“You’re joking,” Jane said.
“I wish I were. But unless something changes, we haven’t a hope of paying off that loan in three years’ time, let alone three months.”
“Things might improve,” Jane hedged. She tried to send Patrick a significant look, hoping he would not divulge every detail of their dire circumstances to the man who held their fate in his hands.
But Patrick blithely continued, “I don’t see how. Especially now that several coaching lines have chosen to bypass Ivy Hill altogether, as have a handful of carters and wagon drivers. Who knows how many more will follow suit.”
Mr. Blomfield spread his hands. “This being the case, I cannot in good conscience go to the partners and ask for a longer extension. You have three months, Mrs. Bell, in which to either pay the loan or to document your plans to make the place profitable. If you are able to prove The Bell a worthwhile investment, I shall ask my partners to come to new terms on the loan. If not, the bank will foreclose and sell the mortgaged property to recoup its losses.”
“But . . . ! Surely the inn is worth more than the loan amount.”
“At one time, yes. But at its current profitability and condition . . . ? You cannot deny the place has deteriorated in recent years.”
Had it? She had barely noticed.
She asked the banker, “Have you any advice?”
“Sell it before we have to.” He shut his portfolio with a snap. “If you are able to sell it for more than the amount owing, including interest and late fees, anything remaining would be yours, as John’s heir, to do with as you please.”
“But then . . .” She bit back the questions tumbling through her mind. Where would I live? And Patrick? Would a new owner keep on the present staff?
In the next breath, her thoughts swung in the opposite direction. I could be free. Leave The Bell and all its clamor and memories and worries behind. . . . Would she have enough to live on? Where would she go? Might she be able to buy back her former family home, which sat empty and neglected?
“Are you certain you cannot give us more time?” she asked, hating the note of desperation in her voice.
“If I had not already applied for other extensions, perhaps. But as it is, no. Not without solid proof of profitability.”
Mr. Blomfield rose. “I regret to be the bearer of such tidings, Mrs. Bell. I have had a long and congenial association with the Bell family, and it pains me to contemplate its end. If I may be of assistance in any other way, please do not hesitate to ask.”
The man left, promising—or threatening—to return in three months’ time.
Jane rose and numbly followed him out, Patrick beside her. In the corridor they found Mrs. Rooke, making a pretense of dusting the dreary framed prints hanging there, usually neglected.
“You can go back to the kitchen now, Mrs. Rooke,” Patrick said with a wry grin. “If you missed anything, I will fill you in later. It shall only cost you a beefsteak.”
“Patrick . . .” Jane hissed.
“Oh, Rooke will eventually learn everything anyway.”
He waited until the cook-housekeeper huffed and trudged away before adding, “You know there are no secrets within these walls.”
“No, I don’t know that,” Jane insisted.
He cocked his head and looked at her in surprise. “Are there secrets? How delicious . . .”
“Hardly. I’m talking about the money John borrowed. Fifteen thousand pounds! What on earth did he do with it?”
Jane thought of the new suit of clothes, the calling cards, the trips to horse markets and to London to consult with a few architects. But he’d returned after several trips without any new horses, and convinced the renovations the professionals had recommended would be too expensive to carry out, and not yield a significant return on their investment. Jane had nodded along without questioning, relieved his trips would stop, or at least become less frequent. But at the time, she had not known about the loan. What had he spent the rest on?
Patrick looked about him. “He didn’t pour it all into the inn, obviously. Might he have hidden it away somewhere?”
That possibility had not occurred to Jane. She had not yet cleared out John’s things from the lodge. Would he hide something there or somewhere in the inn? She doubted it.
“Have you seen anything in the books that would account for such a sum?” she asked.
Patrick shook his head. “No. But I hadn’t known about the loan until . . . recently. Are you certain you’ve not run across a copy of the loan papers? Blomfield mentioned John might have a set.”
“Not that I know of. You might look in the office, if you like. Though I don’t see what good it will do.”
