Page 13 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

The poor woman appeared from thin air, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked around, bewildered. “My lady, are you all right?”

A little sheepish that she’d made such a fuss, Ivy cleared her throat. “I’d like to see the library, please.”

Mrs. Hewitt blinked. “The library?”

Ivy faltered. Had Sir Arthur been mistaken? “I was told there was a library. I believe it’s behind these doors.”

“I see.” Mrs. Hewitt had regained her composure, her back straight, her hands folded at her waist. “I told you, my lady—that room has not been opened in some time and is not in a fit state at the moment.”

So therewasa library. Her heart beat faster. “I won’t be put off by a little dust, I promise you,” Ivy told her. “I spent my childhood in libraries among some of the oldest, dustiest books.”

Mrs. Hewitt looked as if she wanted to say something else, but Ivy preempted her. “Please open it, Mrs. Hewitt,” Ivy said, in what she hoped was her most authoritative tone.

Irritation twitched at her lips, but Mrs. Hewitt heaved a sigh and rummaged for a key on her belt. Ivy held her breath as the housekeeper unlocked the doors, and slowly pushed them open.

It was dark inside, the only light coming from the fading twilight filtering through a set of tall, crenelated windows at the far end. Mrs. Hewitt swept inside first, fumbled at a switch on the wall, and a moment later dim electric lamps dotting the walls buzzed to life. Ivy sucked in her breath. Even in the poor light it was magnificent.

“Why is it kept closed up?” she asked without tearing her eyes from the soaring bookshelves that lined the walls.

Behind her, Mrs. Hewitt shifted, a floorboard creaking under her shoes. “There’s no reason to keep it open. We don’t have the staff to keep it dusted and in order.”

Books sat spine to spine, all hues of red and green and deep brown leather, the occasional glimmer of dusty gilt titles winking in the dim light. Marble busts of great men sat sentry along the walls, their vacant eyes once white but now grimy and gray. It rivaled the libraries at Cambridge and London, and it was all hers. The air was a little stale and there was the unmistakable whiff of mildew, but it was hardly in the condition which Mrs. Hewitt had implied. It was not unfit, it was simply unused.

“Well, I think it’s a shame,” Ivy said. “From now on, please keep it unlocked. It doesn’t matter to me if it’s dusty or mildewed. I’ll take care of it.”

“Very good, my lady,” Mrs. Hewitt murmured, though her tone indicated she thought it was anything but. “The electric in here is very old and unsound, and I would not recommend coming in after dark as the strain on the system could ignite a blaze. Candles are likewise a great risk of fire.”

Ivy hardly heard her as she moved further into the library. This would be her safe haven at Blackwood, a domain in which she finally felt comfortable. The dark wood shelves and familiar smell of leather and paper wrapped around her, safe and cozy. Above her, a narrow gallery ran the length of the vaulted ceiling, a reminder of the building’s ecclesiastical history. If she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, she could almost feel herself transported back through the centuries. Every book held not just the story written in its pages, but a secret history of the hands that had touched them, had loved them. Hers. This was all hers. A lifetime of learning and scholarship lay before her, something that would have otherwise been closed to a woman like her.

Though she wanted more than anything to start a fire in the fireplace and curl up with a blanket and a book, she felt a headache coming on and Mrs. Hewitt was waiting impatiently at the door, her hand hovering over the light switch.

“It’s no wonder,” Mrs. Hewitt said when Ivy mentioned her headache. “You’ve hardly sat still for more than five minutes since you got here. I will send your tray up shortly.”

Throwing one last wistful glance at the library, Ivy followed Mrs. Hewitt out. She couldn’t help but notice that Mrs. Hewitt discreetly turned back, locking the doors behind her after all.

7

Voices fade, photographs are just tricks of lights and mirrors, and touch is a passing phantom. But scent lingers, and even long after the last particle of someone’s essence is gone, the faintest smell can bring all the memories rushing back.

If she closed her eyes and put her nose to the soft, pilled wool of her favorite cardigan, Ivy could just make out the merest suggestion of roses and lilies. In a cold, unfamiliar place, the cardigan was like wearing the warm embrace of her mother. But then, she couldn’t really wear something with loose buttons and holes around the cuffs to dine with a peer. Slipping instead into a wool tweed skirt and her best blouse, she tied a kerchief over her hair and ventured out to the stables.

She tiptoed through the abbey, still feeling more like the proverbial city mouse visiting the country mouse than a lady in her own home. In London, she could walk everywhere or take the Underground, free and untethered in her anonymity. But here she was isolated, and at the mercy of someone else if she wanted to leave. She again had the sensation that she was forever being observed, watched, though she supposed that was how ladies lived. She had exchanged the constraints of poverty for the gilded bonds of wealth.

In the stables, Minnie greeted her with a soft whicker, and hopeful eyes searching for a treat. To Ivy’s immense relief, Ralph was nowhere to be seen. Ever since his bizarre outburst he’d seemed to be avoiding her. Luckily there was an old bicycle leaned up against the wall, a little rusty and cobwebbed, but with inflated tires and working pedals. Brushing away the webs, she wheeled it out of the stable, checking to make sure Ralph wasn’t about.

The landscape that had whizzed by in a blur of dreary hills in the motorcar now crawled past her, and by the time she reached the village, her hair had come loose and her skirt hem was worse for the wear. Ivy hardly looked like a lady, but something told her that Arthur Mabry wouldn’t mind. He was different from how she’d expected someone from the gentry to act, kind and warm, self-deprecating.

Wheeling the bike to the side of the pub, she leaned it against the stone wall and gave her hair a quick pat. Inside was warm and boisterous, much like a pub in London except most of the clientele were in waders and tweed caps. Old men lined the bar, ruddy noses deep in pints of ale and cider, and a spirited game of darts was taking place in the corner. Second after a library, a pub was a haven of warmth, and Ivy had always enjoyed spending an afternoon with a hot drink away from the polluted and cold streets of London. They might not have been strictly the most appropriate places for a woman, but as long as she and Susan had acted as if they belonged and didn’t cause any trouble, no one had ever bothered them.

Sir Arthur was already seated at a table in the corner. Ivy still had a chance to back out, to pretend she hadn’t seen him and leave. In London, she never would have accepted the invitation of a strange man, so what was she doing here? Turning in his seat, he caught her eye and gave her a bright smile, putting an end to her last-minute plans of absconding.

He stood to greet her. “Lady Hayworth,” he said with a warm handshake and an old-fashioned kiss on the knuckles. “A pleasure.”

She’d had to haul out a dusty copy ofBurke’s Peeragethe night before just to find him and figure out how to address him properly. “Sir Arthur,” she returned, unable to keep her own lips from pulling up into a smile. It all seemed so absurd to be rubbing shoulders with the son of an earl, meeting for lunch at a pub as if they were old friends.

He moved over on the bench, but she sat on the chair across from him. He was terribly charming and friendly, but what did she really know about him?

Unfazed, he flagged down a middle-aged woman carrying a tray.

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