Jane had heard that bit of history mentioned at some point but had thought little of it at the time. She asked, “How long ago was that?”
Talbot pursed his lips. “Thirty odd years ago now. It was The Angel until Thora married Frank Bell.”
“Ah . . .” Jane supposed she should have guessed. “Was the name change her idea or his?”
“I . . . think you shall have to ask Thora that. I was only a fairly new hire at the time, like Colin here.” He clapped the younger man’s shoulder companionably.
Talbot finished the tour and his instructions, and then they made their way back down to the desk, intending to review the departure and payment routine as well. Thora and Patrick were standing at the office door as they descended the stairs together.
Thora’s gaze flicked from Talbot, to Jane and Colin, and back again. “Hello, Talbot.”
“Thora. How are you?” He nodded to her son. “Patrick.”
“Hello, Talbot ol’ boy,” Patrick said. “What are you doing here? Thought you’d shaken the dust of this place from your shoes—or should I say work boots?”
“Only stopped in to see how Colin here was getting on.”
Patrick raised his brows. “Bit late for that, is it not?”
“Nonsense, Patrick,” Thora said. “It’s never too late to learn.” She slanted a look at Jane. “Is it, Jane?”
Jane felt her neck grow warm. “Of course not.”
Perhaps noticing the family tension, Walter Talbot retrieved his hat from the hook near the door. “Well, I had better head back to my place. I shall stop around again, when I have a chance. See if you’ve thought of other questions.”
Colin nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
Jane echoed her thanks, and Thora added, “I’ll walk you out.”
The two older people exited the side door together, and Colin excused himself as well.
Patrick crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter. “It is good to see you here inside the inn, Jane. You give the old place a certain elegance. In fact, why don’t you stay and eat dinner with Mamma and me?”
“I . . . couldn’t. I am not dressed appropriately. Good heavens, I forgot I was still wearing my gardening apron.”
“No matter. We are not formal here. Change if you like, but please do join us for a family dinner. It has been too long.”
Jane had never felt much familial feeling for—or from—Patrick or his mother. “I don’t know that Thora would want—”
“What wouldn’t I want?” Thora asked, returning.
“I was just asking Jane to share a meal with us as a family,” Patrick said. “You wouldn’t object to that, would you, Mamma?”
“Of course not. We have many things to discuss.”
Jane walked back to the lodge to remove her apron, wash her face and hands, and tidy her hair. She dared not summon Cadi to help her change her dress, not at busy dinnertime—and not with Thora waiting. Instead, she made do with adding a black lace fichu around the neckline of her daydress, securing it with a brooch of jet and seed pearls she’d had since her mother died.
Unaccountably nervous, Jane joined Thora and Patrick in the coffee room, where a table had already been laid for the three of them. Patrick rose and pulled out her chair for her, then reclaimed his own seat beside Thora. Handing around the basket of bread, Thora immediately tried to steer the conversation toward the problem of the loan, but Patrick sweetly put her off, saying, “Not tonight, Mamma. For tonight, let us simply enjoy one another’s company. Perhaps reminisce about old times.”
Thora sniffed and silently spooned her soup. Jane followed suit. And so began a stiff, awkward meal.
Undeterred, Patrick became his charming best, slowly wheedling Thora from her sullen silence with stories from his and John’s boyhood.
“John was born a man of business. Did you know, when he was no more than ten, he began extorting sixpence from female guests to ‘mouse-proof’ their rooms?”
“He didn’t!” Thora said, but Jane noticed her indulgent half smile.
“And Jane, I don’t suppose your husband ever confessed to the time he and I spied on a glamorous actress who stayed here?”
Jane shook her head, feeling a little uneasy and hoping the story wasn’t inappropriate.
Patrick began, “There used to be a hole in the wall between the linen closet and number six. John and I shut ourselves in the closet, planning to watch through the hole while the beautiful Miss Lacey bathed.”
“Oh no . . .” Jane murmured.
