“It is, but pleasant too.”
“I haven’t knitted in years. I can sew, but—”
“You don’t need to knit. It is more of a symbol. Though some bring needlework to pass the time.”
“To pass the time? How boring are these meetings?”
“Not boring at all. But some ladies like to keep their hands busy while we discuss problems and ideas. Besides, with the price of textiles, there is never a shortage of mending to do.”
“What sort of problems? Women’s troubles?”
Mercy laughed. “No. Business problems, mostly.”
“What sort of business are you talking about?” Jane asked, growing increasingly wary.
“All sorts. The fact is, we are a group of women managing businesses of one kind or another, though we keep that aspect rather quiet. Tends to make men uncomfortable. Some women too.”
“So the knitting is merely a guise?”
“Basically,” Mercy agreed, eyes twinkling.
“What about the tea?” Jane asked. “Is that a guise as well?”
“Heavens no. Tea is mandatory. What would a clutch of women do without tea? We take turns providing it to share the expense. Thankfully, it has come down in price, though still dear.”
Jane said, “There can’t be many women in business in a village the size of Ivy Hill.”
“You might be surprised. Our attendance usually numbers from eight to ten. Not every woman wishes to join us. And some attend only occasionally when they can spare the time. Aunt Matty watches the girls for me so I can get away. Just come to one meeting and see what you think.”
“Oh, very well,” Jane said. “Though I don’t consider myself a woman in business.” Not yet, at any rate.
Chapter
Fifteen
On Monday evening, the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society met in a small room in the village hall. A dozen chairs were set up facing one end of the room, while at the back, Mercy scooped tea into a pot and waited for the kettle to boil on a corner stove.
“Can I do anything?” Jane asked.
“Yes, arrange these biscuits on a plate, if you please.”
Jane did so, happy to keep her hands busy and focus her attention on something other than her nervous stomach as women began to enter, some chatting to each other as they came, others slipping in quietly as though to avoid drawing attention. All sent curious looks her way.
The dressmaker, Mrs. Shabner, Jane knew. And the laundress, Mrs. Snyder. She had also briefly met Mrs. Burlingame, who carted goods to and from outlying businesses. She recognized other faces as well but could not put names to all.
Jane stood there, feeling out of place as Mercy made the introductions, including the nature of each woman’s trade. Jane would not remember all the names but was surprised to learn the variety of businesses with women at their helms. There was a wax-and-tallow chandler, a poulteress, a house-and-sign painter, and a piano tuner, among others.
Jane looked around as more women entered the room. How strange to find herself at a social gathering with people she had previously only seen or spoken to from across a service counter—not viewed as her social equals. How did they view her? In the tightening of Mrs. Barton’s mouth, Jane thought she detected a trace of censure or perhaps only incredulity. Could she blame her? When Jane had treated her with condescension—though hopefully not rudeness—when they’d last spoken about an order of cheese? Mrs. Bushby, gardener, florist, and greenhouse proprietor, gave her a small smile of acknowledgment. She and Jane had talked often of plants and seeds, and Jane bought hothouse flowers for the cemetery and sometimes the inn when her own garden was not yet in bloom.
Were these women aware of The Bell’s financial problems? The poulteress probably was. She recently came to the door to collect what she was owed, but, unable to pay the bill, Mrs. Rooke sent her away empty-handed.
And worse, Jane wondered if the laundress remembered the last time she had spoken to her in private, asking if she might help remove the stubborn stains from her favorite nightdress. Bloodstains.
“I have to say, I am surprised to see you here,” Mrs. Barton, the dairywoman, spoke up. “Thora Bell I could understand, though she has never joined us. But I don’t know that we are fine enough for the likes of the former Miss Fairmont.”
“Bridget!” Mercy admonished.
The ruddy-faced woman held up her palm. “I mean no disrespect, but we’ve always been honest here, and I’d hate to see that change now.”
Mercy glanced at Jane, and seeing her make no attempt to speak for herself, gently replied, “You may not be aware, Bridget. But Jane is the owner of The Bell, and has been since her husband died.”
