Page 23 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

“To get my bicycle.” If no one would help her, she would do it herself. She wasn’t keen on repeating her disastrous ride in the storm, but she was ready to walk the whole way if it meant putting her newly-found dream into action.

Even fitted out with a big basket on the front, taking the bicycle meant sacrificing some of the books. As Ivy pedaled down the long drive and out onto the winding country road, she could feel the abbey’s dark gaze boring into her back, a lazy cat watching a mouse scurrying away. It was only when she crested the hill and was finally out amongst the moors that her shoulders finally relaxed, her heart finally lightened.

Ivy arrived in town damp with perspiration and legs aching. Leaning her bicycle against the stone wall edging the green, she began taking out the books and arranging them on a blanket she’d brought. Sunlight filtered in from the golden leaves of the oak trees, and already her headache was dulling away to nothing. This was the bucolic Yorkshire that Ivy had envisioned, and as she unloaded her books, she felt better and better about her decision to stand up to Mrs. Hewitt and see her plan through.

Standing back, she surveyed her work. Having a table or a display shelf would have been more impressive, but laid out on the blanket, they looked nothing so much like jewels, their gilded titles winking in the sun. People doing shopping and taking afternoon strolls threw her curious looks, and soon onlookers began approaching her, eyeing Ivy warily and whispering amongst themselves.

“Hello, welcome,” she greeted them. “All the books you see here are from Blackwood Abbey’s library and are available for borrowing.”

“You mean to say you’re the new Lady Hayworth?” asked one woman, braver than the rest. She had bright copper hair and was dressed in a smart, if not worn, housedress and looked not much older than Ivy. She jiggled a chubby baby on her hip, the child wide-eyed and drooling. Her companion, a short woman in her thirties with blond hair and sharp features, elbowed her in the ribs. “I mean, my lady,” the red-haired woman quickly amended.

Ivy smiled at the women. “Yes, I suppose I am. You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t speak much like a lady or know all the proper etiquette.”

The first woman grinned. “Oh, I like her. You just watch out for some of the old-timers—there are those who still expect a lady to be a lady and act the part. Me, I don’t care a tuppence for all that rot,” she continued, switching the fussing babe to the other hip. “My Jack fought alongside lords and gentlemen, and I don’t see why we have to go back to scraping and bowing now that we’re all home again.”

“Edith! You can’t talk like that!” her companion chided her.

“She just said she wasn’t really a lady!”

Ivy cleared her throat and directed their attention to the blanket on the ground. “Would you like a book? They’re all from my library, and I’m starting a program to lend them out.”

Edith’s green eyes lit up. “Have you any novels? Something with some adventure to it.”

Ivy selectedThe Swiss Family Robinson. “This has plenty of adventure—I think you’ll like it.” It had always been James’s favorite as a child, and she and her brother had spent many afternoons pretending to be shipwrecked in the local park, until their mother had come to collect them at dusk.

“Oh, thank you,” Edith responded, reverently holding out her free hand for the book. “You don’t know what a blessing this is. There isn’t any money for books, but I do so love to read. It’s like going somewhere far away, but you don’t even have to leave your kitchen.”

A young man chose a book on the monsoons of India, and a local farmer a book on beekeeping. The small stack quickly dwindled. For every book that she lent, Ivy made a note of the borrower’s name, the book title, and the author. Even though she had assured Mrs. Hewitt that all the books would come back, she was taking a risk by letting them out of the library and into the hands of strangers.

There was still a queue when the last book had been selected, and she promised the remaining villagers that she would bring more next time. Ralph would have to drive her if she wanted to fulfill her promise; she couldn’t fit that many books into her basket, and the weather would not be so accommodating every week as it had been today.

Wheeling her bicycle out to the lane, Ivy rode back to Blackwood. For the first time since coming to Yorkshire, the horizon held something more than just a vague sense of foreboding, her chest more than just a knot of apprehension. She belonged here, and after years adrift, it felt good to know that she was more than just a ghost, that she truly existed.

11

She made it back just in time.

Leaden clouds had quickly gathered, and the first raindrops were starting to fall when Ivy let herself into the library and collapsed on her favorite chair. Though her body was aching from the ride and her head was pounding, she still had work to do. Making little slips of paper, she tucked them into the empty slots where the books had been to make shelving them upon their return simpler.

Her scissors were skimming through the paper, when a sudden wave of nausea washed over her, and she shot out her hand to steady herself against a shelf. The scissors clattered to the floor. Perhaps bicycling to and from the village had been too much after all. She tried to push through the light-headedness, but soon a ringing in her ears joined the nausea and it was all she could do to stagger out of the library without fainting.

Back in her room, the headache eased and she poured herself a glass of water. Sipping it slowly as she watched the rain smear down the window, Ivy made a note to ask Ralph about the possibility of mildew or rot in the library. The mold in her old boardinghouse had always given her terrible nosebleeds and the occasional headache. If she was going to be spending so much time in the library, she couldn’t be subjecting herself to a constant barrage of maladies.

Eager to share her success in the village with someone, Ivy sat at her desk and drafted an invitation to Arthur to come call on her the next day. As she folded and sealed the letter, a cold draft raced across the room, lifting the curtains and extinguishing the fire in the grate. Ivy went still, remembering the incident in the bath. Whatever she had experienced that day had been passive, harmless. If it had indeed been a spirit, then it had been content to pass her by, perhaps completely unaware of her existence.

But this...this was different. There was an almost painful awareness between her and this entity. Her hand went slack, the letter falling to the desk as it grew closer. Hot breath touched her neck, like a hungry dog was stalking her, ready to pounce. The malevolent force seemed to press in around her as if it wanted to steal the air right out of her lungs. Ivy’s muscles tightened until they ached, and the sensation of being watched intensified until she expected to see a horned devil or a ghost in chains materialize, glaring at her from yellow eyes.

Grabbing her cardigan, Ivy made a dash to the door, pounded down the stairs and out into the afternoon drizzle. She ran through the garden, past the stables and old tenant cottages before she found herself outside the grounds and on the edge of the moors. Lungs burning and legs on fire, she finally stopped running, doubled over as she fought to catch her breath.

A corncrake scurried by and the breeze teased the brown heather, but otherwise it was still. Soggy, colorless moors stretched for miles, their boundaries smudged with fog. A fine mist clung to the wool of Ivy’s cardigan, and her shoes were quickly soaking through. But there was an eerie beauty to the vastness, and her own smallness in the landscape was grounding, reassuring.

The uneven fall of footsteps in the mud pulled Ivy from her reverie and her chest went tight. Whatever it was had followed her. She had no breath left to run; she would have to face it head-on.

Spinning around, she let out a choke of relief. “Oh, it’s only you.”

Ralph emerged from the mist, coatless, hands jammed into his trouser pockets. “Only me.”

The pounding of her heart steadied, but did not slow, her mouth suddenly dry. “Were you following me?”

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