Irony sharpened his tone. “The selfless public servant, serving his fellow man with long hours, late nights, and nights away from home to fulfill his onerous duties. . . . Ha! Mamma belittling me for devoting fewer hours, and for working from home when Sir Justin went out to the people. If only she knew where he spent those hours, and who benefited from his attention! My whole life is based on lies. Every decision I’ve made to do something or not do something. All I thought I was and stood for . . . a sham.”
“No, Timothy,” Rachel tried to soothe him. “Not everything. You are not your father.”
But her words did not seem to penetrate.
He looked at her, his demeanor suddenly officious. “I hope I can count on you to not spread this about?”
“Of course.” Indignation flared at his tone. As if she were the village gossip! “I have never breathed a word against the Brockwells for their dealings with women, unfair or otherwise.”
“What does that mean?”
She lifted her chin but said no more, fearing she might cry if she did.
“Forgive me.” He ran an agitated hand over his face. “You have been hurt by all this as well. You were right when you said you had escaped the noose of marriage to a Brockwell.”
Oh, how she regretted those words! “Timothy, I . . .”
“I have to go.” He mounted his horse and galloped away.
Rachel watched him go, anxiety twisting her stomach. What had she done by bringing Mrs. Haverhill to his notice? And what would he do, now that the truth had come to light?
Chapter
twenty-four
While Rachel and the girls were busy at Mrs. Haverhill’s, Mercy busied herself in the library, and Mr. Hollander kept her company. Her mother tarried upstairs, but eventually her father joined them, perusing the bookshelves and talking in low tones with the tutor. Then the two men settled themselves in the family sitting room with their selections. The time passed pleasantly, and Mercy enjoyed greeting those who came in and answering their questions, though the library was quieter than usual with so many Ivy Hill women busy elsewhere.
Midmorning, Mercy stepped out of the library for a short while to bring the men coffee and cake, then returned to find several people had entered during her brief absence. She signed up a new subscriber—a traveler staying at The Bell—and directed Mr. Paley to the theology books. Then voices from the adjoining room drew her attention.
Stepping to the doorway, she was surprised to see her mother seated in the drawing room turned reading room, talking animatedly with one of her old friends, Mrs. Bingley.
And there, near the bookcases, stood Mr. Kingsley. Not working for once but looking at a book. He nodded to her, and she smiled back, but as her mother’s words registered, her smile faded and embarrassment washed over her.
“I tell you, Mrs. Bingley, Mr. Hollander is perfect for Mercy. A great reader, a learned professor, and a tidy inheritance in the bargain. And such ambition. Mercy is going to help him write his masterwork, which will make him famous and—”
“Mamma!” Mercy interrupted. Walking over to them, she said brightly, “You did not tell me Mrs. Bingley had called.”
“She has not.” Her mother lifted her chin. “She is only here to visit the circulating library.”
“Had I known you were in town, my dear,” Mrs. Bingley soothed, “I would have paid a call sooner.”
“Well then,” Mercy said, “what a happy coincidence that Rachel’s library brought you here today, Mrs. Bingley. How is the family—in good health, I trust? And Miss Bingley? So grown up the last time I saw her, I almost didn’t know her.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Kingsley return the book to the shelf. He nodded again to Mercy on his way out and left empty-handed.
At dinner that evening, her mother was all smiles. Genuine smiles, Mercy noticed.
“We received a letter today from your brother—forwarded here from London.” She beamed at her husband. “It is as we hoped, my dear. He is engaged to marry Miss Maddox!”
“That is excellent news.”
“It is . . . mostly.” Her mother’s elation dimmed, and a worry line appeared between her brows. “If only her family did not live so far away. Ah well. We shall worry about that later.”
Aunt Matilda lifted her glass. “To George.”
Mr. Hollander lifted his as well. “To the happy couple.”
Mercy joined the toast, pleased to see her mother looking so jubilant.
She held her husband’s gaze. “Life is certainly looking up, my dear.”
Her father grinned slyly at Mercy and Mr. Hollander. “Yes, a time of good news all around.”
