Mercy felt her cheeks heat, and noticed her parents exchange silent smiles of triumph.
After dinner, her mother said to her, “Why don’t you take Mr. Hollander for a turn about Ivy Green, Mercy?”
“Of course. If he likes.”
The man nodded amiably. “I would like that, yes.”
Matilda rose. “Shall I go with you?”
“Yes, do come, Aunt Matty.”
Her mother frowned. “Matilda, I don’t think they need a chaperone for a simple walk around the green. It is not even dark yet.”
Matilda sat back down. “Only trying to be helpful.”
Instead, her aunt and Rachel volunteered to oversee the girls’ evening prayers and bedtime so Mercy could spend time with Mr. Hollander.
He donned his greatcoat and hat, while Mercy went to slip a long-sleeved redingote over her dress to ward off the autumn evening’s chill and tied a bonnet under her chin. Mercy led him out the rear door, through the walled back garden, and out the gate onto the village green.
The trees bordering the broad grassy rectangle were beginning to mellow into golden hues. The ivy climbing some walls remained evergreen, while other varieties festooned cottages with swaths of orangey-red leaves.
Across the green, a father and son practiced with cricket bat, and a group of lads kicked a ball about, stretching twilight as long as they could until their mothers called them home.
Mr. Hollander grasped his lapels and surveyed the scene. “This reminds me of the Worcester quadrangle, although that is situated along a canal.”
“This is Ivy Green, which has always seemed like an extension of our back garden.” Mercy looked around with nostalgic fondness. “I have spent many pleasant hours here, picking wildflowers, sketching, reading, watching George and his friends kick, bat, and pitch balls in one game or another. They all rather looked the same to me, I confess. I have never been athletic.”
“Nor I. Which got me trounced at school more than once, I can tell you.”
She slanted him an empathetic grin.
He returned it. “And what subjects do you teach your pupils, Miss Grove?”
“You will not be impressed. I’m afraid they have little use for the classics or philosophy.”
“Though you could teach those subjects, from what your father says.”
“Not well. I have been away from them too long.”
“But you do teach literature? History? Mathematics?”
“Literature, yes. The girls read a great deal. And British and world history. And basic mathematics, but nothing too advanced.”
“What books do you require them to read?”
Mercy told him, and he nodded along approvingly. “I am familiar with Richardson and Cowper, but not Burney. Perhaps you might recommend a specific title I could read by way of introduction?”
“With pleasure.”
As they walked on, Mercy explained, “The girls are from modest backgrounds. If they don’t marry, they will likely become servants or shopkeepers, so we also teach sewing, manners, and basic etiquette.”
“Watercolors? Dancing?”
“No, we have not included those to date, though pleasant diversions, I grant you.”
He smiled, eyes softly focused in memory, and she noticed deep creases at the corners. “If I remember correctly, George was far more interested in dancing and poetry than history. Anything that might impress the ladies.”
She returned his smile. “That sounds like my brother.”
His gaze lingered on her face. “You have a lovely smile, Miss Grove. I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hollander. That is very kind.”
His gaze slid to the top of her bonnet and narrowed in a measuring fashion. “You are a tall woman, Miss Grove.”
“As I am aware.” Mercy dipped her head, feeling self-conscious under his scrutiny. She recalled Mr. Kingsley looking at the top of her head in a similar fashion, saying, “Taller people like us . . .” She asked, “Is . . . that a problem?”
“No. Merely an observation—I hope not an inappropriate one. I have not had those lessons in manners your pupils have, and fear my social skills are painfully lacking.”
“Not at all, Mr. Hollander.”
They walked on around Ivy Green, hands behind respective backs, Mercy feeling unsettled and conflicted. She had expected, almost hoped, to instantly dislike the man and for the feeling to be mutual. But life, she realized, was rarely that simple.
