“Oh, yes. That’s right. I forgot.”
Rachel turned self-consciously to her companion. “Thank you for the stroll, Mr. Ashford. I enjoyed it.”
“My pleasure. I did as well. Well, you have . . . em, patrons to attend to, so I will say good-bye for now.” The young man bowed and took his leave.
Someone knocked on the front door of Ivy Cottage, startling Mercy. She was embarrassed to realize how long she and her aunt had been standing there observing the little drama before them. Mercy tugged her aunt’s hand, pulling her reluctantly away from her listening post.
Before Mercy could reach the front door herself, Mr. Basu appeared from the kitchen and opened it. Mr. Kingsley and Colin McFarland stepped inside, carrying long pieces of trim, and talking companionably. With the two of them plus the men in the library . . . ? Good heavens!
Not since becoming a girls school had Ivy Cottage held so many men at once, Mercy thought. Too many men for comfort!
Rachel waited until the door closed behind Mr. Ashford, then turned back to the other two men.
“I did ask Mr. Drake to call, but may I help you with something first, Sir Timothy?”
“I can wait. Unless your business with Mr. Drake is . . . private?”
“Not really. I only wanted him to come in so I might credit him for his latest donation of books.”
“Latest donation?” Mr. Drake’s golden eyebrows rose.
“The basket of books you left on our doorstep?” Rachel gestured toward the empty wicker basket. “I assume you came when the library was closed and decided to leave them anyway.”
“I left no basket.”
“Are you being modest?”
Mr. Drake shook his head. “That is not in my nature, Miss Ashford. I would happily accept the gratitude of a pretty lady did I deserve it, but in this case, I do not. Why did you think the books were from me?” He grinned. “Besides my generous nature?”
“I found your card at the bottom of the basket.”
“My card?” His brow furrowed.
“Yes. I have it here.” She retrieved it from her desk drawer and handed it to him.
He studied it. “This is my old card, printed years ago, when I bought my first hotel. Strange that it should end in a basket of books here.”
“Strange indeed.”
“What sort of books were they, if I may ask?”
Rachel opened her inventory list and read the titles, including Steel’s Navy List and a collection of sermons by Edward Cooper. She looked up at him. “Mean anything to you?”
“No.” The frown line between his brows deepened. “Just someone I gave a card to long ago, most likely. Or someone who stayed at the Drake Arms. Not you, Brockwell, I take it? You once mentioned you’d been there.”
“Yes, but I did not leave a basket of books.”
Mr. Drake asked, “May I see the navy list?”
“Of course.” She retrieved it and handed it to him.
He flipped through it, then tucked it under his arm. “Thank you. Add it to my account, please. And if you learn who the donor was, please let me know. Now I am curious.”
“Yes. I will if I can.”
After Mr. Drake left the library, Sir Timothy lingered.
Rachel turned her attention to him and noticed his distracted air. “Thank you for waiting.”
“That’s all right. I came to return a book and hoped to talk with you while I was here. We were interrupted before, and again today. You are—that is, your library is—rather popular.”
“Which is a relief, I don’t mind telling you. Did you . . . want to discuss anything in particular?”
He ran a finger over his mouth. “Are you . . . reading anything at present?”
“Yes, actually. A novel Matilda Grove recommended, called Pride and Prejudice. I am enjoying it far more than I would have guessed. In fact, I have been staying up late reading.”
He grinned. “Did I not promise you would learn to enjoy reading? And far more quickly than I imagined.”
She nodded. “And I’ve told several people how much I am enjoying the book, so I already have a waiting list to read it when I am finished.”
His dark eyes glimmered with approval and something more. Admiration? Fondness? Pleasure and fear twisted through her in a single cord. Careful, Rachel warned herself. Don’t confuse a love of books with something more.
If only her heart didn’t still beat so when he was near.