After they had eaten, Mrs. Grove looked significantly at her husband. When he failed to notice, she turned to Mr. Hollander and forged ahead. “What a filling dinner. You will certainly want to take another stroll after that. I understand Mercy showed you only the green last time. And of course you saw the church on Sunday.”
“And a lovely church it is.”
She shifted her gaze to Mercy. “Perhaps tonight, you might show him more of the village and the charms of life here in Ivy Hill.”
“I . . . of course. If Mr. Hollander would like to walk?”
“Indeed I would.”
Mercy rose, feeling self-conscious under her family’s expectant gazes. They gathered hats and gloves and this time left by the front door.
“I apologize about my parents,” Mercy began as they started east along Church Street.
“Apologize for them? Why?”
“They are being rather . . . overt.”
“I don’t mind. Subtlety is not one of my strengths.”
Nor Mamma’s, Mercy thought.
He added, “I prefer to be clear about what we are doing here.”
Mercy felt a little breathless. “And what is that, Mr. Hollander?”
“Only the obvious. Your parents brought me here to meet you. They tell me you are amenable to marriage, and so am I.”
Mercy swallowed. “But we have only just met. We are a long way from deciding whether or not we might suit.”
“Are we? Well, that’s cold coffee. I take pleasure in administering tests, I admit, but don’t like taking them myself. Too much pressure to perform.”
“You needn’t perform for me, Mr. Hollander. Just be natural. And we shall . . . see.”
“Be natural? Do any of us reveal our true natures to a new acquaintance, especially one of the opposite sex? Do men not bathe and put on cologne, and endeavor to squelch all inappropriate topics and bodily sounds? Nor am I ready to see you in paper curlers, with cream on your face. Not yet. I don’t think anyone really means it when they say to ‘act naturally.’”
Mercy’s face heated. “I see your point.”
She led him past the bakery toward the public house. Then they walked down Potters Lane. At its end, she gestured toward The Bell, mentioning her friend Jane, then pointed out businesses along the High Street.
She told him about her campaign to build a charity school in Ivy Hill, and her lack of success so far. She thought he might offer to help teach in this future school she dreamt of, but he only nodded, taking it all in.
They returned by way of Ivy Green. Across its expanse, a group of lads played. They tackled their tallest member, jumping in a pile, laughing and jostling for the ball.
Mercy winced. “They will injure one other.”
“Oh, that’s just how boys play,” he assured her.
“If so, then I am glad I teach girls.”
The ball squirted out of the pile and rolled toward them. Mr. Hollander bent and picked it up.
The boys rolled off one another, looking around for the ball. One noticed and called, “Throw it back, sir. Will ya?”
Instead, Mr. Hollander walked toward them, ball in hand, and Mercy hurried to catch up with him.
From the bottom of the pile of lads, a man appeared—Joseph Kingsley. He sat up and rubbed his head, a boyish grin on his fa
ce. “You lot weigh more than a load of granite.” His grin faltered when he saw the two adults standing there.
He rose to his feet, dusting off his trousers. He was dressed in shirtsleeves and braces, his hair askew, grass stains on his knees.
He nodded to her, expression sheepish. “Evening, Miss Grove.”
“Mr. Kingsley. From a distance, I thought you were another boy. Though a tall one.”
“Aw, just having a bit of fun with the lads. Tom and Frank there are my nephews. They needed another player for their team.”
“And who won?”
“Not I, by the looks of it. You’ll have to forgive my appearance.” He brushed ineffectually at a dirt smear on his sleeve.
Mr. Hollander tossed the ball to one of the boys, and they ran off with it, leaving the adults to talk. Mercy stood there silently, feeling ill at ease.
When she failed to introduce the two men, Mr. Kingsley nodded toward her companion. “Is this your . . . guest?”
“Oh. Forgive me. Yes, this is Mr. Hollander. A friend of my parents, visiting from Oxford.”
“Not just a friend of your parents’, I hope,” the tutor mildly objected.
Embarrassed, she continued, “Mr. Hollander, this is Joseph Kingsley, the local builder, who so capably fitted out Miss Ashford’s library.”