“Well, having one’s name on a deed doesn’t always indicate who’s doing the work, does it, girls?”
Around the room, heads nodded and knowing looks were exchanged.
Mercy went on, “I thought we might be able to help Jane. Some of you know The Bell is facing difficulties. And Jane must soon decide whether to take on the management of the inn to make it profitable, or sell. But for tonight—her first meeting—I thought we would allow her to simply observe and ask questions if she likes, but feel no pressure to participate until she feels comfortable.”
Murmurs of assent arose, punctuated by a few grumbles, and the meeting commenced.
The first topic raised was the overcrowding of market stalls and the bias of the village council to assign the better stalls to men, whether they resided in Ivy Hill or not. Mercy offered to speak to Sir Timothy on their behalf, to see if he might sway the council to be more fair to Ivy Hill’s merchants—be they men or women.
“What’s next?” she asked.
The poulteress, Miss Featherstone, rose. “I was going to ask your advice about what to do when a customer don’t pay, but as Mrs. Bell is here tonight, I shall hold that question for another time.”
She sat back down, and Jane ducked her head in embarrassment.
Later, when they paused to refill their tea and biscuits, Jane screwed up her courage and approached Miss Featherstone, promising to pay the poultry bill herself as soon as she could.
Then she sought out Mrs. Klein. “I was sorry to hear about your husband. He was our piano tuner back at Fairmont House.”
“Yes, I remember. Unfortunately, your father was not willing to continue on with me after Mr. Klein died, though I tried to assure him my husband had trained me well.”
“I did not realize you shared his skill,” Jane said. Her father had begun bringing in a man from Salisbury—an expensive proposition, and Jane had continued with him after marrying John. Perhaps she should reconsider.
The woman nodded her understanding. “Many doubt my ability.”
The door burst open, and the vicar’s wife bustled in, out of breath. “Sorry to be so late.”
“Mrs. Paley, must we remind you again?” Bridget Barton mildly chastised. “You do not operate a business.”
Mrs. Paley tossed her hat on a chair, her hair beneath askew, her face flushed. “Do I not?” she challenged, her voice rising in uncharacteristic exasperation. “I am about God’s business every day, not to mention church business. True, my husband is the head and I the helpmeet, but he can’t do it all—or as he says, not much of anything—without me. Who manages the charity guild and donations of clothing for the parish poor? Who keeps Mr. Paley’s vestments snowy white, his sons in line, and his hair from looking like a wild bush? Who deals with unhappy parishioners and struggles daily to meet their sometimes unrealistic expectations? Why, I am more than a woman of business. I am politician, teacher, physician, editor, budget stretcher, manager, and feather smoother.”
She looked from startled face to startled face and flopped into a chair, spent. “Forgive me. Beyond my home, this is the only place I can be my true self and not have to bite my tongue at every turn. But I am sorry to sound the martyr. I am blessed, I know. It has just been the most trying week.”
Mercy said gently, “We understan
d, Mrs. Paley.”
The vicar’s wife turned to Jane, eyes downcast. “And Mrs. Bell. I am doubly sorry. What an initiation by fire at your first meeting! I hope it shall not be your last. Not on my account.”
It might be Jane’s last meeting, but certainly not because of the vicar’s wife, whom she liked very much indeed.
As the meeting continued, Jane again looked at the assembled women of varying ages, wearing dresses of various styles—none very fashionable. And their hands—oh, the hands of some of these women! Their professions ranged from the learned like Mercy, to the artisan like the candlemaker and piano tuner, to the humble dairywoman and laundress. Could she be like these women? Capable and independent, hardworking and hands worn? Did she want to be?
Mrs. Bushby rose and reported that her greenhouse had been vandalized—shot at and glass broken—by drunken poachers, she guessed, as hunting season had yet to begin.
“Have you talked to the magistrate?” Mercy asked.
