Page 11 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

“I can drive you,” he told her, fetching his cap from a hay bale and pulling it on.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt your work,” she said as she hurried to follow him down the corridor and out into the mist. She was also sorry to leave behind the warmth; the stables felt safe and snug in a way that the abbey didn’t.

His broad shoulders fell in a shrug. “Driving youismy work,” he said without turning.

She bit her lip. Ralph was still dressed in his stable clothes, his boots muddy and pants smeared with dirt. “I can wait if you need to...that is, your clothes...”

At this he finally turned and raised a brow at her. It was the closest thing to a smile she had seen on him since coming to Blackwood. “Embarrassed by a little dirt on your chauffeur, are you, my lady?”

“What? No! Of course not. And you really don’t have to call me that,” she informed him, crossing her arms. “I’m not some high-born lady, you know.”

Continuing his loping walk to the front drive, Ralph gave a shrug again. “If you say so, my lady.”

Unsure of how she had somehow been made to feel as if she was in the wrong, Ivy ignored the mocking bow Ralph executed as he opened the car’s door for her.

They pulled up in front of a small stone building with a post box and bench outside. “Post is in there,” he said nodding toward the building. “Pub is next door, and if you need any essentials there’s a small shop across the road. I’ll be here when you’re ready to leave.”

“You’re going to wait in the car?”

“Aye. Take your time.” With that, he leaned back in his seat, and pulled his cap down over his eyes.

“Well, now I won’t be able to,” Ivy grumbled as she got out of the car. Really, she was expected to do her errands while he waited for her like a dog? It felt as if she were being guarded, watched.

Leaving Ralph to his nap, Ivy took her time walking to the post office. Blackwood was quaint, the quintessential English village complete with banners for a harvest festival hanging over the main thoroughfare, and red-and-blue bunting fluttering in the breeze. Susan would have been horrified at the lack of cinemas and department stores. The thought of her best friend propelled her inside the post office, where the promise of a telephone waited. But after calling only to have Mrs. Beeton inform her that Susan was out, Ivy felt restless and defeated.

She returned to the car. “Would it be possible to drive to Munson?” she asked through the window. “Agnes said there was a bookshop there.”

Ralph stared at her, his jaw set, and she was sure he was going to say no. But he gave a nod, and got out to open the door for her. This time the drive seemed much shorter, the landscape less alien now that she had seen it before. When traveling through London, there was always some spectacle, whether it was a policeman in a bare-knuckle fight with some street tough, a dog upending a cart of fruit, or a sea of grim-faced men in a labor march. Here, the landscape was vast and beautiful, but every crooked tree and rocky outcrop they passed looked the same. Brown heather and overgrown grass stretched endlessly with only the occasional farm or derelict gate to differentiate them. She tried to think of something to ask Ralph and start a conversation, but the yawning moors didn’t spark so much as a question.

“Let me guess, you’ll be waiting right here for me?” she asked as she got out in front of a small bookshop, the double-paned glass windows boasting rows and rows of books.

“Now you’re getting it,” Ralph answered, settling back into his seat, his long legs folded under the steering wheel.

“If I were you, I would bring a book with me at least. That way I would have something to do while I was waiting.”

“You aren’t me, thank God,” he said with maddening nonchalance.

Insufferable, was what he was. Well, she wasn’t going to waste any more time trying to strike up a conversation or a friendship; the promise of new books awaited.

Munson was still small by London standards, but it was infinitely more varied than Blackwood. Shoppers bustled along the streets, motorcars navigating around them. Several tea shops and restaurants boasted chalkboard signs advertising their menus. But most importantly, they had abookshop, and so anything lacking could be easily forgiven.

The bell tinkled on the door, and Ivy closed her eyes as she stepped into the shop, the familiar scent of books and leather welcoming her. Whether it was London or Munson, it didn’t matter, a shop full of books was a refuge, a quiet place away from the storm of the world. A spectacled man gave her a nod of welcome from behind a book-lined counter, and an orange tabby came and wound round her legs. With a sigh of happiness, Ivy began browsing the shelves, every once in a while taking down a book and tenderly flipping through the pages. She found herself in the local history section, searching for anything having to do with Blackwood and its abbey. If this was to be her new home, she wanted to learn as much about it as possible, and Mrs. Hewitt didn’t seem eager to tell her much beyond the basics she had imparted during her tour.

A book of Norman abbeys and churches in the area caught her eye, and soon she was so lost in the pages, that she didn’t notice the bell at the door, or the new customer that had entered.

“Keen to learn about local history?” The voice came from right beside her, and was polished and clipped, not like the broad Northern accents that surrounded her. When Ivy looked up, she found a well-dressed young man of about her age, standing close enough that she could smell his expensive cologne. He had a movie-star look about him, dark hair, defined jaw, and a confidence that could only come from having been raised knowing one could have whatever one wanted.

“I’m keen to learn about any sort of history,” she replied, wary at this unexpected overture.

“A woman after my own heart.” He flashed a brilliant smile, and stuck out his hand. “Sir Arthur Mabry. How do you do?”

“Ivy Radcliffe,” she said automatically. “Well, I suppose now Lady Hayworth.”

To her surprise, he didn’t look the least bit nonplussed. She had expected that he would have scoffed or raised a brow at her usual workaday clothes. But he didn’t bat an eye at her wool skirt or worn-in cardigan. Instead, he gave her a broad smile that illuminated his clean-cut face. “You don’t say! A woman has inherited Blackwood Abbey!” Almost sheepish, he quickly added, “I apologize. It’s only that my father was very good friends with the late Lord Hayworth, and we wondered who was next in line for the title.”

“That would be me.” She cast him a sidelong glance. Any other time she would have regretted taking off her gold band, but there was something inviting and easy about this young man, and truth be told, she was finding her new home to be a lonely place without the hint of a smile or friendly face. Besides, this wasn’t a stranger on a train, this was someone who had come into a bookshop, seeking the same sort of refuge as she.

“Well, welcome to Blackwood, and I daresay, Yorkshire?”

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