners, play cards or billiards, and socialize with their peers instead of rubbing elbows with every sailor, joiner, and traveling peddler we cater to at present.”
He leaned forward and pressed her hand. “Don’t look at me like that, Jane. It’s only an idea I’ve been kicking around. Assuming you are not going to sell The Bell to some stranger, I am trying to think of ways to change with the times and save the old place.”
Jane shook her head. “I don’t like the idea of a club. I’m not keen on townhouses, either. Would you really divide up the building? End its days as a wayside inn?”
“Imagine how much less work it would be! Far fewer staff to pay, and no more empty rooms! Think of it. Regular income, fewer expenses. How could it fail to increase profits?”
“But wouldn’t many jobs be lost?”
“Some would be lost, yes, though not all. Don’t worry, Jane. I wouldn’t do anything without your consent. But we have to do something to increase profits and pay back that loan. Unless . . . have you decided to accept Gordon’s offer, low as it is? Or found money hidden away among John’s stockings?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” But nor had she looked. In a place as small as the lodge, she deemed it highly improbable that John could have hidden anything larger than a few coins without her noticing by now. And why would he do so?
“What about the loan papers Mr. Blomfield referred to?” Patrick asked. “I can’t find them in here.”
Jane sighed. “Gone, along with the missing money, I imagine.”
Patrick rose and stepped around the desk, lowering his voice. “Jane, I’ve been thinking. If you allow me to assume the debt in exchange for ownership, I will make sure you have a home here for as long as you want. Nothing would really need to change for you. You could go on living in the lodge as you do now. Free from the burdens of inn management.”
She regarded him doubtfully. “You didn’t offer before, when you were trying to persuade me to move elsewhere.”
“True, but that was before I realized Fairmont House or somewhere like it was out of reach. Unless, perhaps, you marry again.”
“Goodness. I have no thought of that at present. John has barely been gone a year.” She considered, then asked, “But wouldn’t you want to live in the keeper’s lodge, as would be your due as owner?”
“Oh, someday, perhaps, were I to marry. But I have no thought of that at present either. For now, we could go on much as we have been these last few months, you in the lodge and me here, but with a few changes in responsibilities and legalities barely noticeable to others.”
The idea was mildly tempting in some ways. Especially if handing the reins to Patrick ensured an extension on the loan and The Bell’s future. But there was no guarantee of that. And if the bank ended up selling the inn out from under them anyway, she would lose any share of the proceeds as well as the lodge.
“I don’t think so, Patrick.” She gave him a wry grin. “But thank you for offering to allow me to live in my own house.”
Chapter
Thirteen
Jane didn’t speak to Mr. Locke again until the next morning. As she crossed the courtyard, she saw him giving instructions to ostlers brushing down a weary team just released from their traces. Noticing her, he stepped away to address her.
Without preamble, he asked, “Did Patrick deny his plans?”
“No. He is simply weighing his options were he to take over the place. Mr. Blomfield suggested that his partners would be more willing to extend credit to him than to me.”
“I don’t trust Mr. Blomfield.”
“Why not?”
Locke shrugged. “A friend of mine did business with him once. And only once.”
“What happened?”
“I only have it secondhand, so I’d rather not say. What about your marriage settlement?” he asked abruptly. “That’s not tied up in Blomfield’s bank, is it?”
“My . . . settlement?” Jane tried to cover her surprise. “What would you know about that?”
“John mentioned it to me once. He was offended that your father insisted upon one, as if John could not provide for you himself.”
Jane frowned. “You seem to know more about my personal affairs than I do.” She heard her caustic tone but made no effort to curb it. Even though she knew the real source of her annoyance lay with her father, who had not included her in those discussions and had never valued her opinion on anything beyond menu planning.
Mr. Locke said apologetically, “I don’t know anything for certain. I’m only recalling what John told me. You should talk to Blomfield. Or better yet, your lawyer.”
Jane thought back and gentled her voice. “Mr. Coine mentioned something after the will reading. I was so stunned by John’s death, and then learning he’d left the inn solely to me, that I don’t recall the details. But I assume any portion John agreed to settle on me in the case of his death has been superseded by the fact that he left me the inn in total.”
“You may be right,” Locke acknowledged. “Is this Mr. Coine local?”
“His office is in Wishford.”
“I’ve made some repairs to the old gig in the carriage house, and I’d like to see how she handles. I have business at the Wishford bank this afternoon, as it happens, and could give you a ride.”
“Inn business or personal business?” Jane challenged.
“Personal.” His dark eyes glinted. “But don’t worry, I shall work late tonight to make up for the time off.”
