“Girls. Don’t press your noses to the glass or Mrs. Craddock shall have to clean it in the morning.” When they remained, Mercy repeated, “Girls. Come away.” She added under her breath, “Before Aunt Matty sees and takes it into her head to bake again . . .”
Too late. Matilda Grove excused herself from the dressmaker and hurried to join the girls at the bakery window. “Ohhh! Look at those sugar flowers. All the colors of spring. I wonder how they tint the sugar like that. Well, girls, pick something that captures your fancy, and I shall attempt to create it in our own kitchen! What say you?”
The older girls exchanged knowing looks, while the younger ones oohed and aahed and pointed to the tiered cake.
“The cake it is!”
Mercy sighed.
“Poor Mercy,” Jane teased.
“Let’s go home the long way, girls!” Mercy called to them, then turned back to Jane. “Walk with us? It is such a lovely day. And the Brockwell Court gardens must be in glorious bloom by now. The girls could use the exercise, and I the air.”
“So could I, come to think of it, after the long service.”
So instead of continuing on Church Street, they turned up narrow Steeple Lane, past several cottages, then crossed the packhorse bridge over Pudding Brook. Soon they were walking along a green slope dotted with sheep and a few cows, with a farmhouse and barn in the distance.
Seeing a quartet of lambs leaping and frolicking, the girls hurried to get closer to the adorable, nimble creatures. Matilda Grove followed, chasing after the lambs as though a girl herself. Jane and Mercy shared a bemused look and burst into laughter.
Then Mercy turned to the little girl still clutching her hand. “Go on, Alice,” she urged. “Go see the lambs.”
She gave the girl a gentle nudge, and after a reassuring glance at Mercy over her shoulder, Alice hurried to join the others.
“She’s very attached to you,” Jane observed.
“Yes,” Mercy replied on a sigh, part wistful, part worried.
“Has she no family of her own?”
Mercy hesitated. “Not . . . close family. Her mother died a few months ago.”
“How sad. And her father?”
“He has been gone for years, I understand. A merchant marine who died at sea.”
“Then who pays for Alice’s school fees and room and board?”
Mercy bit her lip and made no reply.
“Mercy . . .” Jane admonished. “I don’t pretend to have much experience, but even I know that’s not the way to manage a business.”
Her friend lifted her chin. “I believe every child, girl or boy, should be educated, regardless of family or financial circumstances.”
“Very noble. But can you afford it?”
Mercy shrugged. “Most of my pupils have relatives who pay their fees. But my heart is with those without homes of their own. When last I visited my parents in London and saw all those street urchins . . . I wished I could cart them up and bring them all here.”
“You cannot rescue them all.”
“I suppose not.”
They reached Brockwell Court and walked along the bridleway, admiring the manor’s gardens, yew houses, and topiaries. The grounds had changed little since those long ago days when Jane had been a frequent guest there.
“Why don’t you join us for dinner?” Mercy suggested. “Mrs. Timmons put on a Sunday roast and Auntie baked more of her, em, special biscuits.”
Jane smiled. “As tempting as that sounds, no thank you.” She plucked at the heavy, warm fabric of her dress. “I think I shall return to my lonely little lodge, get out of these dreary widow’s weeds, and take a solitary Sunday afternoon nap.”
Mercy regarded her, then said gently, “Don’t feel too sorry for yourself, Jane. Remember, you had a husband—a man who loved you and pursued you. More than one man who pursued you, if memory serves.”
Jane winced. “I’m sorry, Mercy. That was thoughtless of me. But at least you have your girls.”
“They are not mine. Not really.” She looked off into the distance. “None shall ever call me Mamma.”
Jane reached out and squeezed Mercy’s long fingers. Voice hoarse, she whispered, “We have that in common.”
Chapter
Ten
The next afternoon, Jane put a small dish of kipper, left over from breakfast, on her doorstep, hoping to lure one of the stable cats to her door. She waited, and after several minutes, the grey-and-black tabby came slinking over warily from the yard. He slowed as he neared, hesitant at seeing her in the open doorway.