The next day, Mercy received a letter postmarked London from her mother. She opened it with a sense of dread. This was the first reply she’d received from her parents since writing two letters to them: the first telling them about Rachel’s circulating library, and the second more recently, about her plan to become legal guardian to one of her pupils. She doubted either piece of news would be well received.
Seeing her aunt and the almshouse matron, Mrs. Mennell, quilting together in the sitting room, Mercy carried the letter into the quiet drawing room and sat in one of the chairs. Taking a deep breath, she unfolded it and read.
Dear Mercy,
Your recent letters have us rather concerned. We have decided to come to Ivy Cottage for an overdue visit. You may expect us on the 3rd by four. I hope that will not be inconvenient for you or Matilda. In the meantime, we ask that you postpone any important decisions until our arrival.
We bring a guest with us, so do be prepared. Mr. Hollander is a friend of your father’s—and your brother’s tutor from his Oxford days. You no doubt recall us speaking highly of him. He is ready to leave the bachelor-tutor life and would like to meet you. We have told him so many good things about you.
I know we can count on you to receive him with every kindness and accommodation. Perhaps Miss Ashford would be so good as to remove to the inn during our stay. We would be happy to take care of that expense, if necessary.
Until then,
Mother
“Oh bother!” Mercy exclaimed, barely resisting the urge to ball up the letter. Instead she slapped it onto her lap, then immediately picked it up again. “She cannot be serious. . . .”
Someone nearby cleared his throat. She looked up, chagrined to see Mr. Kingsley half hidden by the periodical cabinet he’d built for the library. She had not realized anyone was in the room.
He winced. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I told Miss Ashford I’d deliver this today. Are you all right, Miss Grove?”
“No, I am not all right. All I did was write and tell my parents I’ve been asked to become Alice’s guardian. And how do they respond? By arranging to bring a man to meet me. They have told him ‘so many good things about me.’ And only the good things, no doubt. He probably imagines me as intelligent as my father and as pretty as my mother. This man is in for a sore disappointment, and I the mortification of my life. No, not of my life, for they have put me through this before. I thought they had given up their matchmaking attempts and were resigned to allow me to stay on the shelf. But no!” She shook the letter in her hand, irritation coursing through her.
Suddenly she realized she was saying aloud her every thought without her usual self-control, embarrassing her listener and herself in the bargain. Her face heated. “Forgive me, Mr. Kingsley, for so abusing your ears. I am not usually so . . . indiscreet. I apologize.”
“Nothing to apologize for. At least not to me.”
Shame washed over her. “You are right; I should not speak so harshly of my parents.”
“I didn’t mean that. It’s you who do yourself an injustice. I remember your parents, though I’ve not seen them in a few years. I’d say you have all their best traits and several more of your own.”
Mercy stared at the man. Then she realized what he was doing. “You are kind to try to cheer me.”
“I don’t say it to cheer you. I say it because it’s true.”
Mercy felt her face heat anew.
He ducked his head. “Now I am the one rattling on. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Grove, I’ll get back to work
.”
Later that evening, Mercy shared the letter with her aunt, and the two sat commiserating when Rachel joined them in the sitting room.
Seeing their expressions, Rachel’s face clouded. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Mercy sighed. “My parents are coming to visit in a fortnight, and they are bringing a guest. A man they want me to meet and clearly expect me to entertain a proposal from. Of course that is assuming this man will have any inclination to do so after he meets me.” Mercy read from the letter: “‘Mr. Hollander is a friend of your father’s—and your brother’s tutor from his Oxford days. You no doubt recall us speaking highly of him.’ No, I don’t remember. Not really. George did not last long at university. A friend of my father’s? How old of a man is he? Do they expect me to marry a man my father’s age?” Mercy’s voice sounded unusually young and plaintive in her own ears. Lord, give me patience!
“He may not be so old, my dear,” Aunt Matilda said gently. “But if he is, I shall marry him myself so you won’t have to.” She winked, but for once Mercy did not appreciate her aunt’s humor.
