“How are you feeling?” It was probably a stupid question. Thora never knew what to say at a sickbed—or a deathbed. It seemed unlikely that Nan would leave this house except to step into paradise.
“I feel worse than I look. Which tells you something!” Nan smiled again, but Thora noticed her lips tremble. She admired the woman’s humor and her efforts to put her visitor at ease.
“Is there anything you need?” Thora asked, sitting on the chair near the bed. “Anything I can bring you, or . . . ?”
Nan gestured weakly. “No. I have all I need. If I had any appetite, I might ask for one of your famous veal-and-ham pies. But I haven’t.”
“I shall send one over directly.”
“Don’t. Or rather, do if you like. I know Walter misses them.”
“Very well, I shall.”
Nan tilted her head to one side. “You know there is something you could do for me.”
“Of course.” Thora hoped she would not regret that reply.
“When I’m gone, don’t let Walter stew in his sadness as he might do, on his own.”
Thora pressed her lips together, then lowered her voice. “I know he has always been fond of you, Nan. No doubt if the worst happens, as you fear, it will lay him very low indeed.”
Nan nodded. “We are fond of one another, yes. Like brother and sister. Don’t look at me like that—and don’t tell me you’ve heard the rumors too?”
“I didn’t need to hear any rumors to wonder. I know he once admired you a great deal. And not as a brother.”
“That was a long time ago, Thora. And yes, when I first married Bill, things were awkward between us. But the more we were in each other’s company, the more comfortable we became. He came to know me as I truly am with all my faults and foibles and realized I was not as perfect as he’d thought. Now we laugh about it! How ill-suited we would have been as husband and wife. But we are a congenial brother and sister, and true friends. It isn’t easy for Walter to form friendships with women. But you two were already friends. And you could be again, now that he is an independent man.”
“Did you ever admire him?” Thora asked. “Or was it always Bill?”
“Of course I admired him. Such a tall, striking figure of a man. I think he’s still handsome, in his way. But don’t mistake me. Bill is the man who won my heart and never let it go. And for his part, Walter admires another woman, and has for a long time now.”
Thora blinked, but did not ask who it was. Instead she forced a smile and bid Nan farewell, promising to return when she could.
Thora was seated in the coffee room that evening when Charlie Frazer entered, looking refreshed—face washed and hair combed. As Ivy Hill was the end of his route, he had a layover there every other day, having breakfast, sleeping several hours in the bunkroom, and then driving the upline back to Bagshot, ready to begin again the next day. Since Thora’s return, they had resurrected their old custom of eating breakfast together, and then a late supper as well, before he took to the road once again.
He smiled as he claimed his usual seat across from her.
“Thora, my angel, when are you going to marry me and put me out of my misery?”
His eyes twinkled, and she guessed he was teasing her again—at least mostly.
“Add to your misery, I think you mean,” she replied. “I have no thought of marrying again.”
“Do you not? I think of it a great deal and have for years. We have known each other a long time.”
“Not well.”
“Better than you knew your husband when you married him, I’d wager. You have seen me morning and night, at my charming best, and harried and irritable when your ostlers fall behind, or your cook serves inedible food to my passengers, which cuts my tips at journey’s end, I don’t mind telling you. And I’ve seen your tetchy taskmaster self and been the recipient of your dragon tongue often enough to know what I’d be getting into.” He winked.
She said dryly, “Your flattery never ceases.”
He laughed. “There, you see? You make me laugh, and I know you are using every ounce of control you possess to bite back a smile of your own.” He leaned nearer. “I am charming—admit it.”
His dark eyes glinted, and he smelled good. Some spicy shaving tonic, and the masculine aroma of worn leather. When he looked at her like that she felt feminine again. Desirable. Young enough to be flattered but old enough to take his words with a grain of salt. “You are charming, Charlie. I admit it.”
His smile widened, and he leaned in for a kiss.
