Page 37 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

“I hardly think reading is the cause of this.”

Mrs. Hewitt sighed, looking tired, older than her already advanced years. “I should have sent you packing the moment you stepped foot here. Imagine, them sending a young woman!”

“What do you mean, ‘they’ sent me? I’m the heir to Blackwood, and I’ve the paperwork to prove it. I came of my own volition. No one sent me.” Closing her eyes, Ivy sank back onto the pillows. The staff were all bitter. It was the only explanation. Alone in the house with naught but the lonely moors about them, and they turned to cruel tricks and stories to torment her, to see how long it would take them to drive Ivy out. They were used to having the house to themselves, and resented a new young mistress coming in and stirring the pot with modern ideas. Ivy gave a huff, turning her attention to the window where gray clouds were scudding low across the sky.

Mrs. Hewitt ignored the question. “The others, well, they were all men, and all had a sense of entitlement about them, which is to be expected. But it seems you’ve made your mind up. You’ve seen it for yourself,” Mrs. Hewitt continued. “Why do you think we tried to stop you from lending the books out? Don’t you see what happens? It’s not my place to interfere—quite the opposite. But it’s untenable that things carry on in this way.”

Ivy sat up as straight as her aching body would allow, the coverlet falling away. “You’re talking about the books,” she said. There was a connection to be made, but her groggy head was struggling to make it, like a flint not quite catching the flame. “Something happens when they leave the library. Is that it?”

Mrs. Hewitt worried at the ring of keys at her belt, before quickly catching herself and returning to her usual composure. When she didn’t offer any more information, Ivy rubbed a frustrated hand across her bleary eyes. “But Arthur said it was all coincidence.”

“And you would believe him?”

“Seeing as he’s the only one who’s offered so much as one word of explanation, then yes, what choice do I have but to believe him? You sit there and hem and haw and beat about the bush, dropping crumbs of hints, but you won’t tell me a thing.”

Mrs. Hewitt drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair, her lips sealed as tight as a tomb. “I’ll leave you to your rest,” she said, standing abruptly.

“Wait,” Ivy said, sensing her chance to learn more slipping away. “Wait, please stay. I’m sorry I—”

But the door had already clicked shut, and with it, the closest chance she had to any answers from Mrs. Hewitt disappeared.

Ivy let out a curse. Fumbling on the bedstand for the bottle the doctor had left, she read the label and gave a weak laugh. Morphine. It would help with the headaches and then some. With shaking hands, she administered three drops of the clear liquid into the glass of water beside her, and gulped it down.

Closing her eyes, she let the room swirl around her, the morphine taking the hard edges off reality. How had it come to this? Only weeks ago she had boarded a train, full of hope and excitement. And why not? She now had a home, food in her belly, and a fiancé who adored her more than anything. But what was real was starting to grow fuzzy and soft, like an old daguerreotype. The strange conversations, the books that seemed to foreshadow, if not cause, the contents of their pages to spill over into the world. How did she know if any of that was real?

Once, in the early days of the war, one of James’s friends had joined them for dinner. He had already seen action, and been sent home on leave on account of a shrapnel wound in his shoulder. Mother had uncorked a bottle of wine to celebrate, the loudpopreverberating through the small flat. James’s friend had fallen to the floor, and for a moment Ivy had been afraid that the cork had hit him. But he was unharmed—physically at least. It took them at least half an hour to coax him out from under the table, and when he sat in his seat again, his eyes were far away, haunted, his body shaking. Afterward, her father had told her that some soldiers were coming home changed by what they had seen in the trenches, doomed to be haunted by their war memories for the rest of their lives. Shell shock, he had called it. Was that what was happening to her? She had never been in a war, but perhaps it was the same principle. Perhaps the shock of receiving the bequest and moving into Blackwood after everything she had been through had taken a toll on her mind that was only now coming to light.