Patrick opened the side door for her and followed her outside to escort her back across the drive.
“Don’t worry, Jane,” Patrick soothed. “We will think of something.”
She looked at him dubiously. “Will we?”
“I am here now and shall help you.”
“Thank you.”
They paused at the lodge door. “By the way,” he said. “I rode past Fairmont House yesterday. How sad to see it empty like that.”
“Yes . . .”
“Have you ever thought of reclaiming it? This humble little cottage doesn’t suit you.”
Had Patrick read her mind? The small lodge was certainly not as grand as the house she had grown up in. She shrugged. “I am used to it. Besides, Fairmont is out of reach.” She had only a little money of her own.
“Is it? Well, don’t worry,” he repeated. “We will work something out. If nothing else, perhaps I might take the inn off your hands.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “You? Have you a fortune I am unaware of?”
“Not exactly. But I am a man. And . . . pray, do not be offended, but bankers would feel more confident investing in the inn if a man were at the helm. I don’t say I agree with them, but it is a fact of life.”
“Hmm. You certainly have more experience than I, but you heard Mr. Blomfield. We still have to prove The Bell a worthwhile investment.”
“Together we shall.” Patrick reached out and ran a hand over her cheek. “Don’t worry, little sister. I shall help you.”
Jane stilled, surprised by Patrick’s display of affection, and struck by the endearment, little sister. He had never called her that before. No one had. Jane had no siblings. The words settled over her with a sweet wistfulness.
Movement on the other side of the archway caught Jane’s eye. She glanced over, and Patrick turned as well. The farrier stood in the stable yard, watching them.
“There’s Locke,” Patrick said. “He wants to lodge a complaint against one of the coachmen. We’ll talk later, all right?”
She silently nodded and watched as he strode away.
Gabriel Locke stood with a scowl on his face. Was the dark look directed at her, or at Patrick? But a moment later, the expression cleared and he raised a hand to acknowledge Patrick’s approach. He did not acknowledge her presence one way or the other. She had probably imagined the dark look. Mr. Blomfield’s edict had colored everything in somber tones.
Chapter
Five
Needing to talk with a trusted friend after the banker’s call, Jane went to visit Mercy Grove. Mercy lived with her aunt Matilda in a house called Ivy Cottage, though it was larger and more stately than the term cottage evoked. Mercy had grown up there, but after she had come of age, and her brother had embarked on a career that kept him far from home, their father had entrusted the property to his daughter and spinster sister. He and Mrs. Grove preferred to live in London. Now Ivy Cottage housed not only the two women and their few servants, but also a girls’ boarding and day school, which Mercy had operated for several years.
When Jane knocked, the Groves’ manservant, Mr. Basu, opened the door to her, nodded, and disappeared again in his usual quiet fashion.
A moment later, Mercy walked into the hall, her youngest pupil holding her hand. M
ercy greeted Jane warmly, then bent low and urged the little girl to join the others already outside for their afternoon recess. Wordlessly, but without enthusiasm, the girl complied.
Mercy straightened and invited Jane into the sitting room. The two women sat and exchanged pleasantries until Mercy’s spry aunt brought in a tea tray.
“Hello, Jane. How good to see you,” Matilda Grove said. “We don’t have the pleasure of your company often enough. Now, you two enjoy a nice long chat. I’ll watch over the girls outside. It’s such a lovely day.”
“Thank you, Aunt Matty.”
When the older woman left them, Mercy poured the tea and passed Jane a plate of anise biscuits as hard as slate. She smiled apologetically and lowered her voice. “Aunt Matty has been baking again. You don’t have to eat one. Or dip it in your tea first. I don’t want you to chip a tooth.”
