Page 19 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

Ralph nodded. “Will just take a trip into Munson to get the right parts.”

Ivy watched as he carefully climbed down the ladder. “Do you think that you could go today?”

He gave her a long look, and she knew that she was trying his patience. But he just nodded. “Aye. I can go.”

Perhaps Ralph wasn’t so disagreeable after all, or perhaps he just wanted Ivy to stop pestering him. Whatever the reason, she knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. After she’d thanked him profusely amidst his grumbles, he left. Ivy hugged her arms to herself. It felt as if she’d been in a stand-off between herself and Mrs. Hewitt, and she had just scored a major victory.

“My lady?” Hewitt stood at the door to the library. She had almost forgotten about the butler, so rarely did she see him around the abbey. “A parcel has arrived for you. Shall I bring it into the parlor?”

Had Susan sent her something already? Ivy couldn’t imagine who else would have known where she was, let alone thought to send her something.

She followed Hewitt to the front door where two men in work coveralls were wheeling something large draped with burlap. Her curiosity built until one of the men removed the burlap and looked about the parlor. “Where would you like it, m’lady?”

The wireless radio was beautiful, encased in gleaming mahogany and embellished with an unfurling leaf motif where the sound came out. It was a far cry from the wireless which Ivy and her family had gathered around in their old flat, which had been broken and repaired so many times that it had been little more than a patched wooden box emitting distorted sounds. Hewitt sprang into action when it was clear that Ivy was too stunned to direct them.

“It came with this note, m’lady,” the other man said, handing her an envelope.

Ivy fumbled to unfold the thick ivory paper and caught her breath.

A little welcome-to-Yorkshire gift. My hope is that this will fill your abbey with music and news from the outside world, dispelling any ghosts that might linger there. Warmest regards,

Your friend,

Arthur M.

If Ivy had any doubts about Arthur’s intentions, this grand gesture certainly banished them. How on earth had he arranged for this to come so quickly? She watched as the men fit the wireless between the window alcoves, and went about fiddling with dials until it crackled to life and a lively foxtrot began playing. She hadn’t realized how gloomy it was, how lonely, until music began pouring through the old house. Closing her eyes, Ivy let the music wash over her, her chest lighter, her breath easier. Dispelling any lingering ghosts, indeed.

True to his word, Ralph had gone to Munson and gotten the parts needed to fix the faulty wires in the library, and made quick work of repairing the lighting. But it seemed that the universe conspired against Ivy. Every time she sat down in the library, a terrible headache would come on, and her head would go fuzzy, her eyes unfocused. The mildew must have been worse than she’d first thought, or perhaps it was eye strain. More than once she even fancied that she was being watched as she tried to catalog the books. Was Mrs. Hewitt spying on her, disapprovingly watching from the upper gallery, or behind a shelf? Or had she enlisted Agnes to watch Ivy? The young maid was eager to please, and Ivy could imagine her being easily manipulated. Though whatever the staff thought they would find was beyond her.

Irritated beyond measure that another cozy day in the library had been thwarted, Ivy stalked off to find Ralph and ask him for a ride into the village. She would telephone Susan, and hearing her friend’s voice would make her feel better, she was sure of it. Ivy would tell her about Arthur and how he was throwing everything she thought she knew about her inclination for solitude into chaos. As the golden-brown moors rolled by outside the automobile’s window, Ivy’s thoughts circled back to the library, and all the treasure that awaited her there once she had figured out the source of her headaches.

“Thank you for attending to the library wires so quickly,” she told Ralph, breaking the silence.

A grunt was his only reply.

Ivy’s irritation grew. No matter how hard she tried, Ralph was determined to be rude and distant. She’d been mistaken in thinking that he was kind and good underneath his gruff exterior.

“Maybe you could teach me how to drive? That way you wouldn’t have to chauffeur me around all the time.”

“I’m a chauffeur. That’s my job,” he said with infuriating evenness.

They had arrived in front of the post office, and Ralph turned off the engine. The truth was, though she and Ralph didn’t get along, there was at least a pattern to their bickering, and there was comfort in that. Mrs. Hewitt and the rest of the staff treated her as if she were a different species from them entirely, and seemed to avoid her at all costs.

Sighing, Ivy allowed Ralph to open the door for her, and then got out. “Enjoy your nap,” she told him.

“I always do.”

The man behind the counter glanced up at the bell, then went back to his newspaper. “M’lady,” he mumbled by way of a greeting.

“I have a letter to post to London,” she told him, ignoring his inconvenienced tone. “And then I should like to use the telephone.”

She half-held her breath as he heaved a sigh and pushed the telephone across the counter to her. “So long as you keep it short.”

Ivy rang the operator and after a series of clicks and static, there was a ringing on the other end.

“Hello?” barked a familiar, if not unwelcome voice.

“Hello, Mrs. Beeton. This is Ivy Radcliffe calling for Susan.”

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