Ivy’s dreams were vivid and feverish that night. An older woman in a medieval gown and white headdress floated through her room, pausing at the foot of her bed to turn all-seeing eyes on Ivy. Something in the woman’s placid demeanor was kind and warm, and made Ivy feel safe, like a guardian angel. But then she was gone, and in her place, a hooded monk. His face was obscured, but all the same, something cold gripped Ivy by the spine, telling her that she did not want to know what lay in the depths of that crimson hood. She tried squeezing her eyes shut, but her dream mind would not let her, and she was forced to watch as the hood fell away. A scream stuck in her throat as it revealed a hideous skull, bits of crusty flesh and skin hanging from the bone, and eye sockets crawling with maggots. One fell on the bed, and she kicked at the blankets, desperate to get the wriggling thing off.

She awoke the next morning to sheets bunched and tangled, damp with sweat. Her mouth tasted of chemicals, and the fatigue that weighed her down felt artificial, as if she had been pushed deeper and deeper into her mattress by heavy hands. Bolting up, she clawed at the covers, looking for any sign of the maggots, but of course there were none. It had been a dream. A terrible dream, but a dream nonetheless. At that moment she pledged she would not touch that horrid morphine again, no matter how bad the headaches became. She didn’t trust that doctor and how quick he had been to diagnose her. In fact, she didn’t trust anyone. Not Ralph, not Mrs. Hewitt, and as much as it pained her to admit it, not even her fiancé.

19

Ivy had never been particularly fond of opera, but the singer on the wireless was entrancing, her notes soaring clear and high to fill the parlor. Leaning back into her chair, Ivy closed her eyes, and let the aria carry her to exquisite heights. The music was a balm, easing her jumbled mind the way a warm bath would ease the body. And after a week spent in bed plagued by nightmares, Ivy had been in need of warm, comforting things.

With light streaming in the windows from a rare sunny day, more and more the strange events of the past weeks began to seem like nothing more than the lingering memories of a morphine-induced stupor. Mrs. Hewitt’s cryptic words gradually faded from Ivy’s mind, and if the staff were indeed trying to drive her mad, they seemed to have been content to give her a reprieve.

The aria ended, the last note quavering over the static until the announcer came on and the program changed to a news segment.

“Darling, I’m so glad to see you up and about,” Arthur said, breezing into the room. “You look surprised to see me. Did you forget I said I would call on you today?”

“Of course not,” Ivy said, though in truth she had no memory of it.

He kissed her cheeks, and held her back to inspect her. “No more headaches, I take it?”

“No, rest was just what I needed. You were right.”

“The words every man loves to hear.” Hands in pockets, he looked even more relaxed than usual, handsome in an unbothered way.

“But there is something that I wanted to talk to you about,” she told him, gesturing for him to sit. She chose her words carefully, aware that her gender put her at a disadvantage when it came to advocating for herself. “There was no need for you to speak to your personal physician on my behalf. I’ve been looking after myself for a long time, and am very capable of describing my own symptoms and health.”

Arthur lowered himself beside her; the sofa cushion dipped slightly, bringing their knees together. He gave her an indulgent look. “You forget that you’re my fiancée, and that even though we aren’t married yet, I feel obliged to look after you and your well-being. If I seemed overbearing, it was only because I was worried about you. Desperately worried.”

Ivy ran her finger along the swirls of the carved wooden sofa arm. She supposed he was right, yet she still bristled that in exchange for security and companionship, she would be giving up some of her hard-won freedoms.

Arthur shifted toward her, lifting her hand and grazing the sensitive skin of her wrist with his lips. The tenderness of the gesture startled her, and she stiffened for a moment before giving in to his touch. It had been so long since someone had touched her like that, and she hadn’t realized how hungry she was for affection.

“There now,” he said, gently brushing aside the tear that was welling under her eye. “This is why I rang for the physician. Not because I thought to pull rank, but because I can’t stand to see my darling girl so upset. You don’t need to take care of yourself anymore, I’m here.”

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