Mercy Grove was tall, thin, and a year older than Jane. She had an angular face, long nose, small lips, and unremarkable brown hair. She was considered homely, Jane knew. But in her view her friend was lovely, and her kind, intelligent brown eyes were her best feature. When Mercy was younger, her mother had often bemoaned her daughter’s height and “unfortunate” figure, worried she would fail to attract a suitor. Mercy was not only taller than many men, but she was small busted, and her gowns hid a disproportionately generous backside. Now that Mercy was nearly thirty years old, her mother had apparently given up her matchmaking attempts at last.
“Have you seen Rachel lately?” Mercy asked.
Jane shook her head, the old ache beneath her breastbone. “Have you?”
“I gather she is staying close to home these days. Last I visited, her father was not doing well at all.”
Guilt pricked Jane. She should have visited before now.
Mercy selected a biscuit and inspected it. “It’s a long soak in a hot bath for you.” She dipped it, then looked up at Jane. “Now, how are things with you?”
Jane explained the situation—the shock of the large loan and the banker’s deadline.
Mercy listened intently, then responded, “Oh, Jane. I am sorry to hear it.”
“I don’t understand what John could have been thinking,” Jane said. “Taking out such a sizable loan without telling anyone and risking the inn that way. And now I have to deal with it.”
Mercy shook her head, eyes bright with compassion.
Jane went on, “He always insisted he didn’t want me to work in the inn. He wanted a genteel wife to keep his home and raise his children to be educated and well-mannered.”
Jane sipped and continued, “Of course, back then he had his mother and Talbot to help him manage things. I think John assumed his mother would never leave. Have you heard she has come back for a visit?”
“I did, yes. How is that going?”
“Not well. Things have never been easy between us, and the strain only worsened after John’s death. Or more precisely, after his will was read. I know she sees me as a useless failure, in many ways.”
“Surely not. Mrs. Bell must have some confidence in your ability, or I doubt she would have left the inn to go and live with her sister.”
Jane shrugged. “I imagine she thought Talbot would stay and manage The Bell as long as he lived, such a fixture he’d always been. Not that I begrudge his leaving. He finally has a chance to pour his efforts into something of his own. That must be satisfying.”
“Yes, it certainly can be. And now you have a chance to experience that as well.”
“Oh, Mercy, I have no idea how to manage a coaching inn. Thankfully Patrick is back and promises to help.”
Mercy hesitated. She sipped her tea, then said, “It still surprises me that Patrick Bell returned to Ivy Hill. I thought he was away traveling the world and making his fortune or some such.”
“He was. But he heard about John and came back to help.”
“Does he mean to stay on?”
“I think so.”
Mercy returned her teacup to its saucer. “Be careful, Jane.”
“Careful? Why?”
“You know I don’t like to speak ill of anyone, but you cannot pretend ignorance of your brother-in-law’s reputation.”
“As a rake, do you mean? Are you worried about the chambermaids, or our female guests? Certainly not me.”
“All of the above.”
“Oh, come now. He is practically my brother.”
“Hmph.”
“What are you driving at? I know he is something of a flatterer, but I am perfectly safe, I assure you.”
Mercy opened her mouth, then closed it again and changed tack. “Never mind. I am sure you’re right. Besides, who am I to remark upon the wisdom of involving family members in one’s vocation?” She tapped a hard biscuit against her teacup for emphasis, and the two women shared a smile.
Jane nibbled a bite of tea-soaked biscuit, then said, “Perhaps Mr. Blomfield is right and I should sell the place before the bank does.”
“Oh, Jane. Don’t do anything rash. I thought you liked your little lodge?”
“The lodge isn’t so bad, but when I learned John had left me the entire inn, it felt like an anchor around my neck. And now, all the more so. I told John when he proposed that I was not cut out for such a life. And that has not changed.” Jane was surprised to find frustrated tears welling in her eyes. “Oh, Mercy, he left it to the wrong person!”
Mercy offered her a handkerchief, and Jane dabbed her eyes. “A part of me just wants to . . . go away. Leave talk of business and profits and loans behind me. Live somewhere in solitude and peace, with no coach horns blaring at all hours. No disgruntled staff to contend with . . .” Jane blew her nose. “How my mother would have blanched at the thought of her daughter doing such work!”