Instead she groaned. She read aloud another excerpt for Rachel’s benefit. “‘He is ready to leave the bachelor-tutor life and would like to meet you. We have told him so many good things about you.’ They probably exaggerated the good things, and left out the bad. And now they expect me to receive him with ‘every kindness and accommodation.’”
Rachel squared her shoulders. “You need me to leave.”
Mercy looked at her, stricken. “Oh, my dear Rachel . . . of course you must not go.”
“You will need my room for your guest. Perhaps I might take a room at The Bell, or stay with Jane.”
“Nonsense, Rachel. You live here now.” Mercy looked at her aunt. “Perhaps I might share your room, Aunt Matty? You have a larger bed.”
Matilda worried her lip. “I don’t know that it would be quite proper to put the man in your bed, my dear. Might send the wrong message. But I can sleep in your room for a few nights, and we can give him my room. With all that lacework and purple bedclothes, he won’t be eager to stay overlong.” Again she winked at her niece. And this time, Mercy managed a small smile in reply.
“Good thinking, Aunt Matty.”
Chapter
thirteen
Rachel walked listlessly into the butler’s pantry to return the teacup she had taken into the library after breakfast. Then she wandered to the dining room windows and moved aside the curtain to look outside. What a grey day. Rain fell in steady, translucent streaks. In the house across the street, a neighbor pulled her shutters closed one by one, grumbling about her damp floors. Mrs. Mennell hurried by, a sack of day-old bread from Craddock’s in one hand, a rickety umbrella in the other. The butcher’s boy dashed past with a delivery, flat cap pulled low. In neighboring houses, more windows and shutters closed. The street emptied and quieted.
Now the only sounds were the pattering of rain and, from the schoolroom above, Mercy’s muffled voice as she taught her lessons. Rachel sighed. Would anyone frequent her library on such a day? She was about to turn away when movement caught her eye. From around the corner of Church Street and Ebsbury Road, a dark figure appeared. A woman in a black hooded mantle walked as steadily as the rain, apparently unconcerned and unhurried by it. The hood was deep, shadowing her face within. Gloved hands clasped primly at her waist, a package of some sort tucked beneath her arm.
Who was it? Rachel wondered, and she watched until the woman walked past Ivy Cottage and out of view.
She let the curtain fall and started down the corridor toward the library. There must be some more dusting or organizing she could do. If not, she would ask Mr. Basu to build up the fire, and then she’d curl up in its most comfortable chair and continue reading Pride and Prejudice.
As she passed through the drawing room into the library, she heard a thunk from outside. Had someone knocked on the side door? She did not think she had locked it.
She crossed the room to the door, but no one stood waiting. Through the glass panels, she saw the woman in black disappear around the corner of the cottage. Rachel glimpsed a lace cap over dark blond curls and a long nose. Had she wanted to come into the library? Rachel opened the door, thinking to call after the woman and invite her in. But then she noticed a brown waxed-paper-wrapped package lying on the paving stones. With a flash of surprise and unease, Rachel picked it up and carried it inside.
Moving aside her ledger to avoid getting it wet, she dried the package with a clean dustcloth and peeled back the paper. The waxed paper had kept the contents dry.
A book. Of course it was. Rachel groaned. Why did people insist on donating books without staying long enough to receive proper credit? Recalling Matilda’s admonition, Rachel knew she should simply be grateful, but—
Wait . . . She looked at the spine, surprise and confusion flaring anew. Then she opened the cover and read the title page to be certain.
Yes. Here was the missing volume of Paradise Lost.
A chill crept over her.
Only the damp, she told herself. Only the rain.
Rachel went to find Matilda Grove, who prided herself on knowing everyone in Ivy Hill.
She found her in the kitchen, rolling biscuit dough on the large worktable. At the corner stove, Mrs. Timmons skimmed a pot of soup.
“Miss Matty?”
“Hm?” She looked up from her rolling pin.
“Look what just arrived.” Rachel held forth the volume.
Matilda reached toward it, but thought the better of her flour-encrusted hands and bent to peer at it instead.