Mercy dressed with care the next morning, donning an embroidered, belted overdress over her usual plain day dress. She left her bedchamber just as Mr. Hollander stepped out of Aunt Matty’s room. From the floor above came the rumble of eight pairs of shoes as the herd of girls, shepherded by Rachel and the maid, Agnes, descended the stairs in a rush, eager for their breakfast. They streamed past the man, catching him up in their giggling wake and nearly bowling him over. He stepped out from among them in an ungainly little twirl.
Mercy smiled at him, and he smiled back.
“Good morning, Mr. Hollander. I see you have met my pupils.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“You are up early.”
“Yes. It is my habit.”
“Mine as well. Come, let’s go down to breakfast, and you can meet the girls properly.”
He hesitated only a moment. “Very well.”
Was he daunted by the prospect? She hoped the girls would remember to be on their best behavior.
Instead, breakfast that morning turned out to be a clamorous and chaotic pass-the-butter affair, accompanied by more noise and less decorum than usual. Or perhaps Mercy was simply more aware with their guest at the table. Spoons clattered, elbows on the table reprimanded, tea sloshed, and serving dishes passed and passed again.
Thankfully her father was not an early riser and her mother took her breakfast on a tray in her room. So Mercy, Matilda, Rachel, and Mr. Hollander were the only adults there to witness the tumult.
Fanny asked, with her mouth full, “Are boys easier to teach, Mr. Hollander?”
“Perhaps . . . quieter.”
“Do you like our teacher?”
“Fanny!” Mercy’s neck heated.
His expression remained unperturbed. “I do, yes. Do you?”
“Of course.” Around the table, heads nodded. Little Alice’s especially.
“Then you are just as intelligent as Miss Grove said you were.”
That earned him a smile from the girls and from Mercy as well.
When the girls finished eating, Rachel offered to go up with them to the schoolroom for morning prayers, so the two Miss Groves could linger with their guest.
“Thank you, Rachel.”
When they had gone, peaceful quiet reigned.
Mercy sighed. “That is more like it. I apologize. The girls are in unusually high spirits this morning.”
“I thought it invigorating. Rather like dining with freshmen after a football match.”
Mercy chuckled appreciatively. “More tea, Mr. Hollander?”
He nodded, and she poured.
Her aunt held out her cup as well. “You mentioned wishing to write a book,” Matilda began. “A noble venture, to be sure, but would that not require a great deal of time and effort without remuneration for years, if ever? How do you intend to support yourself?”
Mercy had rarely heard her sweet aunt speak so pointedly. She supposed she felt protective of her only niece.
Again, Mr. Hollander took no umbrage. “A valid question. I recently received a modest inheritance from a late uncle that will allow me to pursue writing for a time, rather than income, if money is not an indelicate subject to raise among ladies.”
“Not at all.” Matilda’s eyes shone with mischief. “We like money, don’t we, Mercy.”
Mercy bit back a grin. “And what topic do you propose to write about?”
“A Gothic novel, I hope?” Matilda teased.
“I was thinking of a
treatise on education” came his solemn reply.
“Ah.” Mercy considered how best to respond. “That is a . . . broad subject.”
“Agreed. I have yet to determine the scope. Do I include the history of formal education back to the ancient Greeks, or limit myself to Great Britain? Or do I narrow the scope further yet to the insights gained during my years at Oxford?”
“I suppose it depends on the particular readers you wish to reach.”
“Why, everyone.”
Mercy hesitated, then said gently, “If only everyone were as interested in education as we might like, Mr. Hollander. But—”
“You think I overestimate my book’s appeal?”
“I don’t mean to discourage you in the least. But only consider, for example, someone like me. I am very interested in education, and buy books when I am able, but I don’t know that what you will write would be applicable to someone in my situation—a teacher in a girls school. And if a person is not involved in education at all . . .” She let the thought drift away on a shrug.
“Why not applicable?” A worry line deepened between his eyebrows.
