I must leave it to you to decide whether or not to mention the possibility of my return to Patrick Bell. Don’t want him leaving the country again on my account.
I shall await your reply.
—Hetty
Jane had been sincere when she’d offered Hetty Piper a job at The Bell if she could find no decent situation in Epsom. And Thora—who’d sacked the girl when she’d worked there a few years ago—had moved to Angel Farm. So, the “lioness” was no longer involved with the day-to-day management of the inn. But Patrick was. . . .
Jane went looking for her brother-in-law and found him alone in the office. She stepped inside, shut the door behind her, and turned to face him.
He watched her with a raised brow. “That’s an ominous beginning.”
“I’ve had a letter that . . . concerns you.” It might concern him very much indeed.
“How so?”
“When I was in Epsom a few months ago, I offered a situation to someone, and she has decided to accept.”
His eyes narrowed. “Who are we talking about?”
“Hetty Piper.”
He reared his head back and leaned hard against the chair. “Why on earth would you offer her a situation here? And why would she want one?”
“John had planned to help her before he died. Now I want to help her in his place. In your place.”
“My place?”
“She was with child when she left here, Patrick. Do you deny you were . . . involved with her?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t deny it. I’m not proud of it, but I’m not solely to blame either.” He frowned. “You will say I’m vain, but she pursued me. She was all eagerness at first, so I had few qualms about . . . proceeding.”
He shifted his gaze to Jane. “I am not justifying my behavior, but that is the truth. Did she say otherwise?”
Jane shook her head. “No. She said it wasn’t your fault. Not really.”
Patrick nodded, visibly relieved. “There, you see? She kept her distance afterward, and I determined to do the same. I thought Mamma was none the wiser. But a few days later, I stepped out into the yard to see Hetty board the upline and disappear. Mamma had paid her fare and sent her packing. And, considering the awkwardness between us, I admit I thought it for the best.”
“But she told me she wrote to you to let you know she was with child. Is that why you left the country?”
He threw up his hands. “Should I have married the chambermaid? Mamma would have loved that! I cared for Hetty, but I wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility. And besides, Hetty wasn’t as innocent as she may have led you to believe.”
“Has that any bearing on the situation?”
“I think it has. If she claims I am responsible. Where is the child now?”
“She said she had to give the child up to work—irrevocably, I assume. Especially when John failed to help her. He planned to. John read one of her letters and, in your absence, felt responsible to help. That was one of the reasons he went to Epsom that day—to meet Hetty. But he was struck down by a carriage before he reached her.”
“And I suppose John’s death is my fault too.”
Jane shook her head. If Gabriel Locke was right, John was killed by the moneylender he failed to repay, though no one could prove it. She said, “No, Patrick. You are innocent where John is concerned, though not where Hetty is concerned.” Jane lifted the letter in her hand. “Hetty says that if she returns, she will try to keep her distance from you. Can you say the same?”
“Yes, Mother,” Patrick archly replied. “I have learned my lesson—never fear.”
The ire faded from his expression as rapidly as it had appeared, and he heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry, Jane. I behaved badly, I know. But are you sure you want to invite her back?”
“This isn’t about what I want—it’s about doing the right thing.” Jane opened the door and looked back at him. “Don’t make me regret it.”
Jane returned to the lodge and wrote Hetty a letter of reply, inviting her to come to The Bell at her earliest convenience and enclosing a ticket for her fare.
After church the following Sunday, Mercy walked Sukey Mullins to her home between Ivy Hill and Wishford to spend the afternoon with her parents and brothers. Several of the girls had family near enough to visit, while a few others received calls from relatives in the Ivy Cottage drawing room on the Sabbath. Only two girls, Phoebe and Alice, were left out of this weekly ritual. Phoebe’s father was a salesman who traveled a great deal, though at least he visited his daughter every month or so. As far as Alice knew, she was all alone in the world.
