Page 27 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

Mrs. Hewitt must have been thinking the same thing, because she paused in her fussing. “What is it?”

He shook his head, as if he could hardly believe what he was saying. “Bees.”

Ivy and Mrs. Hewitt shared a puzzled look. “Bees? What do you mean?” Ivy asked.

“Mr. Bryson was stung, all over. Said that a swarm of bees chased him all the way from the barn to his front door. Big bees, the size of a half crown each.”

Another look passed between Ivy and the housekeeper. “Surely not in this weather?” Mrs. Hewitt asked.

Ralph shrugged. “That’s what he said, and he had the welts to prove it.”

“Mr. Bryson,” Ivy mused. “That name is familiar.” She searched her memory, but couldn’t place where she might have heard it before.

“Nasty business all around,” Mrs. Hewitt said, but the worry in her eyes belied her easy tone. “Come, let’s get you some hot tea.” She led Ralph to the back stairs.

“Wait,” Ivy said, suddenly. “Mrs. Hewitt, may I have a word with you first?”

Ralph shared a glance with the housekeeper before heading downstairs alone. Mrs. Hewitt looked at her expectantly, hands folded. “Yes, my lady? Is something not to your satisfaction?”

“No, it’s not that. I was just wondering...” Ivy bit her lip, trying to find the right words. “Do I seem forgetful to you?”

She’d been working up the courage to ask, trying to find a way to come at the question without showing her hand. She didn’t want Mrs. Hewitt to sense the alarm that was slowly building within her, but how else would Ivy be able to know if something truly was amiss with her memory?

There was a flicker in Mrs. Hewitt’s eyes of something like surprise, or unease, but then she was shaking her head. “Forgetful? I don’t believe so, my lady. Why do you ask?”

How much should she divulge to her housekeeper? How much did Ivy even know herself? All she had was Agnes’s word, and even that was only in the form of a story. The last thing she needed was Mrs. Hewitt thinking she was mad. It hadn’t been so long ago that women could simply be carted off to the workhouse or Bedlam on little more than the mere suggestion of madness.

“Have I ever had the same conversation with you multiple times? Or forgotten something I asked you, only to ask you again?”

“Of course not.”

“It’s only that Agnes told me that we’ve had the same conversation over and over again, and apparently I never remember it.”

Mrs. Hewitt seemed to study a smudge on the banister before carefully erasing it with the pad of her thumb. “I’m sure that you’re just overtaxed. There is much more that goes into running a great house such as this one than many people realize. I hope that I am able to ease some of the burden for you, but you must do your part too by attending to your ladyship’s duties, and not wasting so much time in the library. I’ve never once seen you at church services in the village, nor, well, doing anything besides reading. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must make Ralph his tea.”

It was only when she’d returned to the library that Ivy remembered where she’d heard the name Bryson before: he was one of the men who had come to the lending library. With a niggling feeling in the back of her mind, Ivy took out her record book. Tracing her finger down the list, she stopped atHenry Bryson,then sucked in her breath.

The grandfather clock by the door ticked away. She read the entry over, and then over again. It had to be a coincidence. What else could it be? The titleThe Art and Adventure of Beekeepingstared back at her, stark in black and white.

Quickly continuing down the list, a knot of cold spread through her stomach. A Mr. Geoffrey Miller had borrowedThe Monsoons of India.

Outside the wind howled and rain pelted against the windows. Blackwood was no stranger to rain and wind, but Ralph was right—this was no ordinary storm. It had all the force of a hurricane, and had hardly abated for two days. Snapping shut the ledger, Ivy jumped to her feet. Her head was throbbing. She had lent out dozens of books, ranging in subjects from agriculture to the history of the Russian empire. Edith had borrowedSwiss Family Robinson; was the village overrun with pirates? Of course not. It was just a coincidence, but all the same, she couldn’t help the dark, foreboding feeling that had taken up residence in her chest, like the pressure building before a storm.

14

It was another two days before the wind and rain finally spent themselves, and Ralph deemed the roads passable. As soon as could possibly be managed, Ivy convinced him to drive her into the village. Arms loaded with books and her ledger, Ivy sat in the back seat, lost in thought as the car puttered along.

The unnerving coincidences between the books and events of the last few days weighed on her. Her head felt jumbled, and when she woke in the mornings, it was impossible to parse the night’s dreams from the events of the previous day. Her nightmares of London hospitals and bloody battlefields morphed into dark corridors, hooded figures and ominously tolling bells. The sooner she could get out into the fresh air and out of the stifling walls of the abbey, the better.

She caught Ralph watching her in the mirror. “Bringing any interesting books today?”

The question caught her off guard. “Mostly novels.”

“Good,” came his curt response.

“I didn’t realize you read novels, or anything for that matter.”

“I don’t.”

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