“Yes, but there’s nothing he can do without evidence. In the meantime, the glazier requires payment up front to replace the glass, and I won’t have sufficient funds until later in the growing season. He wants six pounds!”
“Six pounds!” The women were scandalized.
Mrs. Paley tried to bite a biscuit, then discreetly set it in her saucer. She said, “The vicarage garden is out of control. Perhaps you could do some work for me toward that amount?”
Mrs. Bushy shook her head. “I don’t want charity, ma’am.”
“Charity? Hardly. You have not seen my garden.”
Mrs. Klein rose. “My horse is ailing, and without him, I can’t travel very far. Heaven knows there are not enough pianos in Ivy Hill and Wishford alone to keep me busy.”
“You can borrow my mule, now the planting’s done,” Mrs. Bushby offered.
“Or I can take you as far as Codford and Wilton on my weekly route,” the carter, Mrs. Burlingame, added.
It crossed Jane’s mind to offer Gabriel Locke’s services, farrier and self-taught veterinarian that he seemed to be. But in the end, she remained silent, not sure her help—or interference—would be welcome.
“I have a question,” one of the Cook sisters asked. “Do you think it’s wrong that Miss Morris leaves her father’s name on her card and advertisements, as though he is actually still doing the work?”
Becky Morris, the daughter of a deceased painter, protested, “At least I have some work to do this way!”
“Ladies, we are here to help one another, not judge.”
Miss Morris added, “She’s not the only one criticizing me lately. Mrs. Prater gave me a dressing down just last week. Said climbing ladders to paint houses and signs is unladylike and indecent. Indecent! When she has never complained before. Well, come to find out, young Delbert Prater had been seen looking up my skirts, the rascal!”
The women tutted sympathetically, and a few giggled.
Mrs. Shabner asked, “You do wear drawers, I trust, Becky?”
Becky flashed her a look. “I do now.”
Jane bit her lip to stifle a laugh of her own. She smiled at Becky Morris. In the next moment, she felt a stab of guilt. She had seen the fine calligraphy and painting on the Praters’ storefront and assumed a man had done it. Apparently, Jane had a lot to learn. In more ways than one.
After the meeting, Mercy and Jane walked out together as far as the High Street.
“What did you think?”
“I don’t know, Mercy. I admire how the women help each other, and how hard they work. But I still wish I could return to my old life.”
“Your old life? Which life is that?”
“You know what I mean.” Jane gestured to the inn across the street. “I wasn’t raised for this. I feel so ill prepared.”
“Is the ‘old life’ you idealize really so ideal?” Mercy asked. “Look at Rachel Ashford. Her father disgraced and on his deathbed. And her to lose her home as soon as he dies. Would you trade places with her?”
Jane sighed. “No.”
“That old life doesn’t exist any longer.”
“Not for me,” Jane agreed. “Not here.”
“Do you think if you moved away somewhere you would be happy?” Mercy asked earnestly. “Sitting alone in some rented room, reading and playing your pianoforte all day for your own amusement? Would you not grow bored? Not to mention lonely?”
That was basically how Jane had been living for the last year. And she had been both bored and lonely since John died. And even before, if she were to admit the truth.
Mercy went on, “And don’t think that living with Aunt Matty and me is the solution either. I have to keep my parents’ bedchamber available, though they visit but rarely. And I have already offered the spare room to Rachel, for when the time comes. You know she is proud and hates to ask for help. But even if we had another room available, would you really want to retreat back into your hermit-like existence now that you’ve finally begun to emerge?”
Would she?
Mercy pressed her hand, her eyes bright by lamplight. “Manage the inn, Jane; save it. Have a mission in life. Discover that work worth doing is about more than profit and toil. It’s about using the gifts and ability you’ve been given to serve your fellow man and please your Maker.”
Jane stood there, stilled by Mercy’s entreaty. She swallowed, “My goodness, Mercy. You ought to be a reformer.”
A slow smile transformed Mercy’s face. “And who says I am not?”
They parted ways, each to her own home. Nearing the lodge, Jane glanced through The Bell archway and saw Gabriel Locke sitting on the bench outside, whittling something.
