The House of Stone and Ivy Read online

  Cover image: Old House with Path of Flowers © Drunaa / Trevillion Images

  Cover design copyright © 2019 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2019 by Anita Stansfield

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  First Printing: January 2019

  ISBN 978-1-52440-858-9

  Chapter One

  THE FRIENDLY STRANGER

  Lancashire, England —1808

  Henrietta Wood hurriedly tidied the tiny room in which she lived. Given that it could barely be classified as habitable, she felt an obsessive need to keep it as clean and orderly as possible, as if doing so might somehow compensate for the leaky ceiling, the cracked and peeling wallpaper, and the continual film of dust that came from a source she could not identify; cleaning the dust away every day helped her feel some measure of dignity despite her squalid surroundings.

  Despite sleeping later than she should have, Hennie still felt tired; but then, she always felt tired. Using the small, hazy mirror in her room, she did the best she could to wind up her dark-blonde hair and pin it properly into place. She tied her bleached and starched apron around the waist of the drab, gray dress she was required to wear and hurried down the first flight of stairs from the floor that housed the employees of the inn, to the floor where every room was fine and lovely to accommodate traveling guests who paid good money to rent comfortable rooms. She rushed down the next flight of stairs to the ground floor, where meals and drinks were served to what seemed a never-ending crowd. The inn was a popular local gathering place for the villagers, as well as a reputable home away from home for travelers.

  Hennie quickly got to work before Mr. Grenville—her employer and sole owner of the inn—had a chance to even notice that she had arrived a few minutes late. He was a strict timekeeper and had high expectations of his employees. The guests who ate, drank, and slept at his establishment respected him and were consistently treated kindly. Hennie only wished he might be half as kind to those who worked for him, those who made it possible for his inn to be so highly respected. But Grenville was well-known among his employees for his critical, demeaning comments and snide threats that he generally spoke quietly enough that they could never be overheard by the guests. But nearly two years of working for this brute with his dual personality had worn down Hennie’s spirit in ways she could never measure. She could only do her best to focus on her gratitude for having employment, when work was not easy to find in the present climate, and she had no family or friends to rely on. She often wondered what it might be like to go home each day after work to people who loved her and cared about the difficulties of her life. To cope with the tedium of her work, Hennie often fantasized about telling a father or brother about how unfairly Mr. Grenville treated her, and how they might become so incensed they would threaten Grenville into behaving more appropriately. But such fantasies never lasted more than a few minutes before the reality of life surrounded her once again like a heavy fog. The serving of drinks and meals never ended. If she took even a few minutes to escape to the privy at the back of the inn, or to try and keep her stomach full by eating a little here and there, a minute at a time throughout the day, she would often be met with Grenville’s critical glare or some quietly spoken threat about her need to stay on her toes and keep busy or she’d be out on the streets. Hennie had experienced life on the streets—sleeping in the open air, trying to stay warm, begging for food—and the very thought of it triggered deep alarm in every fiber of her body and spirit, so much so that she sometimes wondered what lengths she would go to just to survive—just to never have to face such unspeakable circumstances ever again.

  Days eased into weeks, which merged into months. Summer turned to autumn, which inevitably ushered the cold of winter into the air. Hennie loved the beauty of falling snow when she could watch it through windows that protected her from the freezing temperatures. But she could never watch it fall without recalling the times she’d had no choice but to just try and stay warm enough to survive when she’d had no shelter to protect her from the cold. This fear kept her motivated to do everything required by her deplorable employer, even though she hated every minute.

  Hennie’s days were long, and she was given only half a day off in the week in which to take care of personal errands and launder her dirty clothes. Beyond that, the only time she had to herself was on Sundays when she attended church. She delighted in the respite of this favorite time of the week, but she always had to hurry back to the bustling inn, since Grenville himself had no respect for the Sabbath—even though every other business in the village was closed on Sundays. Grenville only considered this to be an advantage for him, since there were always people who wanted to eat and drink and rent rooms, and if other establishments were closed, all the better for him. Hennie understood that sometimes people had no choice but to travel on Sundays and they certainly did need rooms to sleep in and food to eat. She enjoyed serving and cleaning up after such travelers, feeling as if she were contributing to their genuine needs. What Hennie hated were the local men who came to the inn seven days a week to drink until their speech was slurred and they could barely stagger out when the inn finally closed for the night. Most of these men came here to avoid spending time with wives and children, and because of the way they spoke so disrespectfully of the women and children who were at home doing chores and tasks these men should have been doing, Hennie had no respect for them whatsoever. The worst part of having to serve them was the way they treated her. The more inebriated they became, the more they believed they had a right to inappropriately harass and persecute the women serving them. Hennie understood that many of the women who worked for Grenville actually enjoyed such unsavory attention, and some even encouraged it. Hennie had nothing in common with these women and generally avoided any interaction with them beyond the polite exchanges necessary for working together. But she often wondered if they really enjoyed having their bottoms slapped or pinched by drunk men, or if they’d just become so accustomed to it that they’d stopped caring. Hennie hated it! And every time it happened, she had to bite her tongue and swallow her temper, knowing that if one of the customers complained to Grenville about her being uncooperative in the way she served these despicable men their ongoing flow of liquor, she would be let go immediately without question. Hennie not only had to endure the straying hands of such men, but there was also the inevitability that the drunker they became, the more apt they were to speak crude vulgarities, most often aimed at the women serving their drinks. Each night after the inn was closed and Hennie’s work was finally done, she’d return to her shabby little room and desperately wish that she could just soak in a hot bath to somehow cleanse away the disgusting speech and behavior she was exposed to daily. But a bath was a luxury she didn’t have access to, and the best she could do was use the limited amount of soap and water available to sponge away the dirt and sweat of a long day. During her minimal time off once a week, she would wash her hair while she was laundering her clothes; that was the time she felt the cleanest and the most refreshed, until she in
evitably had to return to work. Then she would feel contaminated all over again.