Rachel explained, “It’s the first volume of Paradise Lost and Other Stories. The one missing from the Brockwells’ set.”
“Sir Timothy found it after all?”
“No, it was left outside the library just now.”
“In this weather? It might have been ruined!”
“It was wrapped in waxed paper.”
“Who left it—did you see?”
“I don’t know who it was. I saw a woman wearing a black mantle with a deep hood. I caught only the barest glimpse of her face, but I did not recognize her.”
Matilda paused in her work, the furrow between her eyebrows deepening. “Did you see which direction she came from?”
“From the north, I think. I saw her walk around the house on the corner and turn up our street.”
Matilda nodded, eyes distant. “Ah.” She opened her mouth to say more, then with a glance at Mrs. Timmons, closed it again. She picked up a copper cutter and began pressing round shapes from the dough.
“Who do you think it was?” Rachel persisted. Was she about to get another lecture on pride and not insisting on crediting donations?
“Several farms and cottages up that way,” Matilda said vaguely. “Difficult to tell.”
“She was dressed in black—a recent widow, perhaps?”
“Oh, many women wear black capes in foul weather. Very practical, black is. Could have been anyone.”
Mrs. Timmons spoke up. “I’ll wager it was that witch. Would be like her, sneakin’ out on a day like this, when she’s less likely to be seen.”
Confusion flared. “Witch? What are you talking about?”
“Never heard of the witch of Bramble Cottage?” the cook asked. “No, I don’t suppose you would have, growing up in Thornvale.”
“Who do you mean?”
Matilda frowned at the older woman. “Mrs. Timmons is only teasing you, Rachel. I am sure she would not say something so unkind about anyone.”
Mrs. Timmons humphed and returned to her work.
Rachel looked down at the volume in her hand. “So I suppose it is unlikely that this book is even from the same set as the Brockwells’.”
Matilda sent the cook a warning glance. “Milton was very popular. I imagine many people bought the first volume but could not afford to purchase the rest of the set as it was published.”
Rachel nodded. “You are pro
bably right. But what a coincidence, that it should be donated so soon after the Brockwells’.”
Matilda’s eyes glinted. “A coincidence indeed.”
The rain continued. That night, lightning cracked outside Rachel’s bedchamber window, and thunder like the beating of drums rumbled through Ivy Cottage.
Rachel lay in bed trying to read her novel. Distracted by the thunder, she set it aside and picked up a copy of La Belle Assemblée and looked at the fashion prints instead.
Just as she was about to set it aside and blow out her candle for the night, the door creaked open, startling her.
“Miss Rachel?” came Phoebe’s shaky whisper.
“Yes?”
The door opened wider, revealing Phoebe and little Alice in their long white nightdresses.
“We saw light under your door. Everyone else is sleeping, but we can’t sleep. Can we, Alice?”
The little girl solemnly shook her head.
“May we stay with you awhile? We’re scared.” Phoebe’s eyes widened in appeal.
“Very well.” Rachel set aside the magazine and patted the bedclothes.
The girls came forward eagerly, Phoebe climbing in on one side and Alice on the other. Rachel pulled the bedclothes over their legs.
“Will you tell us a story?” Phoebe asked.
“Hmm. What sort of story?”
Alice’s gaze latched onto the large painting of Rachel and Ellen as young girls, posing with their mother. “Who are they?” she whispered.
“The littlest is me, that’s my sister, Ellen, and the lady is our mother.”
“My mamma died,” Alice said, so quietly Rachel barely heard her.
She lowered her head closer to the little girl’s and whispered back, “I know. I’m sorry. So did mine.”
Alice took her hand and Rachel’s heart warmed to the little girl, who rarely spoke to anyone except Mercy.
Thunder shook the windowpanes and the girls burrowed nearer Rachel’s sides, cuddling close. Rachel searched her memory, but could think of no cheerful stories to tell. Her candle guttered, and Alice squeaked a little cry.