When Mercy returned from her escort duty, she was surprised to see a trio seated around the wrought-iron table in the narrow front garden: Aunt Matty, Alice, and Phoebe. The front garden bordered Church Street, with a low stone wall separating their little plot of lawn from the thoroughfare. The girls primarily played in the larger back garden, but Auntie liked to sit in her own little patch of peace on fine afternoons. She had likely felt sorry for the left-out girls and had invited them to join her in what was usually a “family” space.
Knowing it might lead to jealousy, Mercy generally tried to discourage any special attention among her pupils, and to hide her inordinate fondness for Alice from the others. But she could not blame her aunt for wanting to ease the girls’ loneliness. Closer now, she noticed tea things as well as sketchpads and pots of paint before them. Matilda sipped tea and encouraged the girls as they painted pictures.
Seeing her approach, Aunt Matty waved. “Such a fine day. Join us!”
“I will—in a minute.” Mercy went in the house to lay aside her reticule and fetch another teacup. She exchanged her somber church hat for a broad-brimmed straw bonnet, because the afternoon was quite sunny. Then she returned as promised. As she sat down beside Alice, she noticed Mr. Drake walking down the street.
Aunt Matilda lost no time in greeting him. “Good afternoon, Mr. Drake.”
He tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Matilda. Miss Grove. Girls.”
“Do come and join us, won’t you?” her aunt offered. “We have an extra cup.”
“Ah, you are very kind. But I don’t want to intrude.”
“Not at all. We like visitors. Don’t we, girls?”
Phoebe nodded amiably, but Alice ducked her head, stealing glances at the man from beneath her own straw bonnet. Then she slid from her chair and climbed onto Mercy’s lap as she often did.
“How thoughtful, my dear.” Aunt Matty smiled at the girl, pulled out the vacated chair with a scrape, and patted its back. “We have a chair right here for you, Mr. Drake.”
“Very well, for a few minutes. Thank you.”
Mr. Drake entered the front garden and doffed his hat with extravagant flair. “Good day, m’ladies. James Drake, at your service.”
The two girls giggled appreciatively.
“Miss Matilda, might you introduce your lovely companions?”
“With pleasure. You know Mercy, of course. But allow me to introduce Miss Phoebe.”
“Hello, Miss Phoebe. A pleasure to meet you.” He turned toward Alice, ready to greet her in the same manner, Mercy supposed, but his smile faltered as he stared at the little face within the bonnet.
Unaware, Matilda said, “And this is our youngest pupil, Miss Alice.”
“Mary-Alicia . . .” he murmured.
The little girl shook her head. “Just Alice.”
“Forgive me. I misheard.”
Alice looked up at him shyly. “My mamma’s name was Mary-Alicia.”
“Mary-Alicia Payne—I mean, Smith?”
Alice nodded.
He lifted his chin in understanding. “Ah.”
“That’s right, Mr. Drake. . . .” Aunt Matty’s eyes lit with interest. Mercy tried to nudge her beneath the table, but too late. “You have met Alice’s mother. Does Alice resemble her in your view?”
He looked at her again. “Yes. A marked resemblance. Tha
t is, if my memory serves. But remember, our acquaintance was brief and many years ago now.”
“My mamma died,” Alice said, calm but somber.
“Yes, I learned of that sad fact only recently. I was sorry indeed to hear it.”
Mr. Thomas would not like that Mr. Drake had unearthed his connection to Alice. But it could not be helped.
“My father died too,” Alice added. “When I was a baby.”
Mr. Drake nodded, expression grave. “I was sorry to hear that as well.” He cleared his throat, then asked, “And how old are you girls?”
“I am ten,” Phoebe replied. “And Alice is only eight.”
“Good ages, the both of them. And don’t worry, Miss Matilda.” Mr. Drake winked at her. “I shall not ask you the same question.” He turned to Alice again and smiled warmly. “Your mother was a kind and accomplished young woman. As no doubt you will become under Miss Grove’s tutelage.”
Phoebe’s face puckered. “What’s tute-ledge?”