“I am only suggesting that you might want to formulate broader applications for the experiences and methods you’ve honed over the years, so the book might be of help to more people. Or you could simply write specifically for other university tutors and professors. That in itself would be a lofty ambition.”
“Though not one destined to sell many copies.”
“Not as many, no.”
An awkward silence descended.
When it had lingered a bit too long, her aunt interjected, “How delightful that you two have so much in common, so much to talk about.”
“I quite agree, Miss Grove.”
Mercy heard more politeness than warmth in his words and noticed the man’s eyes had dulled. She regretted discouraging his dream.
Matilda added, “Perhaps Mercy might assist you in writing your book, Mr. Hollander. She is extremely clever.”
“Aunt Matty! I am sure Mr. Hollander does not want or need my help.”
“On the contrary.” Mr. Hollander’s eyes warmed again. “I think that an excellent idea.”
After church on Sunday, Mercy decided it was time to introduce Alice to her parents.
Feeling as nervous as the little girl looked, Mercy led Alice by the hand into the sitting room where her parents waited. Rachel had arranged the girl’s blond hair for her, and Mercy thought she looked even more charming than usual.
“Mamma. Papa. This is Alice. The pupil I . . . wrote to you about.”
Her father nodded and smiled down at the girl. “A pleasure to meet you, Alice.”
Her mother inspected the child as though she were a mackerel of doubtful freshness.
Mercy touched Alice’s shoulder. “Can you greet Mr. and Mrs. Grove, Alice?”
“Good d-day,” she managed, meeting their gazes for a fleeting second.
“And how old are you, Alice?” her father asked.
“Eight, sir.”
“Eight. Yes. A good age for schooling. And are you a good pupil, Alice?”
“I . . .” The girl shrugged.
“She is,” Mercy assured them. “She reads as well as students several years older.”
Her father nodded. “Excellent.”
“She is lovely,” her mother allowed.
“I agree. Well. Thank you, Alice. You may rejoin the others now.”
Alice bobbed a curtsy and all but dashed from the room.
Her mother watched her go. “Is she always so timid?”
“She is shy.”
“Are you sure about this, Mercy?” Her father studied her face.
“I am. Do you . . . object?”
Her mother shifted. “That depends on Mr. Hollander. You must admit it is a lot to ask of a prospective husband. Are you sure she is worth the risk?”
“I am.”
“Then let us hope Mr. Hollander is an understanding man.”
Chapter
twenty-three
Rachel walked back to The Bell on Monday afternoon—the day Mrs. Haverhill planned to return to Bramble Cottage. Even though Mrs. Haverhill was much recovered she still felt a little weak, and Jane insisted on sending her home in the inn’s gig. Jane drove it herself, and Rachel squeezed onto the bench beside them. A basket of things packed for her from The Bell’s kitchen rode in the back.
They soon left the cobbled village streets behind, crossed Pudding Brook, and jostled their way up the rutted road ascending Ebsbury Hill. When they reached Bramble Cottage, Jane halted the horse, climbed nimbly down, and tied the old nag to a fence post.
Mrs. Haverhill gasped.
Rachel looked toward the house in alarm, fearing signs of another theft. Instead, the door was closed, but the cottage walls were splattered with bright bursts of yellow egg, orange squash, and rotten red tomatoes, with pinkish smears trailing to the ground.
“Nooo,” Mrs. Haverhill groaned. “Not again.”
“What on earth . . .” Jane muttered.
Rachel helped the woman down. “Has this happened before?”
“Yes. Though never this bad.” Mrs. Haverhill crossed to the henhouse, its door swinging listlessly on its hinge. Pain flashed across her face. “Henrietta is gone.”
Jane planted her hands on her hips. “Mrs. Haverhill, I want you to promise me you will not try to clean this up yourself. Do you hear me? We don’t want you collapsing again. I will bring help from the inn . . . though it will have to be tomorrow. Today is one of our busiest days, and with Patrick in bed with a cold, I cannot spare anyone. But this muck isn’t going anywhere before then. Promise me you’ll leave it?”
