Page 36 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

A headache was coming on, and the pain was building hot and fast behind her eyes, almost to the point of blinding her. She reached for the marble banister to steady herself, and was vaguely aware of Mrs. Hewitt’s brows drawing together in concern.

“Excuse me,” Ivy mumbled. She turned and hurried upstairs, collapsing into her bed.

Something was pressing down on her eyes, as if someone had tied a blindfold tightly about her head. When she raised a shaking hand to her temples, her fingers met a damp towel. She was groggy, and it felt as if she’d been sleeping for years under some sort of enchantment. Dried blood caked her nose, and her mouth was dry as cotton.

A shift in the air and faint rustle of movement told her that she wasn’t alone. With the effort of what felt like rolling a boulder up a mountain, Ivy cracked open her eyes. Blue wallpaper and the familiar pattern of crenelations on her bedroom window greeted her. Then a blurry face leaned over her, slowly coming into focus.

She squinted against the gray window light. “Arthur, what are you doing here?” Her voice came out cracked, as if she had not spoken in many days.

“You’re awake.” Relief flooded his face. He perched on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping toward him. “You never returned my message, and I was beginning to worry. Then you missed the charity auction, and I knew that something must be wrong.”

“What are you talking about? What auction?”

“Why, for the war orphans. When I told you that the Ladies’ Auxiliary was holding one, you insisted on helping coordinate it.” He paused, looking at her with concern anew. “Don’t tell me that you forgot about it?”

“I...” Ivy trailed off. “I helped plan an event?” It sounded plausibly like something she would do, but she hadn’t the faintest recollection of it.

Arthur’s expression softened from incredulity into something like pity, and Ivy felt like a small child being comforted after a tantrum. “Yes, you were very keen to help the cause. Of course, I cautioned against it. But youwouldstay up planning it all night and oversee all the little details yourself. That’s why I was so alarmed when I arrived and you were nowhere to be seen.”

“Oh, dear,” Ivy said. She could bear her forgetfulness if it was only her that it affected, but now it seemed that others were suffering for it. “Were the children very upset?”

“There were some tears, yes. But not to worry, it went off otherwise without a hitch, and the ladies were able to raise a good sum of money, I was told.”

“When...when was that?” Patches of memories came back to her: the engagement, riding her bicycle, confronting Mrs. Hewitt, a terrible headache. But she couldn’t for the life of her remember anything about a charity event.

In the doorway, Agnes was hovering, her fingers twining around each other at her waist. She shared a concerned look with Arthur.

“Almost a day ago,” he told Ivy.

No, that couldn’t be right. She closed her eyes and swallowed. “It’s nothing, just a headache.” But even as she struggled to her elbows, a wave of fatigue washed over her. This wasn’t just a headache and a bloody nose. Desperately, she tried to remember what had led her to this moment, but it was like water running over smooth pebbles, and no memories stuck.

Arthur gently pressed her back into the pillows. “I’ve already sent for a doctor—my personal physician.”

“That’s not—that’s not necessary,” Ivy protested.

Bringing a glass of water to her dry lips, Arthur tipped her head back to help her drink. “I’m afraid it is, darling.”

The water blazed a deliciously cold trail through her body. She could have drunk an entire bucket’s worth, but Arthur drew the glass away after a few sips. “Easy now,” he said gently. “Won’t do to make yourself sick on your empty stomach.”

At some point Agnes had gone to fetch Mrs. Hewitt, who had insisted on joining them in the room, as apparently it wasn’t proper for her to be in bed with a man beside her. Ivy hadn’t the energy to dismiss the housekeeper, so she lay there with Arthur tenderly holding her hand, and Mrs. Hewitt hawk-eyed and disapproving in the corner. At last the physician arrived. Middle-aged with silver-gray hair, piercing blue eyes, and neatly dressed in an expensive-looking dark tweed suit, he was a far cry from the neighborhood pharmacists from whom her mother used to purchase two-penny bottles of cures.

“Lady Hayworth,” he said, giving her a short bow at the neck. “My name is Dr. Prescott. I hear you are in some discomfort.”

Ivy opened her mouth to respond, but Arthur swooped in. “Headaches,” he told the doctor. “My fiancée is suffering from terrible headaches, perhaps brought on by eye strain from reading. As you can see, it’s gotten so bad that she became incapacitated.”

The doctor gave a knowing nod. “All too common, I’m afraid.” He opened his black bag and pulled out a stethoscope which he placed modestly on Ivy’s chest over her blouse. Apparently satisfied with whatever he heard, he removed the tool, and proceeded to rifle about in his bag for something.

“This is absurd,” she was able to mumble.

Dr. Prescott ignored her protest. “My lady, may I ask what you have been doing in addition to reading lately? Anything that might have overexerted you?”

Doing her best to keep a level voice despite his patronizing tone, she said, “I’ve done nothing out of the ordinary. I—”

“My fiancée has started a book lending program in the village,” Arthur cut in. “She spends hours selecting books in the library, then bicycles all the way into town and back by herself. She helped organize a charity auction for war orphans, and this is in addition to her duties at the abbey. She’s unstoppable, I’m afraid.”

The doctor shared a look with Arthur as if they were both in on some big secret, one which her feminine mind was incapable of understanding, then gave her a wan smile. “My lady, I believe what we have here is a case of nerves coupled with fatigue. And is it any wonder? A young woman thrust into a new social position, running a large household by herself, and taking on extra projects which involve long bicycle rides. It’s a well-studied phenomenon that bicycling for women can upset the flow of blood, causing it to rush from the head to the uterus. I’m prescribing you something to take in the evening to help you sleep, and lots of rest besides that. Absolutely no more bicycling. I saw you have a lovely Austin motorcar in the drive, and I should think that would be a preferable mode of transportation.” He paused, thoughtfully stroking his little beard. “You’re lucky your fiancé will be helping you, and relieving you of some of your burdens—not all ladies would be so lucky. Now, I don’t want to hear about any more bicycle rides or long nights spent in the library.” Standing, Dr. Prescott shook hands with Arthur, who showed him out.

When the men were gone, Ivy’s gaze slid over to Mrs. Hewitt who was sitting still as a statue in the corner, eyes trained at the foot of the bed. Though her back was straight and jaw set, she looked less severe today, her graying hair more loosely styled, a fine mist in her dark eyes. “I told you to stay out of that library.” Her voice held no reproach, only a weary sort of resignation.

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