She inserted a hand between them. “So charming that you probably have a wife in Bagshot, where you spend every other night. And an admirer at every inn along the way.”
“I do not.”
“What sort of life would that be for any woman? Sitting in a pair of rooms at one end of your route, while you drive to the other, probably to another woman, neither of us any the wiser. Waiting for you to return, for a few hours of company and a few hours of snoring, and then off you go again.”
He gave her a hurt look. “If that is your estimation of my character, Thora Bell, I am surprised you allow me under your roof, let alone call me friend.”
“The Bell cannot afford to be as choosy as it once was,” she quipped. She waited until Alwena had delivered their suppers, then lowered her voice. “I do consider you a friend, Charlie. And look forward to your company and our conversations.”
“As long as we remain . . . only . . . friends?”
“As things are, yes.”
“And what if I . . . left the Royal Mail, or changed professions altogether?”
She stared at him. “Charles Angus Frazer hang up his whip and benjamin forever? I would never believe it.”
“I can’na drive forever.”
“But I can’t see you changing professions. Not until old age or infirmity demands it. You love the open road.”
He looked down at his hands. “You know me better than I realized. Do you know, when you moved to Bath, I asked . . .” He hesitated.
“You asked what?”
He cleared his throat and changed tack. “Did you miss me, when you were gone?”
“You know me better than to expect any romantic nonsense.”
“I could make you happy, Thora. If you’d let me.”
She held his earnest gaze, longing beginning to loosen the tight grip she held on her emotions. But she bit the inside of her cheek and said, “That is a task beyond mortal man, Charlie. Even you.”
Miss Rachel Ashford sat down to compose a letter she had known for some time she would have to write, but dreaded doing so just the same. With a heavy heart, she dipped her quill into the murky ink and began.
Dear Ellen,
Father has passed. I wish you had been here with me.
Rachel hesitated. Was that really true? She and her sister did not get on well together and had not been close in years. In fact, Ellen annoyed her, and Rachel no doubt annoyed her in return. So did she really wish her sister had been with her?
Yes, she realized.
Dr. Burton assures me everything was done for him that could be, and that Papa did not suffer in the end. He slipped from this life quite peacefully with a tear from each eye.
Had he been in pain, did that explain the tears? Even though he’d been too far gone to utter a sound? Rachel hoped not. She hoped instead his eyes merely watered from some mild physical stimulus like dryness. The vicar theorized that perhaps her father had seen the Lord as he stepped into eternal life. Or loved ones who had gone before him, like his wife. Rachel had forced a small smile at the notion, not really believing it. Had her father been at peace with God? She was not certain. He was not a perfect man by any measure and had done things that had cost him—cost her—dearly. Had he asked God’s forgiveness toward the end? She didn’t know. But he had not asked hers.
Rachel supposed his failings—unwise investments, questionable business dealings, losing his fortune, and the resulting scandal—were m
inor things in the face of eternity. But they had not felt minor. They had shaken Rachel’s world. Her assumptions about her father’s character. Her preconceived notions about herself and her station in life. Her future prospects with Sir Timothy Brockwell.
Ellen, married and living far from Ivy Hill, had escaped the gossip and diminished circumstances—having to sell the carriage and horses, and let some servants go. She had not had to endure the pity, scorn, or gloating over their misfortune. Rachel hated the pity worst of all.
While Papa was still sensible, I read your letter to him more than once. You know how he liked me to read to him. So rest assured he knew you were thinking of him and wished you could see him again, had not maternal duty kept you away. I understand that having William and Walter to care for makes it difficult to travel. And Papa understood that as well. But I hope you will make every effort to come home to Thornvale soon, while it is still ours to come to. What comfort seeing you and my dear nephews would be at this time.
Until then, may God comfort us all in our grief.
Yours,
Rachel
Chapter
Seventeen
Jane sat at John’s desk in the lodge, writing notes for herself and listing ideas to improve the inn. Two weeks had passed since Blomfield gave them the deadline. She wished they had more time.