“We got a good look at a well-turned ankle when all of a sudden a heavily lined eye pressed to the hole, and a voice said, ‘And that’s the end of your show, boys. Now get to your beds before I call your mother.’ Well, that frightened the life out of us, as you can imagine.” He winked at Thora.
She frowned and shook her head, though Jane saw a faint sparkle of humor in her eyes.
Patrick added, “I returned to the scene of the crime the following week, I confess, only to find the hole filled. As you never boxed our ears, Mamma, I can only guess Miss Lacey whispered a quiet word to Talbot and he plugged the hole without divulging our secret.”
Thora said, “Your father, more likely. He would have laughed it off as harmless boyhood mischief. But Talbot would not have let it pass without a reprimand. He prided himself on The Angel—the inn—being a safe place for travelers. Safe from highwaymen, thieves, or,” she added dryly, “lascivious boys.”
Thora’s slip of the tongue reminded Jane of what she’d heard from Talbot. She said, “I saw the carved angels in the guest rooms today. I’d forgotten the inn used to be called The Angel.”
“You and most everyone else.”
“Don’t forget, Mamma,” Patrick said. “It has been The Bell since before John and I were born.”
“True,” Thora said curtly. “Please pass the salt cellar. Mrs. Rooke seems to have forgotten to season the meat again.”
Jane watched her mother-in-law’s face with interest. She seemed at her ease, but was that a tightening of her jaw? A sharpness in her voice?
Jane chose her words carefully. “The name change must have taken some getting used to. For everyone.”
Patrick nodded. “That Bell sign has been hanging out front my entire life, but now and again some old timer will refer to the place, or to Mamma, as The Angel.”
“Hush.”
“Your parents named it The Angel?” Jane asked.
Thora shook her head. “My great-grandparents.”
“Why change it, then?”
Thora’s eyes flashed, and her lips tightened.
Jane wished she’d held her tongue. “I’m sorry if it’s a sensitive subject. It’s none of my business.”
“There is nothing to be sorry about, Jane,” Thora insisted. “Anything related to The Bell is your business now.”
Jane tried to meet her gaze, but Thora looked down, sawing at her meat.
Patrick said casually, “I suppose it was only natural to want to put your own mark on the place when you and Papa took over after your parents retired.”
“The Bell is a good, traditional name for an inn,” Jane added helpfully. “And considering it was Frank’s surname, I suppose it was an obvious choice.”
“Yes, quite obvious,” Thora muttered sardonically, but did not expand on her answer. “Come, let’s finish our food before everything’s stone-cold.”
After the meal, Thora excused herself rather abruptly, Jane thought, while she and Patrick lingered over coffee. A horn blew outside, startling Jane.
Patrick consulted his pocket watch. “That will be the Southampton to Bristol. I’ll go. You stay and finish your coffee.”
He rose, folding his table napkin, and she smiled her thanks.
As he left the room, he summoned the porter. “Come, Colin! Cider, and be smart about it.”
Doors opened and closed. Carriage wheels crunched on the gravel in the yard. Voices rumbled, and a crusty coachman shouted warnings t
o the ostlers to take care of his horses.
Jane finished her coffee and then wandered back toward the office, pausing to look out the window.
Patrick stood outside, talking to the coachman of the newly arrived stage, while Colin offered passengers cups of cider, since this particular coach did not stop long enough for a meal. A few inside passengers stepped out to stretch or dash to the privy, or leaned down from the roof to accept a cup, but the guard handed down a valise to only one disembarking passenger.
Patrick greeted the man but remained outside, and Colin was busy accepting coins in return for refreshment, so Jane stepped behind the reception counter to greet the new arrival herself. She hoped she would remember Talbot’s instructions.
“Good evening to you, sir,” Jane said when he entered. “How may I help you?”
The gentleman, of average height and confident bearing, set down his valise. “I would like a room for a few days, if you please.”
That piqued Jane’s interest. Most of their guests stayed a single night, on their way somewhere else. But with so many rooms empty, she was not about to complain.