Rachel squinted in thought. “I have another idea.”
That evening, Rachel sat, heart pounding and palms damp, at the Monday night meeting of the Ladies Tea and Knitting Society. Jane could not get away, but she promised Rachel she would be praying for her. Mercy had excused herself from their guest to attend, which did not please Mrs. Grove, though Rachel was glad she was there. Even so, without Jane by her side, Rachel’s confidence flagged. Who was she to say anything to these women? She had never been like her mother, caring about her less fortunate neighbors, taking baskets of food or visiting the sick. But people could change, could they not?
Before she could find the courage to speak up, the carter, Mrs. Burlingame, raised the topic herself.
“I rode past Bramble Cottage on my way into town. What a sight! Someone—or several someones, by the look of things—threw eggs and rotten vegetables again.”
“Serves her right,” Mrs. Barton grumbled.
Julia Featherstone frowned at her. “No one deserves that. Eggs are devilish hard to clean. Not to mention expensive. What a waste.”
Mercy looked at the others. “Some of you may not know she recently fainted on the High Street. . . .”
“The High Street? What was she doing there? I thought she never ventured into the village, unless in the dead of night.”
“The point is, she is not well,” Mercy said, “and should not have to clean that herself.”
Mrs. Barton sniffed. “I hope you are not suggesting we do it.”
“Why not?” Miss Cook challenged. “It was probably someone’s son in this very room who did it.”
“Why are you looking at me?” Mrs. Barton glared. “I hope you are not accusing one of my boys, Charlotte Cook.”
Charlotte humphed.
Mrs. Barton continued, “Why should we help her? She has spurned every attempt we made to befriend her when she moved here.”
Mrs. Snyder threw up her hands. “That was thirty years ago!”
“A woman like her can’t expect help from decent people.”
The vicar’s wife sighed. “My boys and I will do it.”
Poor Mrs. Paley. She felt duty bound to do everything no one else wanted to do. For the first time, Rachel noticed how weary the woman looked.
Rachel stood. “No, Mrs.
Paley, you do too much as it is.” She looked around at the assembled women, some surprised and some annoyed that she would speak when she was such a new member. She searched for the right words and began.
“I don’t know the whole story, but even if the rumors are true, haven’t we all made mistakes? I certainly have. And you all know my father did. Whatever the case, she is on her own now, as many of us are. Left to fend for herself. You know her longtime maid and friend died. And recently that woman’s daughter left as well. And now her house has been vandalized. She has been living off a few scrubby vegetables from her garden and the eggs from her last hen, which was either let out of its pen or stolen.
“She has never even dared to offer her soap at the market here in Ivy Hill. She imagines she would be shunned, perhaps hit with rotten eggs again. And she probably would be, unless we do something—unless we make it known we support her. We are the women of Ivy Hill, and we wield influence in our community. Can we not influence our community for the good? For the good of one woman, one neighbor, one of us?”
Rachel stopped speaking and drew in a long breath. Around the room, the women stared at her, expressions inscrutable. Face burning, Rachel sat down. Had she made a fool of herself? Probably.
The silence stretched. Even Mercy remained quiet. Even Mrs. Paley. Had she overstepped? Spewed righteous indignation and made things worse? She hoped not.
Rachel swallowed, clasped her hands, and waited.
Finally Mrs. Barton said, “Goodness me, what speechmaking. We shall have to bring in more chairs at this rate.”
Was she criticizing or complimenting? It did not sound like a compliment.
Then Mrs. Barton gave a decisive nod. “Well, I can be there at eight. Have to milk my bossies first, but we rise early at the dairy.”
“I will join you,” Mrs. O’Brien said.
Mrs. Snyder nodded. “Me too.”
“I will bring buckets and rags in my cart,” offered Mrs. Burlingame. She looked at the young sign painter. “Becky, could we borrow your ladder?”
“Of course.”