Jane bent low. “It’s all right. I mean you no harm.”
The cat sniffed and, unable to resist the fishy aroma, crept atop the step. As he began nibbling the fish, Jane slowly reached out to try and pet him, but the cat darted back through the archway to the safety of the stables.
Jane rose with a sigh. Ah well. It was a start.
Retrieving the two vases of flowers she had arranged earlier, Jane carried them across the yard to the inn, to see if she could be useful, and she admitted to herself, curious to see the man called JD again. After putting one vase of flowers on the hall table, and the second on the desk, she glanced into the dining parlour and saw him sitting at a small corner table, set apart from the passengers of the recently arrived stagecoach. As Jane lingered there, the guard entered only long enough to call out a ten-minute warning. Inside the dining parlour, passengers grumbled. One tried to snag Alwena’s arm as she hurried past with a teapot.
Jane glanced around the tables. Only bread and butter had been served so far. The short layover was ticking away, and the passengers were growing impatient.
Jane took a deep breath for courage as she walked down the passage and paused in the kitchen doorway. Inside, the cook stood at her leisure at the worktable, sipping tea.
Jane said, “Mrs. Rooke, the passengers must leave in a few minutes and have yet to be served. What is the delay?”
“Just making sure the soup is plenty hot.”
Jane crossed the threshold only far enough to peer inside the open pot, surprised to see its contents steaming and gurgling away. “It is more than hot enough.”
“That is a matter of opinion. Thora Bell always insisted on serving it piping hot.”
“Too hot to eat?” Jane challenged.
“Precisely.”
Realization swept through Jane. The delay was intentional! At that moment, Thora walked past the kitchen door, and drew up short at the foreign sight of Jane in Mrs. Rooke’s kitchen.
Seeing her, Jane gestured toward the pot in exasperation. “Thora! You approve of this?”
“I’m sorry if your delicate sensibilities are offended, Jane,” Thora coolly replied. “It is the way we’ve always done things—the way most inns do things. And with finances as they are, you should be thanking Mrs. Rooke instead of standing there the picture of moral outrage.”
Alwena entered, helped Mrs. Rooke ladle bowls of steaming soup, and placed them on a tray.
Aiming a glare at Jane, the cook said to the maid, “Here, Alwena. Serve these.”
Jane followed the maid back to the dining parlour. Tension eased as a bowl was set before each hungry customer.
“This soup is much too hot,” one matron immediately complained.
“It will cool, by and by,” Jane soothed, pasting on a smile.
A gentleman pulled out his pocket watch. “We’re to depart soon. You had better bring us the rest of our meal now.”
Jane swallowed. “I will see what I can do.”
The guard called another warning, “South Way passengers. Time to take your seats. The coach leaves in five minutes.”
Again people grumbled. Others tried to drink their soup, blowing and sipping and wincing.
Finally, Alwena brought in the meat and potatoes, but the guard outside blew the final warning. Passengers rose, fumbling for shillings to settle their bills, muttering about the poor service, and hurrying outside, leaving almost as hung
ry as they arrived, no doubt.
As the dining parlour emptied, Alwena hurried around, picking up bowls of barely touched soup which, Jane surmised, would be dumped back into the pot.
She glanced over and found JD still sitting at his corner table alone, watching her. Slowly, patiently, stirring his soup.
He waited until Alwena left the room with her tray, then said, “That’s the oldest trick in the book, you know.”
“What is?” Jane said, feeling defensive and embarrassed on The Bell’s behalf.
His eyes glinted. “Oh come, you know very well. Passengers have a limited time. Inns take their orders and their money, then serve scalding soup too hot to drink and delay serving the rest of the meal until the guard blows his horn. Then they serve the uneaten food to the next passengers. I noticed your maid didn’t collect their money first, though. That could have cost you. The customers might have refused to pay, given the circumstances, and then what would you do?”