“You are very welcome,” she said, hoping not to sound too eager. She opened the registration book and slid the inkpot and quill toward him.
He picked up the pen with clean, well-groomed hands and bent over the registry, scratching away. She took the opportunity to study him. He was in his early to mid-thirties and handsome, with golden-brown hair and side-whiskers. He wore the fine clothes of a gentleman, but there was nothing of the dandy about him. No ostentatious flair to his cravat. No jewelry, quizzing glass, or walking stick. He had good, regular features—a straight nose, full lower lip, and vertical grooves bracketing his mouth.
He glanced up and caught her staring. His soft green eyes shone with humor, and the corner of his mouth quirked in a knowing grin.
Jane looked away quickly, making a show of searching for an available room and selecting a key from the drawer. Then she turned the registry toward herself, ready to add the room number in the appropriate column.
“And how many nights will you be with us?” she asked.
“May I let you know? I am not certain how long.”
“Of course. Just let me know when you decide. I will put you in number seven, Mr. . . .” She glanced at the registry, then bent to look closer. She couldn’t quite make out the name. James D-something.
He offered, “My friends call me JD.”
Jane peered at him, stifling a retort. She reminded herself she was no longer a genteel young lady awaiting a proper introduction. “Well, Mr. JD,” she said, not quite concealing the disapproval in her voice. “I hope you shall be comfortable here.”
He said, “Thank you. And you are?”
“Mrs. Bell.”
“Ah. The innkeeper herself.”
Jane automatically shook her head, demurring, “That was my husband’s title.”
“Oh? I thought I read that a Mrs. Bell owned this inn.”
Where had he read that? “Well, I suppose I do, officially. Though it is a family business.”
“Ah . . .” He nodded out the window in Patrick’s direction. “I did meet a Mr. Bell briefly when I arrived, but—”
“My brother-in-law,” Jane explained. “My husband passed away last year.”
“I see.” His gaze ran over her black dress. “I am sorry.”
“Thank you.” She stepped around the counter, wishing Colin were there to attend to this man.
“Now, right this way. Watch your head.” She led the way through the low archway and up the stairs. “Do you have friends or family here in Ivy Hill?” she asked casually.
“I am here on business.” His tone was polite but did not invite further inquiry.
“Oh?”
“Um-hm.”
When he did not expand on his two-syllable answer, she decided it would be rude to probe further.
“Be careful of this step,” she warned. “It needs looking after. And the handrail is a little loose here. Pray, don’t lean on it.”
Reaching the half landing, Jane noticed the patterned paper coming away from the wall, and a large spider web draping the candle chandelier above them. She’d noticed neither before. But suddenly, with this well-dressed gentleman behind her, every cobweb and crack in the plaster seemed to shout of neglect. She also felt self-conscious, wondering if her backside was at the man’s eye level as she climbed the stairs. She hoped he wasn’t looking. She ought to have suggested he precede her.
She reached number seven and inserted the key, disconcerted to find her hand not quite steady. How foolish. The door refused to give. “A little sticky, I’m afraid.”
“Allow me.”
She stepped aside, and he gave a well-placed shove with his shoulder and the door gave and swung wide.
“After you,” she insisted.
Inside, she pointed out the basin and towels, described the location of the outside privy, and reiterated mealtimes. “I’ll ask Alwena to bring hot water. If you need any clothes washed, she’ll take them to the laundress for you. Anything else you need while you’re here, just let us know.”
“I will certainly do that, Mrs. Bell.”
Jane knew she should leave but found herself lingering. “The floor slants a bit; please watch your step.”
“It’s not too bad,” he said affably. “When was the inn built?”
“I don’t know exactly, but it is over a hundred years old.” She gave a sheepish little chuckle. “And probably looks it.”
“I don’t know . . .” he mused. “She isn’t in her first blush of youth, I grant you. But she has good bones. She’s still a beauty.”
Jane looked over and was disconcerted to find the man’s gaze resting on her. Surely he did not mean . . . ? She swallowed and reached for the door latch, backing across the threshold. “I shall leave you to get settled. Enjoy your stay.”