Joseph wiped his hand on his trouser leg and offered it to the man. Mr. Hollander hesitated only a moment before shaking it.
A blond woman appeared on the edge of the green—short, petite, beautiful. She wore a fitted red spencer over her gown and a bright smile. Mercy did not recognize her.
“Joseph!” She waved vigorously.
He looked over, and a matching smile split his face. “Esther!” He glanced back at them. “Excuse me, Miss Grove, Mr. Hollander. Nice meeting you.”
“Likewise.”
Mr. Kingsley bounded across the grass and picked up the woman in a playful hug. She squealed—just as you’d expect a little woman would.
“Is that his wife?” Mr. Hollander asked.
Mercy shook her head. “I don’t know who she is.” Mercy did not think the blonde was one of his brothers’ wives either.
Joseph called to his nephews, and they ran to join them. The tall man, the petite woman, and the two lads walked off together, Mr. Kingsley laying an affectionate hand on one of the boy’s shoulders. They looked like a family. A perfect, happy family.
Mercy turned to Mr. Hollander and smiled bravely. “Shall we?”
Chapter
twenty-five
Crossing The Bell entry hall the next morning, Jane drew up short at the sight of Thora and Talbot in the coffee room. She looked at the tall case clock and her stomach pinched. Normally, Jane would be happy to see her mother-in-law. But Hetty Piper was due to arrive soon.
Jane’s formerly tense relationship with Thora had transformed into one of mutual respect and fondness. Even so, Jane had not quite mustered the courage to tell her about Hetty’s imminent arrival. Thora Bell Talbot was still an intimidating figure, a woman of strong opinions, not easily changed. She had been the one to give Hetty the sack because she disapproved of the girl. How would she react to learning Jane had hired her again at the inn Thora had once ruled like an all-powerful monarch?
Jane took a deep breath and pasted on a smile. “Thora. Talbot. Good morning.”
“Morning, Jane,” Thora greeted.
Kind Walter Talbot rose and pulled out a chair. “Can you join us, or are you busy?”
Jane hesitated. “Thank you. I would enjoy that. I have a . . . few minutes.”
“Oh?” Thora’s tone grew mildly curious. “What is happening in a few minutes?”
Alwena came over to pour her a cup of tea, and Jane was grateful for the interruption. “Thank you, Alwena. And just toast this morning, when you have a chance?”
Jane sipped her tea, hoping it would ease her nervous stomach. She wondered if there was some polite way to hurry Thora out of the inn before Hetty’s coach arrived. She said, “You need not wait for me, if you two have already eaten? I’m sure the farm keeps you very busy, Talbot.”
“Indeed it does. But we’ve taken on an extra hand to help with the animals, and that frees us up quite a bit.”
Here was her opening. Jane set down her teacup. “Speaking of extra hands, I have engaged another chambermaid. We are busier than before, thankfully, so the timing seemed good.”
“Who have you hired?” Thora asked. “Has she any experience?”
Jane licked dry lips, longing for another sip of tea. “Yes. As a matter of fact, she has worked here before.”
“Who do you mean?”
“Hetty Piper.”
Thora’s eyes flashed, and Jane hurried on. “Now, Thora. I know you may not approve, but I have good reason.”
“That girl has experience all right, but not the kind to help The Bell.”
Talbot laid a hand on Thora’s, though his gaze remained on Jane. “I remember Hetty. A sweet girl and a hard worker.”
“She turned every man’s head, including Patrick’s. Or do you forget it?”
“That wasn’t her fault.”
“Was it not? She certainly didn’t discourage the attention. It is why I dismissed her. Why on earth would you offer her a place now, after all this time?”
Jane took a breath. “Do you remember my telling you what I learned when I went to Epsom?”
Thora stilled, her expression softening in memory. “That’s right. You said John went to help her, for some reason.”
Jane nodded. “It was one of the reasons he went to Epsom.” Though the horse races were probably the primary reason, she added to herself.