“It wasn’t my idea. My mother-in-law just told me it is the way most inns do things, so apparently passengers expect little better.”
He nodded. “It was the way many used to do things, yes. But times are changing. Gone are the days when hostelries could provide poor service and expect customers to keep coming. Word gets around you know—it travels up and down the line with the coaches. Private lines want satisfied customers. Enough complain about one inn, they’ll change their route and stop at another. Now that the turnpike has drawn off some of your traffic, you can’t afford to alienate those still coming to The Bell.”
“You seem to know a great deal about it.”
He shrugged. “I visit many hostelries in my line of work.”
“Perhaps you could repeat what you said to my mother-in-law. She insists old ways are the best.”
“Then I doubt she would listen to me,” he said with a good-natured smile. “Or anyone else for that matter.”
Jane cocked her head to one side and regarded him thoughtfully. “But you believe I will listen?”
“Yes, I think so. You are young and not steeped in tradition or stuck in old ruts. Life and business are about change, Mrs. Bell. We must embrace change or die.”
“That sounds rather radical. May I quote you?”
“By all means.” He gestured toward the chair opposite his. “Will you join me?”
She hesitated. “I . . . had better not, but thank you for the offer.”
He rose and pulled out the chair for her. “Come, Mrs. Bell. Look around you. I am your only customer at present. You won’t suffer me to eat alone, I hope?”
“I eat alone regularly and have suffered no ill effects, I assure you.”
“Not even . . . loneliness?”
“Not at all. I enjoy solitude.” Is that true? Jane asked herself.
“I would think solitude a rare thing in a coaching inn.”
“You would think so, yes.” Jane stood there, vacillating, then said, “Just give me one minute.”
In the kitchen, she found Thora helping Cadi empty the last of the soup bowls, while Alwena and Mrs. Rooke returned meat and potatoes to the warming cabinet.
“Thora, our overnight guest has asked me to join him in the dining parlour. I tried to refuse, but he insists that—”
“Why refuse?” Thora broke in. “John and his father often sat down with well-heeled guests, to make sure everything was to their satisfaction.”
Jane was surprised Thora would encourage her to eat with the man. But she was curious to hear what else JD had learned from successful inns during the course of his work.
“If you say so. Cadi, no need to bring a tray to the lodge this afternoon.”
“Very well, ma’am.”
Jane returned to the dining parlour, allowed the man to push in her chair for her, then unfolded a table napkin over her lap. Cadi brought out another plate for her, and Jane did not miss the sparkle of interest in the girl’s eyes, seeing romance where there was none.
“Do you enjoy life in a coaching inn, Mrs. Bell?” JD began.
She picked up knife and fork and sliced into the roast. “Why do you ask?”
“You don’t appear to enjoy it.”
“I hope my enjoyment or lack thereof does not detract from your stay, Mr. JD,” she replied, her tone more tart than she intended.
A slow smile spread over his face. “It’s James Drake, by the way, if you prefer not to call me JD.” He watched her reaction.
“Thank you, Mr. Drake.” Did he expect her to recognize the name? She did not.
She took a small bite, then continued, “I never planned to work here in the inn myself. But with my husband gone . . .” She allowed the sentence to trail away, then admitted, “Some say I ought to sell out.”
“Oh? And what do you say?”
“I don’t know. All I know for certain is that we must find a way to increase profits.”
He sipped, then set down his glass. “Would you mind some advice?”
“Not at all.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Your rates are low compared to other inns on the route. You could raise them a shilling, maybe even half a crown, without affecting demand.”
“Really? That is not a suggestion most paying guests would offer.”
He shrugged easily. “I am not often a paying guest.”
“Oh? You receive free lodging in return for your valuable advice, I suppose?”
He chuckled. “Not at all. I reside in a small hotel of my own.”
Surprise flashed through Jane, followed by unease. “I see. You might have said so earlier. And where is this hotel of yours?”