He smiled, and the grooves in his cheeks deepened. “I believe I shall.”
Chapter
Nine
The pews of St. Anne’s held most of the usual parishioners that Sunday morning, though Jane noticed one particular person missing. She and Thora sat together near the middle of the nave, two widows in black. Patrick had volunteered to stay at the inn and watch over things. They had left him in the coffee room, ensconced with a freshly brewed pot of tea and the London newspapers.
In the front row sat Sir Timothy, his sister, Justina, and their mother, Lady Brockwell. Across the aisle was the box pew where Rachel had usually sat by herself in the months since her father’s illness kept him home. But today the Ashford pew was empty. Two rows behind it sat the Miss Groves and their pupils. Though not titled, the Grove family enjoyed esteem and respect as one of the founding families of the village.
Growing up, Jane had attended church with her parents in neighboring Wishford, as Fairmont House lay a few miles out in the country, about midway between Wishford and Ivy Hill. And it was just as well, Jane had often thought. Because in Wishford, her family had enjoyed a position of honor among the gentry. How awkward it would have been to have to give up her prominent pew and move several rows back after marrying John Bell.
Jane’s gaze returned to the Brockwell family pew. A sliver of Sir Timothy’s profile was visible from where she sat. She noticed a few more silver hairs in his side-whiskers and nape. He was only thirty, but she remembered his father had possessed a full head of silver hair by the time he was forty. She wondered why grey hair on men was handsome, while on most women, merely a telltale sign of middle age. It was not fair, Jane thought idly, that men grew more distinguished, while women just grew older. She wondered if Timothy ever looked at her, taken aback to see his childhood friend already a widow—and not a young one. She could hardly believe she was nearing thirty herself.
Mr. Paley was in fine mettle that morning, his sermon-making energetic, his prayers earnest. Finally, he led the congregation in the closing hymn, while Mr. Erickson played the pipe org
an tucked out of sight at the rear of the nave. The organ was a recent addition to St. Anne’s, of which they were all inordinately proud.
After the service concluded, Jane waited until Mr. Paley and his family, and those in the front pews, had passed down the aisle before following suit.
“I’m going to talk to Mercy,” she whispered to Thora, who was stoically bearing the greetings and curious questions of several women who had just learned of her return.
Ahead of Jane, the Miss Groves shepherded their half-dozen charges through the vestibule and entry porch. A chorus of dutiful “Thank you, Parson” and “Good day, Mr. Paley” heralded their exit.
Jane waited her turn to thank the vicar, then hurried to catch up with Mercy, already walking away down the churchyard path.
“Hello, Mercy,” Jane began, lengthening her stride to keep up with her taller friend. She then turned to smile at the young pupil holding Mercy’s hand. “Hello, Alice.”
The girl shyly ducked her head.
Mercy smiled at Jane, then said, “It was nice to see Thora in church again. But strange not to see Rachel in her usual pew.”
“Yes. I saw her on the High Street the other day. She mentioned her father has taken a turn for the worse.”
Mercy sighed. “I am sorry to hear it. I shall have to visit again. We could go together, if you would like?”
“Oh, that’s all right. You go on your own. I don’t think my presence would be a comfort.”
“Are you sure? You two were once so close.”
“I’m sure.”
Nearby, Mercy’s aunt greeted the dressmaker, Mrs. Shabner, near her own age. The two women linked arms and chatted easily as they strolled up Church Street. The students hurried ahead of them. Young Alice, however, remained at Mercy’s side, clinging to her teacher’s hand.
“Girls! Slow down,” Mercy called. “It is the Sabbath, after all.” In a quiet aside to Jane, Mercy said, “And we don’t want another reprimand from Lady Brockwell.”
Reaching the intersection with Potters Lane, the pupils huddled at the bakery window, pointing and exclaiming over the treasures within. Jane and Mercy reached them, and through the glass, Jane saw breads, iced biscuits, and a tiered cake decorated with piped icing and pastel flowers.