Page 15 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

The day was still sharp in her mind, her father coming home, the whispered conversation between him and her mother in the kitchen while she pretended to be absorbed in her book. After that, it had been different. It wasn’t the creeping poverty, but the emptiness in her father’s eyes, the way he went through the motions of life, but didn’t seem to be fully present. Whatever had caused him to lose his job was never spoken of, and Ivy could only imagine that it had something to do with her father’s progressive way of thinking, his refusal to pander to the wealthy sons of peers who came through his classroom. Soon after that, they had lost the neat little lodgings in Cambridge, and moved to a dreary flat in Bethnal Green where her father tutored a handful of students, and her mother could take in laundry.

“My mother was an American, the daughter of a wealthy banker,” Ivy continued.

Mina Radcliffe had thrown herself into the role of wife and mother and still had found time to campaign with the women’s suffrage movement. Their home had been cozy and safe, a refuge. Mina had given up all the comforts of her old life, but she had forged a new one, where everything she did was for her children. The only relic of her old life that she had managed to keep was her harp, a big golden thing with twinkling strings that sat in the corner of the parlor. Ivy’s father refused to entertain the idea of selling it, even when they were desperately in need of the money it could have brought in. Late at night, after the cooking and dishes and endless chores of the day were done, Mina would take her callused fingers to the strings and coax the most ethereal music from them. As a little girl, it had been like watching a fairy queen sitting on her throne and holding court.

“She was beautiful,” Ivy added in a whisper.

“And your father?” Arthur gently prodded. “What was it he studied, exactly?”

“Medieval history, esoteric manuscripts in particular.” There was more to it than that, but her father’s work felt sacred, and she wasn’t certain that Arthur would understand the intricacies of his brilliance. “There’s even a manuscript he discovered named after him. He could read a dozen different languages, including dead ones. And he was generous with his knowledge, never put himself above anyone else. His students loved him.”

“He sounds like an incredible man,” Arthur said softly. “How lucky you were to have a father like that.”

Ivy could only bring herself to nod. She had been lucky, but it had made the loss all the more keenly felt.

“I am not fortunate to enjoy such a relationship with my parents. My mother died when I was very young, and I am a great disappointment to my father.” He was forging ahead, carelessly knocking back the rest of his drink before Ivy had a chance to absorb this strange turn of conversation. “He makes no secret of the fact that he believes I should have been at the front to see action.”

She hesitated, parsing out the right words. “Does he really believe that, even with your lung condition?”

Arthur’s expression hardened. “Of course he believes it, and he has every right to.”

His response surprised her, and she paused, her glass lifted halfway to her lips. “What do you mean?”

“I was born to follow in my father’s footsteps. I played soldier as a little boy, was in the Scouts. And of course I wanted to make my father proud, what son doesn’t? But I was sick as a child, and my blasted lungs never recovered so now I have to live with the knowledge that I sat at home while my countrymen went out and sacrificed their lives. I would have given anything for that glory.” He ran his finger over the rim of his glass, his fair face darkening.

Ivy’s gaze skimmed over the people absorbed in their own conversations around them. She was unused to speaking confidentially with other people in the room. “War is not so glorious,” she said, keeping her voice low out of habit. “I would have given anything for my father and brother to remain home. No one thinks of glory when they are in the mud, dying far away from everything and everyone they love.”

Arthur regarded her for a long moment with an unreadable expression. “Well, we all had to do our bit, didn’t we?”

Everyone had done their bit, and some more than others. Everyone had darned socks and knitted hats, rationed, and stood in bread lines. But some had also sent their brothers, their husbands, their fathers to the trenches to be injured or killed. Yes, Ivy had done her “bit,” and then some.

“I’ve made you sad,” he said, the clouds lifting from his face, his good humor returning. “You mustn’t mind me. I daresay my father gets in my ear sometimes.”

“Not at all,” she said, only too glad to escape to a different topic. “May I ask you something?”

“I’m an open book,” Arthur said, leaning back and spreading his palms. “Ask me anything.”

“You said your father knew the late Lord Hayworth, did you ever meet him?”

“Oh, let’s see. A handful of times, perhaps. Kept to himself mostly, and I believe he was quite sick toward the end of his life.”

Ivy pushed her pie around, trying to hide her disappointment. They finished their meals in silence, until Arthur glanced at his watch. “I hate to do this, but my father is expecting me for a club meeting and I completely lost track of the time.” He paused, running a speculative gaze over Ivy. “You should come.”

There were only two kinds of clubs in London: gentlemen’s clubs, and those that had drinking and dancing. Ivy had liked going dancing with Susan, but she had a feeling that wasn’t what Arthur was talking about. “What sort of club?” she asked.

“Oh, it’s all very informal. Just some of the scholarly-minded local gentry. We discuss literature and host lectures...that sort of thing. I can’t say women usually attend, but then, you are something of an anomaly. I mean that in the most complimentary way,” he quickly added. “I’m sure they would be very keen to hear about your father’s work.”

Ivy glanced down at her cycling attire, and then out the window where dark clouds were gathering. Discussing literature did sound lovely, but was she ready to take her place in a society comprised of earls, lords, and other aristocracy? How would they accept her, a young woman from the wrong part of London who had miraculously ascended to their class overnight? She didn’t even have a fit dress.

“Another time, perhaps,” she said, with a warm smile to let him know that the invitation was appreciated.

Standing, Arthur brushed her hand with a kiss. “Lady Hayworth, it was a pleasure. I look forward to exploring the library with you.” He let his gaze sweep over her, then linger at her mouth, before excusing himself.

A rush of heat ran through her as she watched him weave around tables, all fluid grace, exchanging friendly greetings with some of the men at the bar. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her like that, and she’d forgotten the little thrill of it.

Retying her kerchief and slipping into her coat, Ivy left the warm pub, and hopped on her bicycle. Raindrops were starting to fall, and the few pedestrians in town were hurrying for cover. With any luck, she could make the ride back to Blackwood before it got worse.

But the gods were not on her side. Rain began to fall fast and heavy, picking up with breathtaking speed. Bloody brilliant. The ride into the village had been mostly downhill at least, but now she was working against a gradual incline as well as the wind.

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