Page 30 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

“I’ll let Ralph know.”

Ralph still insisted on waiting in the car during her trips to town, and he was parked across the road, resting with his cap pulled down. Ivy tapped on the glass and he startled, rolling down the window and looking at her expectantly.

“Sir Arthur is going to take me for a drive. He’ll see I get home.”

Ralph’s hands tightened around the wheel. “If you say so, my lady.”

Ralph certainly hadn’t tried any harder to hide his feelings about Arthur. She gathered up the few unborrowed books, jotted down some notes in her ledger, and had Ralph load them into the car.

Across the road, Arthur was leaning against the coupe, arms crossed as he waited for her, watching closely. Someone was always watching her. Whether it was the house staff, or the walls of the abbey. At least when she was on her bicycle, there was nothing but the indifferent moors and the endless winding road. She gave Arthur a smile; it wasn’t his fault that she was on edge. He was doing something kind for her, something that she sorely needed.

“Ready?” He opened the door for her, and she climbed into the low seat, gathering her skirt around her knees.

“I’ve never been in one of these before,” she said, her heart suddenly beating a little faster. The coupe was painted a splashy shade of red, and sat low down to the ground. It looked like the sort of contraption that required one to don goggles and an aviator scarf.

Arthur grinned as he tugged on his cap. “As long as you don’t mind a little wind in your hair, you’ll be fine.”

Before she had a chance to respond, he was cranking the auto into gear and then they were off.

The countryside whizzed by in a dizzying blur of fields dotted with cows and stone cottages. Wind snapped through her hair and stung her eyes with tears. It was intoxicating; she’d never traveled so fast, felt so close to flying. Occasionally Arthur would point out some feature of the landscape, but his words were lost to the wind.

They pulled off onto a dirt overlook, the wind almost as brisk as it had been in the auto, and Arthur produced a basket from the back. “I thought we might have a little rest here. This is the best view in Yorkshire.”

A patchwork of brown and green fields rolled into the distance, quiet except for the occasional bleating of a sheep. Clouds scudded across the sky, allowing for brief rays of sun to filter through. Even the dead heather had a dramatic sweep to it. It was vast and wild and full of possibilities, a landscape worthy of the Brontës and poets of yore.

Arthur took Ivy’s hand and led her to an outcrop of grass protected by a stone wall, where he spread a checkered blanket and laid out plates of cut meats and cheese, bread and cold sausages. Without the wind in her ears, it was peaceful and cozy, and felt like they were the only two people in the world. “You certainly came prepared,” she said, eyeing the elaborate spread.

“A military man is always prepared.” He uncorked a bottle. “Learned that from my father.”

He poured her a glass of something cool and bubbly, which she wordlessly sipped as he assembled a plate for her. So, this was the life of leisure that the upper class enjoyed: impromptu picnics in the countryside, fast cars and expensive wines. It was certainly novel for someone like her, but what happened when the first thrill wore off? Was it a continual search for the next flush of excitement? Maybe if she threw herself into this lifestyle, she could rise above the strange happenings of her brief tenure at Blackwood Abbey. She had a new world laid at her feet, but all she could think about was her books, and the strange thread of coincidence between them and what had happened in Blackwood. When Ivy put down her glass, she realized Arthur had been studying her for some time.

“Something eating you?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.”

Reclining on his elbow, he leveled his warm, dark gaze on her. “You can tell me. I promise to be impartial.”

Against her better judgment, Ivy told Arthur about the books she had lent out, the rainstorm, bee attack, and Harry Oliver’s gruesome display on the green. She even told him about the ghostly encounters and how she felt as if she was sharing the old house with someone—or something—that didn’t want her there.

Arthur held her gaze while she spoke, but his expression was a blank mask, and she couldn’t gauge how much he believed.

“Well, that’s easy to explain,” he said when she was done. “It only makes sense that strange weather or a brush with bees would lead people to seek more information from books.”

She frowned. “But they took the books before those things happened.”

“But their interests must have stemmed from somewhere, don’t you see? The man with the bee book—”

“Mr. Bryson,” she put in.

“Yes, him. He must have been interested in bees, perhaps had even started a hive and wanted more information.”

She didn’t bother telling him that Mr. Bryson had said he didn’t have a hive. “And the storms?”

He gave her an indulgent look. “It’s Yorkshire, darling, it rains. As for the unfortunate man with the boils, well, it only stands to reason that he contracted some concerning symptoms and thought to diagnose himself from a book. How do you know that he truly had the plague, and not just an unfortunate case of measles?”

“Mrs. Hewitt told me.”

“Well, there you have it. I would not take the word of a gossipy servant, let alone one who clearly takes issue with her mistress.”

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