He looked up at her approach. “Hello, Mrs. Bell. You’re out late.”
Jane walked closer. “I attended my first meeting of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society.”
“Tea and knitting?” he asked, forehead furrowed.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Yes.”
She lowered her voice. “Its members are all women in business.”
His dark brows rose. “Are they indeed? So you’ve decided, then.”
“I have not deci—”
“I am glad,” he went on, not hearing her demur. “I’ve been dreading what would happen to Ivy Hill if it lost its only coaching inn—its communication point with the outside world and employment for so many who live here.” He spread his hands expansively. “Not only the staff itself, but also the baker, the butcher, the chandler who supplies our candles and those long tapers for the coach lamps. The farms that supply our carriage horses. The wheelwright, the carters who deliver goods, not to mention the acting troupes and revivalists The Bell has hosted over the years. And all those employed by or benefited by the inn, in turn patronize the remaining businesses and give to the charity guild and poor fund.”
He circled his hand. “Village life is like an ivy vine climbing a great oak. You cut off the vine at the root, and all the way up the tree, the leaves wither. We’re all connected.”
For a moment Jane stared at him, taken aback by his long and impassioned speech, when he was usually a man of few words, even standoffish in her company.
“My goodness—that was almost poetic.”
“No. It is a hard truth. I understand that in some ways it would be easier for you to sell out or hand the reins to Patrick. But you have more than yourself to think of in this situation.”
“And that was not poetic but a lecture,” she said coldly. “One I did not ask for.” Who did this man think he was to speak to her so critically?
He grimaced. “I know it isn’t my place, but with John gone, I—”
“Please tell me you don’t presume to take his place.”
“Of course not. But set aside your injured pride for a moment and consider this. John could have left The Bell to Patrick. But he did not. He left it to you. For a reason.”
“Because he was duty bound to provide for me.”
Gabriel shook his head. “If that
were the case, he could have increased your settlement or made your upkeep a stipulation of any bequest to Patrick. But he did not. He left it to you because he thought you were the best person for the job.”
“I doubt that,” Jane said, thinking, He left it to me only because he wanted the inn to go to his children eventually, through me. But there are no children.
As if reading her mind, Gabriel lowered his voice and said, “Remember, John could have rewritten his will at any point.”
“Perhaps he meant to but ran out of time,” she said, then sighed. “Listen. I know John considered you a friend. And he offered you a place of employment here, I presume, because of that. But I do not know you well enough to . . .”
“Trust me?” he supplied.
“Can you blame me?”
He rose. “No. You are a wise woman, Mrs. Bell. For your husband did trust me. And look where it got him.”
She shot him a look. “What do you mean by that?”
He ran a work-worn hand over his face. “Never mind. Forgive me. That was a callous thing to say.”
“But what did it mean?” Jane repeated.
He turned toward the stables. “It means it’s time I said good night.”
Jane returned to the lodge, her thoughts in a tangle. She set aside her gloves and sat at John’s old desk. It was time—past time—to make her decision.
She thought again of the pending loan, the loss of stage lines, the new competition from James Drake. It would be easier to give up. Or give over to Patrick.
But then she considered the words Gabriel Locke had spoken. “All those employed by or benefited by the inn, in turn patronize the remaining businesses and give to the charity guild and poor fund. Village life is like an ivy vine climbing a great oak. You cut off the vine at the root, and all the way up the tree, the leaves wither. We’re all connected.”
When he’d said the words, she hadn’t fully understood them. But now, as she sat there and thought again of vines and leaves, she didn’t think of the villagers and shopkeepers she recognized only in passing, people she didn’t know personally and who were not her concern. Now she thought of Mrs. Bushby, Mrs. Klein, and Miss Morris. She thought of the baker and chandler and cheesemaker. The carter and laundress and poulteress. And of course of The Bell staff. They all supplied the inn or served those who passed through its doors. Would she close the door on all of them? Or risk Patrick doing so?