Mercy chuckled. “Apparently I have a great deal more to teach.”
He briefly returned her smile, then appeared to choose his next words carefully. “I am surprised you did not mention . . . these particular pupils . . . when last we spoke.”
With a look at Mercy, Aunt Matty replied, “As I said, our glazier is a very private man.”
“Apparently.” He looked from girl to girl, his gaze lingering on Alice. “May I see your paintings, ladies?”
Phoebe proudly slid her page of pink and purple flowers toward him.
“Very nicely done,” he praised.
Alice more reluctantly showed him her painting—a boat upon blue waves. “My papa’s ship before it sunk. He was a brave officer, Mamma said.”
“I am sure he was.”
When he said nothing more for a few moments, Mercy asked, “Would you like to talk about the charity school while you’re here, Mr. Drake?”
He hesitated. “Another time, if you don’t mind. I don’t wish to overstay my welcome.”
“Not at all, Mr. Drake,” Aunt Matty assured him. “We are always happy to see you.”
He rose. “Thank you, Miss Matilda. Miss Grove. But for now I shall bid you ladies good day. Thank you for the agreeable visit. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Alice and Miss Phoebe.” With another bow, he turned and walked away.
Had Mr. Drake once been in love with Miss Payne? Mercy wondered. If so, how strange it must be for him to meet her daughter now and hear about the man she had married instead.
The next day, Rachel returned to Bramble Cottage to check on Mrs. Haverhill. The cauldron was back over the fire, but the broken flowerpot still lay in pieces near the door. She saw no one about, but hearing a spade slicing earth, Rachel followed the sound to the side of the house. There she found Mrs. Haverhill working in a weedy kitchen garden, sparse at autumn’s wane. She wore a soiled apron over a plain day dress—no black mantle today. Setting aside the spade, she knelt to rummage through the loosened soil. Extracting several small potatoes, she laid them in a basket next to a few scraggly turnips and one hairy carrot. She glanced up and gasped, pressing a hand to her heart.
“I’m sorry,” Rachel said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“For a moment I thought you were . . . someone else.” The woman rose gingerly to her feet, kneading the small of her back. “I’m afraid I’m not exactly dressed for callers.”
A scrawny hen bobbed by, pecking at the unearthed insects and clucking appreciatively. “You’re welcome, Henrietta.” The woman picked up her basket and started toward the front of the house. “What brings you back here today . . . Miss Ashford, was it?”
Rachel followed her. “Yes.”
“As I said, you don’t owe me anything. The book was not mine—only lent to me.”
“Did . . . Sir Justin Brockwell loan it to you?”
The woman’s eyes snapped to hers, warily searching Rachel’s face. “Yes. Many years ago.”
“I thought so. His son donated the other volumes a few weeks ago. I doubted the set would ever be reunited, but then, voila, you bring the missing book. What a fortunate coincidence.”
The woman shrugged. “Sometimes things are given to us in this life that we think we can keep, only to realize we were wrong.”
Chagrin swept over Rachel. “Mrs. Haverhill, I’m sorry. If the book means that much to you, I will return it.”
“No, that particular book means little to me. And its return was no coincidence. Mr. Carville came by and asked me about the missing volume. I’d forgotten all about it.”
She did not seem remorseful, Rachel noticed, for not returning it to the Brockwells years ago.
Before Rachel could ask another question, the rhythmic thunder of horse hooves reached them. Rachel glanced over and saw a rider approaching. Sir Timothy.
Rachel gestured. “Here comes Sir Justin’s son now.”
The woman stiffened and looked toward the cottage door as if about to flee. “Did you tell him to come?”
“No, I did not.”
Timothy reined in his horse as he neared and tipped his hat. “Afternoon, ladies.”
Rachel said politely, “Sir Timothy. Have you met Mrs. Haverhill?”
“I don’t believe so. How do you do. I understand we have a mutual acquaintance.”
The woman’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, though I am surprised he told you.”