Jane glanced at her friend. “Forgive me, Mercy. I don’t mean to cast any aspersions on your school. You know I admire what you do here, I hope?”
Mercy nodded. “It is my calling, yes. And I thank God I found it.”
Though Jane knew Mercy’s mother was not happy about her daughter’s chosen career either.
The garden door opened, followed by the clatter of many pairs of half boots on the wooden floor and the chatter of girls’ voices.
Jane took a deep breath. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I just don’t know what to do.”
Mercy squeezed her hand. “Then I will pray for you. For wisdom and insight to make the right decision. And for compassion from the bankers.”
“That will take a miracle, but thank you.”
Jane rose, knowing Mercy needed to return to the schoolroom. Her friend walked her to the door and helped her on with her mantle.
“What funds I have are tied up in the school,” Mercy said. “But if I can help you in any other way, please let me know.”
“You have helped me already,” Jane said with a wobbly smile. “Just by listening.”
Jane began the walk back to the inn, no nearer to knowing what she should do. She returned by a different route, taking a shortcut across Ivy Green.
As she approached The Bell, she studied the inn as though for the first time. The listing lamppost. The dingy curtains in the windows. The peeling paint. The faded sign, with its golden letters and bell, needed a fresh coat of paint. The entire exterior did. How many times had she walked past without noticing any of it?
The dire news from the banker had opened her eyes and woken her from her slumber at last.
As she stood there, a tall gentleman in a fashionable green frockcoat and buff trousers approached. A familiar gentleman.
Jane swallowed. “Sir Timothy.”
Noticing her there, he drew up short. “Jane . . . em. Mrs. Bell. How good to see you.”
Was she imagining things, or did his dark-eyed gaze linger on her black gown? For one irrational moment she wished she were wearing the lavender dress.
Jane stood there awkwardly. Should she walk past with a vague smile, or did he wish to talk?
He cleared this thr
oat and began, “You might like to know that . . .”
Was this the day he would make the long-expected announcement? At one time, she had expected it every day. But years had passed, and still he had no wife.
“. . . my sister has had her season in London with Richard and the Sharingtons and is coming home tomorrow.”
“Justina, a season? Heavens. Is she so grown?”
“Eighteen.”
Justina had been a late-life child of his parents’, and Sir Timothy had been more guardian than brother since their father died, especially as there were more than a dozen years between them. Their middle-born brother, Richard, lived in London, but they rarely saw him.
“It can’t be. I feel quite ancient,” Jane murmured.
“Imagine how I feel.”
If only I could, Jane thought. “Greet her for me.”
“I shall, of course, but perhaps you might do so yourself, if . . . ” He broke off, glancing at the inn. “I suppose The Bell keeps you rather busy.”
Actually, she did very little—so far. She replied vaguely, “Things have been quieter lately.”
“Oh? The result of the turnpike, I suppose?” A shadow of a frown crossed his handsome, aristocratic face.
“Yes, but I am sure you are not interested in that.”
He sketched a shrug. “As it concerns you and your welfare, I am. And the welfare of Ivy Hill, of course.” As magistrate, Sir Timothy Brockwell felt responsible for the village and its citizens.
“I am perfectly well, thank you,” Jane assured him with more enthusiasm than she felt. She was relieved he did not press for details about the state of the inn. She did not want to admit her failure. Or for him to feel obliged to offer help. Help she would not accept from him in any case.
The sound of determined, clicking heels caught her attention. His as well. He looked past her, and she turned.
The woman’s fashionable bonnet tipped lower than usual, her eyes downcast. Her shoulders were not squared in their usual perfect posture. But there was no mistaking that confident gait. That small nose peeking out from her brim. That enviable figure in a perfectly tailored blue walking dress. Clearly deep in her own thoughts, her old friend had apparently yet to see them. Then she glanced up, and her gait faltered.