Page 22 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

She gave him a puzzled smile. “I’m sure I don’t, but I’m glad you enjoyed your visit all the same.” Her excitement at sharing her library with him had gradually dimmed as it became clear that his visit was more for the books than for her.

He must have sensed her disappointment, because his eyes softened. “I did, but I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t mention that it was your company which made it so delightful. How about this. Next sunny day, I’m taking you for a lark in the countryside. No books, no dust, just you and I and the fresh air.”

“I’d like that,” she told him, unable to help the smile that touched her lips. She knew that she was treading into dangerous territory with this young man, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Hewantedto spend time with her, to get to know her. He was bright and pleasant and well-read, not to mention handsome. Her mother would have warned her that young men were best approached with caution, especially those who were used to getting what they wanted. Never mind her mother, Susan would have her head if she knew that things were progressing as quickly as they were. But meeting Arthur was like the sun breaking free of the clouds that had shrouded her for the past few years, and she would not turn her face from the light, not after all the storms she had endured.

10

Ahesitant sun was peeking through the clouds and a warm autumn breeze stirred the old house to life. Ivy had convinced a reluctant Mrs. Hewitt to open some windows and invite the fresh air inside, and now she moved along the library shelves as dust motes floated in the buttery shafts of light.

Despite Arthur’s reservations about starting a lending library, the idea had taken root in Ivy’s mind, and, working through the headaches, Ivy threw herself into curating a selection of books, determined to bring them into the village for her first round of lending.

Arms full of books and more in a bag hefted over her shoulder, Ivy practically tripped down the stairs in her excitement to go into the village and see her plan in action.

“Mrs. Hewitt, have you seen Ralph?”

The housekeeper gave her a wary glance from behind the silver urn she was polishing. “I believe he’s outside working on the auto. Wait, my lady.” She stepped out from behind the urn, hands on hips. “Where are you going with those books?”

Ivy glanced down at the unruly stack of books in her arms. Nothing too valuable, and ranging in a wide variety of interests and reading abilities. Novels and adventure stories, and some history and special interests thrown in for good measure. “I was going to take them to town. I’m starting a lending program.”

Mrs. Hewitt dropped the polishing cloth, her mouth twitching. “Awhat?”

“A lending program. There’s no library and no bookshop in Blackwood and I thought that the community could benefit from it,” she said, some of her excitement draining in the face of Mrs. Hewitt’s less than enthusiastic reaction.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why ever not?”

The housekeeper’s lips pressed tight. “It isn’t the done thing.”

“Well, the world is changing, and as I’m lady of this house, I decide what the ‘done thing’ is.” Tightening her grasp on the books, Ivy moved to go find Ralph outside.

But Mrs. Hewitt shot out an arm, blocking the doorway. Ivy took a teetering step back in surprise.

The housekeeper’s sharp eyes flashed a warning, and suddenly she seemed taller, dangerous, even. “Do you know what it means to be lady of a house such as this? You are not just a resident, you are steward of all those who have gone before you, of a legacy. This house will stand long after you have come and gone and been forgotten. These books are not simply books, they are part of the house, and they belong here.”

If an outsider had been watching the exchange, they might have mistaken Mrs. Hewitt as the lady, dignified and stately in her immaculately tailored navy dress, and Ivy the meek and cowering servant.

“You cannot think to remove a book from the library,” she continued, taking a step closer. “It would be like prying a bone from a skeleton, or a painting from a frame. You may be one lady of many, but there is only one Blackwood Abbey.”

Blinking, Ivy clutched the books tighter, her shoulder aching from the weight of the bag. It was unthinkable that a housekeeper speak to a lady in such a way, but then, Ivy wasn’t a true lady, and Mrs. Hewitt knew it. But she had been looking out for herself for a long time, and she wasn’t about to let a sour old woman stand her down.

“It’s a lending program, Mrs. Hewitt. The books will come back. Now if you would be so kind as to let me pass.”

Short of locking Ivy up, there was nothing Mrs. Hewitt could do to stop her, and they both knew it. Mrs. Hewitt dropped her arm, allowing Ivy to pass but not without a cutting glare. Long after Ivy had emerged into the mild afternoon, she could feel Mrs. Hewitt’s disapproving gaze.

Dressed in grease-stained coveralls, Ralph was half under the automobile, clanking away and occasionally muttering a curse. The man seemed to be everywhere around the grounds all at once, whether it was chopping wood, taking out the ponies, or fixing the car. Without Ralph, Blackwood would have been a house out of a fairy tale under some sort of silent enchantment; he brought it to life, even if it was with coarse language and the energy of a restless wolf on the prowl.

“I need a ride into the village,” Ivy informed his feet. Being polite had gotten her nowhere with Ralph, and she wasn’t in the mood for a drawn-out song and dance of manners.

“Axel is broken,” came the muffled reply from under the car.

“Well, when will it be fixed?”

“When it starts working again.”

Gritting her teeth, Ivy stalked off.

The gravel crunched behind her, and Ralph emerged from beneath the car, wiping greasy hands on his coveralls. “Where are you going?” he called after her.

---