She also made a list of questions she wanted to ask Charlie and his guard, as well as a Wedgwood salesman lodging with them at present. The man journeyed across the country carrying a leather case bulging with sample earthenware tiles. He had no doubt stayed in many inns and could give her valuable ideas.
After an hour, Jane grew restless. She set down her quill and rose, pacing across the sitting room as she thought. She paused before the pianoforte and idly played a few measures. Then remembering the stable hands could hear, grew self-conscious and stopped. A knock sounded, and Jane crossed the room to answer it.
Thora stood on her doorstep. “Sir William Ashford died yesterday. Mrs. Mennell just told me.”
“Oh no.” Jane’s stomach fell. “I am sorry to hear it.”
“You knew him well, I imagine,” Thora said.
“I spent a fair amount of time at Thornvale as a girl,” Jane replied. “Though I knew Mrs. Ashford and, of course, Rachel and her sister, much better. He was always kind to me though.”
Thora nodded. “I thought you would want to know.”
Jane expected Thora to say something cutting about Sir William’s fall from grace, or to bring up Jane’s own father, but mercifully, she did not. If things were different, Jane would have gone to comfort Rachel in person. Instead, she said, “Thank you for telling me. I shall send Rachel my sympathies straightaway.”
After Thora left her, Jane wrote and posted a heartfelt letter to Rachel, then continued her preparations for the upcoming planning meeting.
Two days later she, Patrick, Thora, Talbot, and Mr. Locke met in the infrequently used private parlour.
Jane had requested a tea tray and a plate of biscuits for the occasion, and Mrs. Rooke begrudgingly obliged, resentful not to be included in the meeting. Jane had overheard Thora trying to placate her, telling the woman her duties were too important, and that the meeting would probably be long, boring, and a poor use of her time. She also promised that she or Jane would discuss any ideas related to the kitchen with her after the meeting.
Jane poured tea for everyone, passed around the biscuits, and then resumed her seat. She opened a leather portfolio—a gift from Mercy. A quill and inkpot stood at the ready to take notes.
Noticing her hands tremble, she lowered them into her lap. “Thank you all for coming—especially Mr. Talbot, who took time away from his own farm to be here.”
Talbot nodded in acknowledgment and glanced across the table at Thora.
“As you know,” Jane began, “I’ve asked you here to discuss and settle upon the best course to increase The Bell’s profitability by ten percent—enough to prove to the bank we are a good investment and to earn an extension for the outstanding loan.”
“Still wish I knew where that money went,” Patrick grumbled.
Jane chose to ignore him. “We only have an hour until the next stage is due, so let’s begin.”
She consulted the page before her and cleared her throat. “I have come up with a list of possible improvements after discussions with Mr. Drake, who owns a successful hotel in Southampton, and with a few frequent travelers, coachmen, and a Royal Mail guard. To learn what they experience in other establishments that we might emulate.”
“The Bell has never had to imitate other hostelries,” Thora objected. “We have been successful in our own way for decades.”
“That was once true. But unfortunately that is no longer the case. The Bell has fallen behind.” Hoping to diffuse Thora’s defensiveness, she added magnanimously, “It is no one’s fault. The times have changed, and so must we.”
Thora’s lips tightened. “My father and grandfather never believed in chasing after fleeting fashions.”
Jane clenched her hands and strived to keep her voice pleasant. “They did not have to. The Bell is the oldest inn in the parish, and for many years, the only one for miles. But with the opening of the Crown in Wishford and soon Mr. Drake’s new hotel, our patrons have more options.”
“Listen to you, Jane. You sound the seasoned tradesman already. I’m impressed.” Patrick gave her a sly grin, but Jane did not like his tone. She needed to gain the confidence and respect of those present, as well as the staff and bankers, if she was to have any chance of succeeding. Patrick’s teasing would not help her cause.
