Page 14 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

“Sir Arthur,” the woman said by way of greeting. “We’ve missed you ’round here. Do hope your father is in good health?”

“You know the old man,” he told her with a wink. “A Zeppelin couldn’t carry him off.”

When the woman had taken their order, Arthur leaned back in his seat, his posture carelessly elegant. He was dressed casually, in a well-cut suit and crisply starched collar. “How are you finding Blackwood?”

She chose her words carefully. “I’m in awe of its size and the grand scale of everything, so I’m also a little surprised by its lack of modern amenities.” She leaned in and whispered, “Do you know, there’s no wireless?”

Arthur leaned in to meet her. “How barbaric!” he exclaimed in mock horror.

Ivy Radcliffe of Bethnal Green, London was not a giggler, so she was more than a little surprised when she discovered that Lady Hayworth giggled at this. “There is a gramophone at least, though it hasn’t been used in some time. I think I should have died if I couldn’t have music in that drafty old house.”

“Is Mrs. Hewitt still head maid? Tough old girl, that one,” he said, with something like admiration. “Blackwood Abbey could use some young blood, shake things up a bit though.”

The food arrived, two big plates laden with thick, golden chips and steaming hot pie. “So,” Arthur said, as he tucked into his pie, “did you find your library after all?”

“I did,” she said. “Mrs. Hewitt seemed very reluctant to admit me, and it was in a bit of disarray, but goodness! I never imagined anything so magnificent.”

“It’s something, isn’t it? I daresay she wasn’t keen on having to add it to her daily cleaning schedule.” Arthur paused, his fork hovering over his pie. He started to say something, then closed his mouth again.

“What is it?” Ivy asked.

He gave her a self-conscious grin, then shook his head.

“Tell me!”

“Well, you’re going to think me terribly rude or forward, or both.”

“Maybe, but you won’t know until you ask.”

He gave a sigh and pushed his plate away as if she had him cornered. “The truth is, I would love to get into the library and see it for myself. My father speaks fondly of visiting years ago, and I’m terribly keen on old books.”

Maybe it was the cider, warming her from the inside, or his good-natured conversation and earnest love of books. Either way, Ivy was inclined to agree to anything Arthur asked. “Of course, you must come and see the library,” she told him. “You probably have a better understanding of what’s in there than anyone else in the house, if your father has been there before. I would love to know more about it.”

Arthur’s dark eyes lit up. “I would be more than happy to be at your service in such an endeavor.”

They ate, conversation and laughter swelling and flowing around them. Arthur was easy to talk to, and Ivy found her attention wandering to his face every time he became animated as they discussed books. It wasn’t just that he was handsome—though he certainly was that—but there was a sparkle, an undeniable charisma about him. His conversation was soft and silky, a comfortable yet luxurious blanket that eased her mind and made her want to settle in and stay forever.

But then he grew somber as the subject shifted, and he started telling her about a memorial that the Munson village board was planning for fallen soldiers. “It’s too easy for the world to forget, to move on,” he said. “Our heroes should not be relegated to just names on a plaque, but it’s better than nothing. There will be a large stone and a garden bed cared for by the Ladies’ Auxiliary as well as several benches for quiet contemplation.”

“Did you serve?” she asked cautiously. She’d learned to recognize the shuttered horror imprinted on the faces of returned soldiers, the reluctance to speak about the war, but she didn’t see that in Arthur. He seemed altogether untouched by the grief and traumas of the world, a golden child in a bubble of light and laughter.

His eyes clouded. “No,” he said bitterly. “A lung condition kept me from enlisting. Otherwise, I would have been at the front, showing those Krauts a thing or two.”

She winced at his language. It prickled the pride of men not to be able to go fight, though Ivy wasn’t sure why. She would have given anything for James to have had a medical excuse that kept him from being shipped off to some godforsaken muddy field.

“My father is the soldier of the family, a decorated general,” he continued. “It was always expected that I would follow in his footsteps, but...” He trailed off, pushing the potatoes around on his plate. “And you? Did you have anyone in the war?”

Ivy nodded, tears pricking behind her eyelids. It seemed that tears were always just one memory away. She pushed the lump in her throat down. “Both my father and my brother,” she told him. “My mother died shortly afterward from the flu.”

She felt rather than saw him nod. “So you’re all alone,” he said quietly. There was no pity in his voice, thank goodness, just a resigned statement of fact. “Tell me about them, about your childhood.”

Thrown off guard by his direct question, she folded her fists into her sleeves, as if she could make herself smaller, beyond notice, like a turtle retreating into the safety of its shell. “Why?” she asked warily. “What do you want to know?”

He shrugged, downing the last of his pint and motioning for another. “To be frank, I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said with an appraising gaze. “We’ve had vastly different lives, but something tells me we have more similarities than we have differences. Besides,” he added, “I like you. I want to know more about the girl sitting across from me.”

Arthur leaned forward on his elbows, his dark eyes locked on Ivy, and gooseflesh sprang up along her arms. Some of her reserve melted away under the warmth of that gaze. No one ever asked about her. Aside from Susan, no one ever really looked at her.

“Well,” she said, drawing in a deep breath, “my father was a professor. I spent most of my childhood in the library with him, or at home helping him catalog and index his research sources. We managed well enough. It wasn’t until he lost his job, that things became...difficult.”

---