  As winter finally began to recede and signs of spring were poking their way up out of the ground and bursting through the seemingly dead trees and shrubberies, Hennie felt especially depressed about the circumstances of her life. In the past, spring had represented relief from trying to survive the cold of winter, and subsequently she had found hope in the physical evidence of the world erupting with new life. But Hennie had no time to appreciate the beauty of spring, except during her quick walk to church and back on Sunday, and even then, she was always mindful of the time and felt the need to hurry. Instead of finding any joy whatsoever in the wonders of spring, Hennie’s thoughts became preoccupied with the inevitable reality that each day would pass the same as the last, making up the months and seasons that would follow one after the other, with no hope of a better life.

  Following a stretch of some fairly warm days, a deluge of cold rain poured down relentlessly. Despite having to strategically place a basin, two bowls, and a pot on the floor of her room to catch the water dripping from the ceiling, Hennie loved the rain—mostly because business was always slower at the inn. Such rain discouraged the horde of regular customers from venturing out of their homes to drink and socialize. Grenville hated the rain for that reason, but Hennie loved it. She enjoyed being able to work at a slower pace, without having demands thrown at her continually. And fewer drunk men meant fewer occasions of having to fend off their revolting remarks and gestures.

  During a brief lull, Hennie was suddenly surprised to realize that for the time being there was absolutely nothing to be done. Every customer had been served and they all appeared content. The women she worked with appeared equally surprised, as they gathered in a little huddle to chatter and giggle, overtly excluding Hennie. But that was fine; Hennie had no desire to share the kind of social interaction that took place among such women. She was well aware that some of them had resorted to the most unseemly occupation of taking men up to their rooms. Grenville was nothing but pleased with such atrocities, since it brought more men to his inn who were seeking the opportunity to drink too much and engage in deplorable behaviors, most of them having wives and children at home. The entire matter sickened Hennie to the point that she had to force herself to avoid even thinking about what she observed, and that also meant avoiding any interaction with the rest of Grenville’s girls, as he liked to call the women who worked for him.

  Grenville appeared displeased with the way his girls were doing nothing productive, but it was evident he couldn’t find anything to scold them about when every customer was clearly cared for and everything was tidy. Just then, the door swung open as a man entered, huddled beneath his coat and hat, seemingly shoved inside by a gust of wind, and bringing a hefty portion of rain in with him as it dripped off him into a puddle on the floor even after the door had closed behind him. Grenville didn’t mind the water that would have to be cleaned up; he simply appeared delighted to have another customer. Hennie didn’t wait for any of the other girls to volunteer to help the newcomer. She would far rather be busy than idle, forced to listen to their shallow and sometimes crude conversation.

  “Let me help you,” Hennie said to the new customer as she stepped forward and took his dripping hat while he eased out of his wet coat and she took that too, hanging both on nearby hooks that were well used on such nights.

  “Thank you,” the man said with a voice that was pitched a little high but had a slight gravelly texture.

  “What can I do for you?” Hennie asked as the man pushed his hands through his damp, dark hair to get it out of his face. Clearly his hat had not done very well at keeping his head dry. “Something to drink? A meal? Are you in need of lodging for the night?”

  “All of that,” the man replied.

  Hennie barely glanced at him as she motioned with her arm toward a nearby table. “Make yourself comfortable,” Hennie said, and the man sat down with a sigh that implied relief at being someplace warm and dry after much exhaustion. He wasn’t a local customer; therefore, she assumed he’d been traveling. His wanting a room supported that theory. As he was seated, Hennie noticed he was thin and not quite as tall as she was, which made him somewhat short for a man. His face seemed kind, but he mostly kept it turned away, which implied some degree of shyness.