“I have simply gleaned from others more experienced than I and have given it a great deal of thought,” she coolly replied. “Though, of course, I have much to learn—especially from those of you present.”
“You’re doing fine, Mrs. Bell,” Mr. Talbot said encouragingly.
“Thank you. Now just to give us a starting point, I have come up with several possible changes. . . .” Fiddle. She knew Thora hated that word and quickly amended, “Improvements we might make in four categories: to better our services, update our appearance, decrease costs, and increase revenues.” She glanced at the list, then licked dry lips.
“First, Mr. Drake says all the major inns are improving the quality of their meals, to cater to frequent and exacting travelers. So we could serve better cuts of meat—and soup served at the appropriate temperature.”
Thora huffed. “Meat is expensive.”
“Yes, which is why we shall charge more for it. But that is another category—we’ll come back to that. Mr. Drake also suggests we tear down this wall, expand our current dining parlour, and add an indoor washroom.”
Patrick raised his hands. “Of course that man is happy to make suggestions to spend our last farthing and put us out of business all the sooner.”
Thora nodded. “This isn’t Bath or London, you know. This is Ivy Hill. We don’t need such hoity-toity ways.”
“But our patrons come from London, Salisbury, and Exeter. And the other inns along the route do offer such accommodations.”
Thora crossed her arms but did not protest further.
Jane continued, “To improve the inn’s appearance, we might paint, have a new sign made, or have the old one professionally painted. Hire the Kingsley brothers to repair the broken balustrades and cracked walls, and Mr. Broadbent to take a look at our leaky gutters and water damage.” She took a breath and went on, “We could add small vases of flowers to each table in the dining parlour. Buy a fine Turkey carpet for the entryway and new brass lamps to make the hall brighter and more welcoming. Have our gig repainted now that Mr. Locke has repaired it. Offer its use for a fee.”
When she again paused for breath, Talbot spoke up. “Well, I don’t know about trimmings and flowers and such, but I think the notion of hiring out that gig an excellent one.” He interlaced his long fingers. “Many was the time I had to turn down a traveler who wanted to hire a carriage to
finish his journey to some outlying area. And while buying a new carriage would be expensive, refurbishing that old one should not be too costly. And if it proves profitable, then we might justify buying another. Perhaps even hire a flyman to drive it, should the customer not wish to drive himself . . . or herself. One of our postboys might like the extra work, now that post traffic has slowed. Well done, Mrs. Bell.”
“Thank you, Mr. Talbot.”
Gabriel Locke spoke up. “But we shall need a new horse, or even a pair,” he said. “Most of our heavy carriage horses aren’t suited to single harness work. But I’m sure I could find a suitable fleet animal.”
“Buy a horse?” Patrick scowled. “When we have a whole stable full? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I have an . . . associate who owes me a favor. Not to mention a tidy sum. He has several such horses, and one of them would settle the debt nicely.”
“Someone owes you that much money?” Thora asked. “That is a great deal of shoeing and whatnot.”
“As I said, the man has many horses.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Locke,” Jane protested. “This associate does not owe us anything. You cannot transfer payment on that debt to The Bell. We would have to reimburse you.”
Locke shrugged. “If the scheme pays off, you may reimburse me then. And if it doesn’t, I shall simply sell the horse and the debt will be settled.”
“Well. That is very generous, Mr. Locke. And I am in no position to refuse your offer. Thank you. But we shall at least provide your traveling expenses. Patrick, please see to that from our cash reserves. We should have enough for coach fare and a night or two lodging, I trust?”
“No need for lodging,” Mr. Locke said. “I can stay with a friend.”
Patrick shifted. “I . . . will have to look. I am not certain there is enough ready cash.”
“There had better be,” Thora said. “We are due to pay quarterly wages next week.”
“I have been meaning to bring that up,” Patrick said. “But we can talk about that later. In private.”
Thora’s dark brows lowered ominously. “If there is any doubt about the payroll we had better discuss it here and now.”