“Only recently. I was reviewing some old papers and asked about Bramble Cottage. Thought I’d ride over this morning and remind myself what it looked like.” He looked past the gate toward the cottage. “Carville mentioned you were lodging here. You and he are old friends, I take it.”
“Mr. Carville?”
“Yes. Your landlord?” he added helpfully. “My family used to own this cottage, but my father left it to Carville. I’d all but forgotten.”
The woman’s face puckered. “What?”
“Don’t worry. Carville assures me he has no plans to retire here for the foreseeable future. Which is good news for us both, as you shall keep the cottage and we the only butler Brockwell Court has known in my lifetime. Heaven help us when it comes time to replace him.”
The woman’s expression transformed from stupefaction to anger. “Sir Justin left this house to his . . . butler?”
“Yes. I thought you knew. Did Carville not tell you he owns the place now?”
Mrs. Haverhill’s eyes flashed. “I have lived here for more than thirty years.”
Confusion flickered over Timothy’s face, but he said pleasantly, “Well. Nothing to worry about. Carville said he has no plans to change the current arrangement.”
The woman huffed a sigh—in relief, or vexation?
It was on the tip of Rachel’s tongue to tell Sir Timothy that it had been Mrs. Haverhill who donated the missing volume. But seeing the woman’s expression, Rachel thought the better of it.
Sir Timothy remained a moment longer, perhaps awaiting an invitation to come inside—an invitation that was not forthcoming. “Well, a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Haverhill. And to see you again, Miss Ashford. Enjoy your visit.” He tipped his hat and rode away.
Rachel watched him go, then turned to find the woman staring after him, face pale.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Haverhill?”
She shook her head. “To meet him now of all times, wearing a ragged apron, my hands as black as dirt. And him so well turned out. He looks a great deal like his father.”
“Do you think so?”
She nodded. “Don’t you?”
“I confess I did not know Sir Justin well. Nor do I remember him very clearly.”
“You fortunate girl.”
Not knowing how to respond to that, Rachel asked gently, “Do you live alone here, Mrs. Haverhill?”
“I do now.”
“Matilda Grove happened to mention your former maid died. I was sorry to hear it.”
“Yes, I was sorry to lose her. She was more than a servant to me. She was a close frie
nd.”
“And she had a daughter?”
“You are well informed. Matilda Grove still has a busy tongue, I see. Yes, after Bess died, her daughter stayed on with me. Turned eighteen this summer. Then one day she went to market and never returned.”
“Oh no. Did something happen to her? We should talk to the constable or . . .”
Mrs. Haverhill shook her head. “Something happened to her all right. But nothing illegal. Just so dreadfully foolish.”
“What do you mean?”
“She fell in love with a man. Believed his promises.”
“When was this?”
The woman shrugged. “Several weeks ago. She often went to the Wishford market to sell my soap and buy what we needed in exchange. That’s where she first met the charming scoundrel. Apparently, he travels the southwest of England, selling wares at fairs and markets. He begged Molly to go away with him, promising to marry her. But first he had to persuade his family to accept her. I tried to warn her that men make promises they can’t keep, even if they mean to at the time. I told her not to leave home with no guarantee—no vows, no license, no ring. She waved off my concerns. Said there would be time for all of that later. I hope she is right. But I doubt it.”
“You’ve had no word?”
Mrs. Haverhill shook her head again. “I think I would have heard if she had married. I think she might even visit me. If for no other reason than to prove she’d been right and I’d been wrong. But I’ve heard nothing. Unless one counts . . . this.” She gestured toward the pieces of broken pottery she had yet to discard.
“You think she did this?”
The woman winced. “She might have, if she were desperate enough. Hungry enough. Though my guess is that he did it. She trusted him and probably told him where I kept my key and few remaining valuables. I doubt I’ll ever know for sure.”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Haverhill. Is there anything I can do? Anything you need? I haven’t much money, I’m afraid. But—”
“No, don’t concern yourself, Miss Ashford. Thank you for your call, but I will be all right on my own.”