  “Thank you,” the man said, and Hennie was glad to serve a customer who was kind and polite.

  “We have shepherd’s pie or venison stew tonight,” Hennie said. “Which would you prefer?”

  “The pie sounds grand,” the man said while he avoided looking at her.

  “And to drink?” Hennie asked.

  “Ale is fine,” the man said. “Something light to wash down my meal is all I need.”

  “Very good,” Hennie said and hurried to the kitchen, refreshed by this traveler who had come in out of the rain. It only took her a couple of minutes to dish up a helping of shepherd’s pie—which she knew from experience to be very delicious and a specialty of the inn—and to fill a tankard with ale. She set both on the table in front of her new customer, along with a fork. Steam rose off the food, which had been kept hot in one of the ovens, and the stranger leaned his somewhat frail-looking face into the warmth while he inhaled the aroma and smiled.

  “Thank you,” the man said and smiled, even though he still didn’t look up.

  “I’ll arrange for a room so you can have some privacy and rest as soon as you’re done eating.”

  “Thank you,” the man said again and glanced toward Hennie for only a second. He looked vaguely familiar, but not enough for her to place him in her memory; he was probably someone who had passed through here before, but she’d likely been too busy to pay much attention.

  “Glad to help,” Hennie said and left the man to enjoy his meal. She spoke with Grenville about the customer wanting a room—which was the established procedure. Grenville went to the table where the man was eating to personally collect money for the room and the meal. Hennie hated her employer’s constant attitude of greed and the way he didn’t trust anyone except himself to handle the intake of money. But at the same time, she was glad to not have to ask the customers to pay; something in her simply didn’t want to have to handle Grenville’s money. Beyond the money he paid her each week for her wages, she had no interest in his obsession with keeping track of every penny that was owed to him.

  Hennie kept an eye on the man eating his shepherd’s pie as if it were something heavenly and miraculous. She also kept an eye on a couple of other customers who were her responsibility. But they were all content and undemanding, and she had the unusual sensation of feeling mildly bored. When the man had finished his meal, Hennie approached him and asked if he would like more or if she could interest him in some apple cobbler. He smiled shyly and declined anything more to eat, so she took the key to his room out of her pocket and handed it to him. “I can show you to your room, then,” she said, motioning for him to follow her after she’d retrieved his coat and hat from the hooks near the door. “The innkeeper will have lit the fire by now, so hopefully you’ll be able to warm up and feel comfortable.”

  “You’re very kind,” the man said as he followed Hennie up the stairs.

  Hennie didn’t reply, but she secretly savored his kind gratitude, and she wondered why such niceties were so rare in her life.

  With the stairs and hallway lit by sconces hanging on the walls, Hennie led the way to the second door on the right and waited for him to turn the key in the lock while she followed the usual protocol and said, “I’ll just make certain everything is in order and leave you to enjoy your privacy and get some rest.”

  “Thank you,” the man said again as the door to the room opened to reveal a fire burning vibrantly; combined with the two lamps that had been lit, the room was warm and inviting. Hennie allowed herself only a moment of feeling some envy over being able to spend the night in such a
room, in contrast to her dark and leaky room with a very tiny fireplace that was incapable of producing more than the barest minimum of heat.

  Hennie hung up the man’s coat and hat on a rack near the fireplace, saying, “These should be plenty dry by morning.” She nodded toward the washstand. “You’ll find clean water and linens there.” She turned to look at him and asked, “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  “I’m certain I have everything I need, except . . .” He hesitated, seeming nervous, which prompted Hennie to feel the same. This man had been kind and respectful, but she was standing in a room with a bed, and he was standing between her and the door. Did he expect something more from her, something that she would never willingly give? It was far from the first time she’d felt a momentary panic in such a situation, and she’d always managed to get out of the room—but there were many instances when that hadn’t necessarily been easy.

  “Except?” she asked when he hesitated, while she moved toward the door, glad to be able to easily move past this man who turned to keep looking at her as she stood in the doorway.

  “I need to talk to you,” the man said in a whisper.

  His nervousness increased, and Hennie instinctively felt safe with this man. She whispered in return as she asked, “Are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need—”

  “No,” he said emphatically, and his shyness was no longer evident. “Hennie,” he added, and she took in a sharp breath to hear him use her name. How could he possibly know her name? “It’s me, Hennie,” he whispered even more emphatically, with a complete absence of that gravelly quality in his voice. “It’s Lottie.”

  Hennie took another sharp breath while she squinted and looked more closely at this man, certain her eyes were deceiving her—or that she’d surely heard him wrong. This made no sense whatsoever; she simply couldn’t connect in her mind what she was seeing and hearing and have it make any sense.