“Hetty had a difficult time finding a respectable situation after she left here.” Jane did not mention Thora’s refusal to give the girl a character reference.
Thora shifted in her chair. “Do I want to ask why John felt duty bound to help this girl, and now you do as well? You told me there was nothing improper between her and John, did you not?”
“I did. And no, there wasn’t. Not between her and John . . .”
She let the words drift away and sink in. Talbot and Thora exchanged a look, and then both sat back in their chairs.
“Ah,” Talbot replied for them both.
Face grim, Thora asked, “Does Patrick know she’s coming?”
“Yes, though not that she arrives today.”
Thora lowered her voice. “Was there . . . a child?”
Jane nodded. “Gone. She gave it up.”
Thora winced. “Where is Patrick, by the way? I did not see him in the office when we arrived. Tell me he has not already left the country again.”
“No, I sent him to Wishford on some errands. I could have sent Colin, but I thought I would let Hetty settle in first.”
Talbot nodded. “Very considerate, Jane.”
Thora’s lip curled. “And why you were trying to get rid of us.”
“Not rid of you, Thora. But . . . Hetty has reason to be uneasy in your presence, you can’t deny.”
Talbot grinned. “She used to call you the lioness, I recall.” He chuckled. “Rather apt.”
Thora did not return his grin but nudged his arm. “You have to live with this lioness, so be careful.”
“Beware your bite, you mean. I know.” He patted her hand and regarded her fondly. “I shall spend the rest of my days trying to tame you. Shall I succeed, do you think?”
Jane expected a sharp retort, but instead Thora’s eyes softened. “You have made a good start already.”
My goodness, Jane thought, feeling suddenly as awkward as a third person on a wedding trip.
Alwena arrived with Jane’s breakfast, and for the second instance that morning, Jane was grateful for the maid’s timely appearance.
Jane had nibbled only a few bites when the southbound coach rumbled up the road, its arrival heralded by a sharp horn blast from its guard as the coach turned the corner.
She folded her napkin and
rose. “If you will excuse me, I will go and greet Hetty myself. Assuming she hasn’t changed her mind about coming.”
Talbot again nodded, and to Jane’s relief, Thora made no move to follow.
Jane went out into the yard as the ostlers, Tall Ted and Tuffy, hurried forward to meet the coach and take charge of the horses. The coachman greeted them and asked them to check the hooves of the leader.
Jane waited, wondering how Hetty’s fellow passengers had treated a poor, coarsely dressed maid. Hopefully no one had harassed her.
The guard stowed his horn and hopped down from the back. He opened the coach door and let down the step. From inside, two gentlemen jostled to assist a lady within, arguing over which would carry her valise. One alighted first, elbowing the guard out of the way and offering his hand to the woman now framed in the open coach door.
Hetty Piper.
Hetty shook her head at their antics, smiling sweetly all the while. She extended a gloved hand and allowed the first gentleman to help her down.
She looked even prettier than when Jane had last seen her. Gone were the maid’s plain dress, apron, and mobcap. In their place, she wore a green spencer over a carriage dress of gold and ivory stripes. A high-brimmed bonnet perched on the crown of her head like a straw halo, its ribbons tied under her chin, her dark red hair framing her cherubic face in charming spirals.
Then Hetty’s gaze alighted on Jane, and her smile dimmed. “Hello, Mrs. Bell.”
“Hetty.” Should she have called her Miss Piper instead? At the moment, she certainly looked the part of a fashionable young lady. “Welcome,” Jane added.
A small voice called, and Hetty turned back to the carriage door. Little arms reached out and wrapped themselves around Hetty’s neck. Hetty scooped up a little girl of one or two and hoisted her on her hip.
Jane stood there, dumbly. What in the world? Did the child belong to a fellow passenger? But the toddler’s tousled locks were nearly as ginger as Hetty’s.
The second gentleman passenger handed Hetty’s valise to Colin, who’d come out to assist, all of the men no doubt thinking Hetty a well-heeled guest and not a chambermaid. Jane was relieved to notice, however, that Colin did not stare at Hetty or her significant bosom, as the other men did.