“Yes, you shall,” she said with hauteur. This glorified blacksmith was far too casual with her.
Jane walked inside the inn, exchanged greetings with Mr. Drake in passing, and then found her mother-in-law in the office. Thora looked up from her newspaper when Jane entered.
“Thora, will you watch over things this afternoon? Patrick has gone to the brewer’s but should return soon. I am going into Wishford to see my lawyer.”
Thora straightened and removed her spectacles. “I will, yes. Is something the matter?”
“Not that I know of. I just have a few questions f
or him.”
“How will you get there?”
“Mr. Locke will drive me. He says he has business in Wishford anyway.”
“What sort of business has our farrier in Wishford?”
“Something at the bank.”
“And what is wrong with the bank here in Ivy Hill?”
“Apparently he doesn’t trust Mr. Blomfield.”
Thora humphed. “That I do understand.”
Jane hesitated, then asked, “Thora, do you know anything about the marriage settlement between my father and John?”
“Not much. John didn’t discuss it with me. Probably guessed I would not approve of any money being funneled away from the inn.”
“I did bring a dowry into our marriage, you know,” Jane said tartly.
“Yes, that was something.”
Perhaps Jane should not have mentioned the settlement after all. There was no point in arguing about money that probably did not exist. “Well, I don’t know if there is anything left to discuss or not. Mr. Locke merely suggested I confirm one way or another.”
“Is not a jointure a portion of a husband’s property?” Thora pointed out. “You were left the entire inn, Jane. What more could there be? I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I just want to ask.”
Thora raised a hand in a “suit yourself” gesture and went back to her newspaper.
Later that afternoon, Jane stepped into the yard, dark carriage dress and bonnet in place, reticule on her wrist.
Gabriel Locke and an ostler stood beside the gig, waiting. “I reinforced the axle and secured the loose wheel as best I could. I think it will hold.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we shall have a nice long walk.” He offered her a hand, and she hesitated only a moment before placing her gloved hand in his. With a firm grip, he helped her up, and then rounded the horse to climb in on the opposite side. A lanky ostler Locke introduced as Tall Ted held the reins. As soon as Gabriel was seated, the young man handed them over and tipped his cap to Jane.
“You will be back for the four o’clock?” Ted asked, a little worry line between his brows.
“I will be, Lord and axle willing. But you and Tuffy know what to do. I have every confidence in you.”
“Thanks, Gable. That makes one of us.”
Mr. Locke acknowledged his words with a nod, then lifted the reins and urged the horse to walk on.
As they rumbled through the archway, he said, “Ruby here is an old girl, but a steady one. Let’s see how she does. It’s either this or the caddy butcher.”
“Oh, I hope it doesn’t come to that. She may not be a prime bit of blood, but she’s sweet.”
“Just don’t turn away from her, or she’ll nip you in the backside.”
Jane felt her face heat at the thought. “I shall remember that.”
“Forgive me. I suppose that was an impolite thing to say to a lady.”
“I would rather have the warning than the consequence.”
He urged Ruby down the Wishford road. She seemed more interested in the weeds and grass of the verge, but with a steady, skillful grip and click of his tongue, Mr. Locke kept the old nag on course.
“Not exactly neck-or-nothing, hmm?” he murmured.
“No, you shall win no races today, Mr. Locke.”
Beside her, the man seemed to stiffen. What had she said? Did he fancy himself a crack-whip? Or was she sitting too close and making him uncomfortable? Jane inched over a little farther on the narrow bench.
Reaching the outskirts of Wishford, Jane tried not to let nostalgia overtake her. Growing up, she and her parents frequented Wishford’s shops as well as attending its church. Wishford had a lovely village green, bustling businesses, and well-kept homes. The scenic River Wylye curved around the town, bringing beauty as well as trade by narrow boat.
Jane had encountered resentment from some Ivy Hill residents when she had married John. Not only because she—a gentleman’s daughter—had married an innkeeper, but also because many considered her a citizen of Wishford and assumed she would look down her nose at them. She and Rachel—and to a lesser extent, Mercy—already knew one another. The Brockwells, Winspears, Ashfords, Fairmonts, Bingleys, and Groves had made up the area’s leading families. They had dined together. Invited one another to their Christmas parties, Twelfth Night celebrations, and coming-out balls. Their similar status superseded the less-relevant fact of which village his or her house happened to be nearer. But the distinction was far more marked by others.
Over the course of Jane’s years in Ivy Hill, she had come to understand and even share her neighbor’s resentment of Wishford residents, who viewed their town as more prestigious than its humble sister squatting upon her hill. Even so, Jane could not deny Wishford’s charms.