“Southampton.”
“I am surprised you can get away.”
He waved a dismissive hand. “I employ a capable manager and housekeeper.”
“And what other advice would you offer? If The Bell were yours, what would you do?”
He inhaled and paused to collect his thoughts. “Hire an excellent cook. Perhaps even French. Offer fine dining in this room, as well as in private parlours for wealthy patrons. Charge a pretty penny for it, too. But also offer inexpensive, basic food—stew, bread, meat pies—ready to be served at a moment’s notice in the coffee room for those with smaller purses or little time. How many private parlours have you?”
“Three. But I gather they are infrequently used. I’m afraid one has become little more than a storage room. And I’ve noticed our potboy sneaking a nap in the other.”
He smiled, then went on. “So, either court the patronage of wealthy travelers by attaining the high standards of a private posting house, or if that seems improbable given the turnpike and your regular customer base, I’d suggest opening up at least one of those unused rooms and expanding this dining parlour. Perhaps add a few high-backed booths for privacy for those who want it. Then convert the second unused parlour into a washroom for gentlemen who would appreciate a place for a quick wash and shave, even if they are not staying the night. Charge a modest fee for soap and towels.”
He wiped his mouth with a table napkin, then continued, “Cultivate a reputation for dependable service, excellent food, clean rooms, and comfortable beds. Frequent travelers will thank you for it, return, and tell their friends. Word will get back to the owners of the stagecoach lines, and The Bell is certain to maintain or even expand business.”
“My goodness. Is that all?” Jane replied, incredulity coloring her voice.
“Not quite. You need a large, professionally painted sign kept in good repair. It’s the best advertising you’ve got and tells customers what to expect inside.”
Jane winced at the thought of the paint peeling from The Bell sign and that dismal vacancy placard dangling from it. “You’ve certainly given this some thought,” she acknowledged.
Again that easy shrug. “It is my business, after all.”
Cadi returned on the pretense of refilling their glasses, but Jane wasn’t fooled. Little eavesdropper, that one.
“Well,” Jane said. “Perhap
s in a town like Southampton, people expect and are willing to pay for such niceties, but here in little Ivy Hill . . . ?”
“You would be surprised, I think. Don’t forget that coaching lines bring people through your doors from far and wide. Coach travel is expensive, so it is primarily used by people of means. People who are coming to expect or at least appreciate a higher level of service, speed, and comfort, not only in the vehicles themselves but also in the hostelries along the way.”
Jane considered this, then asked, “Would you mind terribly if I asked my mother-in-law and brother-in-law to join us? I’d like them to hear your opinion from you directly. I’m afraid they won’t credit it, coming from me.”
He looked at her steadily. “You may of course ask them to join us. But . . . do you work for them, or they for you?”
Jane ducked her head. “On paper the inn is mine, yes. But Patrick grew up here. And so did Thora, for that matter. The inn has been in their family for generations. So their opinions matter to me.”
“I see. You are wise not to discount the experience and wisdom of your elders, Mrs. Bell, but don’t discount your own thoughts and opinions either. You are intelligent and educated. I can see that. You have a mind of your own and should not hesitate to use it.”
Jane felt her cheeks heat at his praise, and pleasure warmed her. John had often flattered her beauty, but she could not recall the last time anyone had praised her intelligence.
Someone strode into the dining parlour. Jane glanced over, and her face heated anew to be found dining tête-à-tête with a man she barely knew.
Sir Timothy Brockwell drew up short at the sight of the two of them sitting alone together.
“Jane, I . . . Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude.”
Jane forced a smile and kept her tone casual. “Not at all, Sir Timothy. We were just discussing possible improvements to the inn.” Jane turned politely to her companion. “Sir Timothy Brockwell, may I present Mr. James Drake. Mr. Drake, my old friend, Sir Timothy.”
James nodded. “How do you do, sir.”
“Drake . . . ?” Sir Timothy echoed. “Any relation to the Hain-Drakes?”