Page 29 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

Snapped out of her stupor, Ivy snatched the blanket out from under the books and thrust it at Ralph. The man’s breaths were coming fast and shallow, and his lips had taken on the putrid shade of bruised meat.

The man’s chest rose and fell as Ralph cushioned his head on the blanket, and for a moment, she caught a glimpse of what Ralph must have been like in the field, decisive and imposing, making lightning-fast life-or-death decisions.

It might have been hours or minutes before an ambulance came careening through the village, sending the gawkers and bystanders scattering. Ivy watched in stunned silence as Ralph conferred with the medics and the man was lifted onto a stretcher and then whisked away.

Birdsong gradually returned and the rest of the crowd dispersed, whatever horror they had witnessed relegated to an unpleasantness best left in the past. Hearing a soft sound from beside her, she glanced down to see Ralph’s hand at her elbow. His sleeves were still pushed up, a smear of blood smudging his cheek. He looked tired. “My lady,” he said. “I’ll take you home.”

Nodding, she allowed him to lead her to the car. “What—what was that? Will he be all right?”

Ralph was grim-faced as they made their way back across the green, his silence only compounding her fears.

“Wait a moment.” Something had caught her eye, and Ivy bent down to find a tented book in the grass. Someone must have dropped it in the commotion. Picking it up, her heart went cold in her chest as she slowly turned it to the title page.

“What is it?” Ralph asked.

She wetted her lips before answering, wishing very much that she hadn’t stopped to look. That morning, when she had chosen books for the lending program, she had thought it would make an interesting, if not slightly gruesome addition. Now she saw it through new eyes, and wished she had left it on the shelf.

“It—it’s calledThe Black Plague.”

15

“You can’t possibly be considering continuing this program.”

Ivy was crouched in front of a shelf, replacing the returned books from the previous week and looking for new ones to bring. Behind her loomed the severe presence of Mrs. Hewitt.

“I’m not considering it,” Ivy informed her. “I’m doing it.” She examined the cover of a book of American poetry, then added it to her pile. Despite her determined tone, images of Harry Oliver and his swollen neck and panicked eyes the previous week spun through her head, the title of the dropped book an incessant ringing in her ears. But if she didn’t throw herself back into the lending program, she would lose her nerve, and she couldn’t let a ghastly coincidence put a stop to what was quickly becoming an institution in the village.

“I suppose you heard what happened to Mr. Oliver?” Mrs. Hewitt asked, though it was really not a question so much as a thinly veiled attempt to bait her.

“I was there,” Ivy reminded her. “It was awful, but if you think to frighten me, you’re mistaken.”

“No, my lady. I mean, what happened to him afterward.”

Ivy had been so preoccupied with the horror of the spectacle, she hadn’t considered what had happened after the unfortunate man had been whisked away. Wondering if her guilt showed on her face, she paused in her work and rocked back on her heels. “Did he...did he die?”

“He is in quarantine,” Mrs. Hewitt continued. “His diagnosis was such that it would be quite dangerous for him to be treated around other patients. I could tell you what it was, but something tells me you already know.”

Ivy swallowed down the bile churning in her throat. “It was bubonic plague,” she said from dry lips. She stood up, facing the housekeeper. “How did you know that I would know?” she asked.

Mrs. Hewitt’s flinty eyes betrayed nothing.

“There’s some connection between the books and what happened, isn’t there?” Ivy asked. “That’s why you don’t want me to lend them out.”

“You have an overactive imagination, my lady. I simply saw you had the book out,” she said, gesturing to where the book in question lay. “But I cannot deny that the experiment of the lending program has failed. This is a village that thrives on normalcy. Do you know how many young men from Blackwood perished in the war? Near on fifty, and that from a village hardly big enough to boast a cricket club. People here crave familiarity, tradition. Then you come in, telling them that up is down and down is up, and disseminating who knows what sort of nonsense. Is it any wonder that trouble seems to follow you around? I daresay that—”

“Mrs. Hewitt!” Ivy’s voice echoed off the ceiling beams. Pressure was building behind her eyes, and Mrs. Hewitt’s demanding voice was grating her nerves. “Stop! I am going to continue, and that is the final word on that.” Brushing past her stunned housekeeper, Ivy headed outside. Mrs. Hewitt might have been cold and aloof and even borderline rude on occasion, but to openly demand anything of Ivy was a bridge too far.

Once out in the cool, damp air, the headache subsided and Ivy was able to regain her bearings while Ralph silently helped her load the books into the car. He had brushed off any praise for his role in saving Mr. Oliver and he seemed unwilling to speak of the incident at all.

The crowd was more subdued this week—if the handful of people who came by could even be considered a crowd, but Ivy still made sure that each left with a book. She was just finishing updating her ledger, when a sleek sport coupe pulled up, and out hopped Arthur.

“Lady Hayworth,” he said, doffing his driving cap. “Educating the masses?” Judging by the sardonic edge in his tone, he certainly hadn’t warmed to the notion of her lending books to the townspeople since she’d first broached the idea to him.

She gave him a tight smile, still a little cross from her encounter with Mrs. Hewitt earlier. “What brings you to town today?”

“Why, you, of course,” he said. “I stopped by the abbey but was told that you were out here with your books.” He shot a glance at the blanket and the remaining books lying on them, his eyes momentarily darkening. “I thought I would make good on my promise and take you for a drive in the countryside,” he said, all smiles again.

Shewasdesperate for an excursion. Now that she was away from the abbey in the fresh air, some of the strangeness around the headaches and forgetfulness had fallen away, and she was eager to put them even further behind her. If only it was as easy to forget the image of Mr. Oliver’s wild eyes, the weeping pustules on his neck, and his extraordinary diagnosis.

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