Mr. Locke turned the horse up the High Street and halted Ruby with a low “Whoa, girl.” He tied off the reins and hopped down, coming around to offer Jane a hand. “I shall return and wait for you here when I finish my errand. I shouldn’t be long. But no need to hurry. We have plenty of time.”
She nodded her understanding and stepped onto the paved walkway in front of the law office and neighboring flower shop, the smell of sweet peas and lilies fragrant in the air. She watched Mr. Locke drive away and turn the corner but lingered a moment to admire the vibrant blooms. As she stood there, curiosity nipped at her. Her questions for the lawyer could wait a few minutes longer. Jane walked toward South Street, just out for a short stroll to stretch before going inside—that was what she would tell Locke if he happened to see her.
She paused at the corner jeweler’s shop, pretending to look into her reticule for something, and then glanced around the corner. There at the bank, Mr. Locke again halted Ruby. An adolescent hurried forward and took the reins, all smiles. Locke hopped down, said something to the lad that made his grin widen, and tossed him a silver coin.
“Thank you, sir!”
A clerk opened the door and welcomed Gabriel inside. Jane walked closer, paused again at the bank windows to adjust her reticule, and glanced surreptitiously inside. She was in time to see a well-dressed older gentleman greet Mr. Locke, hand extended. Locke shook it, and the man gestured him into his office with a pat on his shoulder. Jane could not imagine dour Mr. Blomfield treating any client so warmly. Perhaps she ought to consider changing banks.
The lad, clerk, and banker were obviously acquainted with Mr. Locke, so he had clearly come here more than a few times before. Man must set his own hours, she sarcastically thought. She had not paid any attention to his comings and goings until recently—until she had been made to care about the inn and those who worked there. But she might have to begin doing so.
“May I help you, ma’am?” the lad holding Ruby called.
Guiltily, she stepped back. “I . . . am a friend of Mr. Locke’s. Can you tell me if he has been a client here long?”
The lad shrugged. “Half a year, I reckon.”
“But you seem so well acquainted.”
He grinned. “He’s a generous fellow.”
“Ah, that explains it.” Jane returned the lad’s grin. But did it explain it?
Jane walked back to the law offices and let herself in. A bespectacled clerk looked up as she entered and rose to his feet. Heavyset, ruddy-cheeked Mr. Coine was just stepping from his office, head bent over a sheaf of papers. He looked up and hesitated midstride.
“Mrs. Bell! I did not expect you. Tell me I am not forgetting an appointment.”
“No, Mr. Coine. I had a few questions for you, if it is not inconvenient.”
“Not at all.” He handed the papers to the clerk and gestured toward his office. “Come in, come in. May I offer you some refreshment?”
“Nothing for me, thank you.”
She sat in the offered chair and he sat behind his desk. He moved aside a stack of papers, entwined his fingers, and leaned forward. “Now. How may I help you?”
“What can
you tell me about the, em, marriage settlement my father and husband arranged?”
He spread his hands. “Whatever you like. I mentioned it after the will reading, did I not? Pray, tell me I did not neglect to do so.”
“I’m sure you did everything properly, but I confess, I remember little you said after hearing I’d inherited the entire inn.”
“Ah . . .” Mr. Coine nodded his understanding. “And you were busy with wedding preparations when we drew up the original terms.”
Jane nodded. She had signed some papers before the nuptials but had paid them little heed—her mind full of the ceremony, the wedding breakfast, and the trip to follow.
“Forgive me, Mr. Coine, but could you reiterate the details?”
“Of course. The amount of two thousand pounds was settled upon you in case of your widowhood. Your father thought it sufficient that, if need be, you could live comfortably, though simply, off the interest. The way prices have risen in recent years, that may have been optimistic. But a nice nest egg, all the same.”
“But John left me the inn in total. Surely I don’t still receive any sort of jointure?”
“This money was not John’s—it came from your father. It was a portion of your dowry set aside for your future. Your father insisted. What would become of you in the event of John’s death if the inn burned down, or was bequeathed to someone else, or failed financially?”
Jane’s heart thudded hard. She and her father had never been close, and she had resented so many things he had done—selling her horse, selling their home and its contents without so much as a by your leave, and then that final betrayal. But now she realized that he had considered her welfare after all. Perhaps Jane should have thanked her father instead of resenting him. But it was too late now.
When she said nothing for several moments, Mr. Coine continued, “Because you did not inquire then or since, I assumed you planned not to touch those funds at present, but to save the money for your retirement or—”
“My dotage?”
“Well, something like that, yes.”