Page 38 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

It felt so good to lean into him and smell his now-familiar cologne. He was steady, real. Why had she thought she couldn’t trust him? There had been some business about the library, and she could recall Mrs. Hewitt’s face drawn tight with worry in her room. But beyond that, Arthur had proved himself loyal and good. If only they were already married. She didn’t want to spend any more time alone in Blackwood. When Arthur was here there was laughter and brightness and Ivy could put her worries aside.

Sniffing back her tears, she nodded. “Shall I ring for tea?”

“No need, I can’t stay long. I came because I wanted to propose something.”

“Goodness, I already said yes,” she said, mustering a smile.

“Yes, and thank God for that. I was thinking that we should host an engagement party. Here, at Blackwood. It would be a marvelous way to introduce you to Yorkshire society, and besides, I want to celebrate my bride-to-be. What do you say?”

Ivy worried at her lip. Although things had calmed down, there was still a niggling sense of wrongness about everything. She had thought that by now she would have found her footing among the local gentry, but she had largely been able to avoid social gatherings. How would she navigate a big party? Never mind navigate, how would she host one? But maybe a party was just the thing to force her to face her fears. She could invite Susan, and Arthur would be by her side to help her.

“Yes, why not?”

“Excellent.” Arthur drew her face to his, brushed her lips with a kiss, just as Ivy caught a disapproving Mrs. Hewitt passing by the door out of the corner of her eyes.

“It will be a lot of work for the staff,” she mused. “I wonder if we should hire on more help, for the preparations and the party itself.”

“No need,” Arthur assured her. “I’ll send over our cook and some footmen and housemaids. You won’t have to lift a finger.”

The house was colder, emptier, the moment Arthur said his goodbyes and left. Ivy watched his car disappear in a cloud of exhaust and gravel, then, with a sigh, turned and headed for the kitchen to inform Mrs. Hewitt of the plan.

Downstairs, the sound of voices arguing in hushed whispers spilled out into the servants’ hall. Staying her step, Ivy pressed her ear against the half-opened door, straining to make out the words.

A masculine voice. “...need to tell her...”

“Absolutely not,” came the sharp counter of a woman’s voice.

The man’s voice again, but it was too low for Ivy to make out.

Carefully shifting her weight, she placed her palms against the door, trying to get just a little bit closer. “...she’ll have forgotten by now in any case,” the woman said.

She edged closer, but her hand pressed too hard against the wood, and the door creaked open. She stood frozen, meek as a dog caught with the Christmas goose, before stepping the rest of the way into the kitchen.

“My lady.” Mrs. Hewitt slowly rose to her feet. “I trust you are feeling better if you were able to venture down here?”

Ralph gave the smallest nod of his head to acknowledge her, but did not meet her eye. His jaw was set, whatever the argument had been about clearly still weighing on him.

“Thank you. I am feeling much better.” The air hung heavy with tension, perhaps from the fight she had just interrupted, or perhaps because of what she was about to ask of her staff. “I came to see you because Sir Arthur and I are planning an engagement party. Here, at Blackwood.”

She tried not to notice the way that Ralph stiffened in his seat, the way his fist was clenched around the handle of his cup, but her traitorous eyes kept darting to gauge his reaction.

“I see,” the housekeeper said.

Ivy soldiered on. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you to prepare a party and serve so many people, so Sir Arthur has kindly offered to send his cook and some house servants to help.”

A blanket of silence settled over the kitchen until Mrs. Hewitt finally spoke. “You cannot be serious. My lady.”

“I am quite serious. This is my home, my life. I am not asking for anything besides a little respect. If there is some reason why you find that so difficult, then I would be very glad for you to just be out with it for once and for all.”

Ralph opened his mouth as if to interject, but Mrs. Hewitt shot him a caustic look. “Very well, my lady,” she said, folding her hands and leveling an infuriatingly bland expression at Ivy.

She hadn’t expected that Mrs. Hewitt would actually capitulate. “Very well, you’ll help with the party? Or very well, you’ll tell me what’s going on?”

“Very well, we will have your party. But I warn you, my lady, the Mabrys are a bad lot, and I shouldn’t trust them for one moment in this house.”

“I happen to be marrying into that ‘bad lot,’ as you say, so I would appreciate it if you showed both Sir Arthur and me the respect that we deserve!” Ivy’s voice rose to a shrill pitch that she didn’t recognize and the kitchen fell silent. Was this who she had become? Someone who shouted and demanded the groveling respect of her servants? She more than anyone understood what it was to belong to an invisible class, living at the mercy of the rich and powerful. But she was also angry, at Mrs. Hewitt and the rest, that they had driven her to this. Not once had they been welcoming, or treated her like a long-lost family member come home. Not once had they made anything at Blackwood easy for her.

Ivy turned on her heel. “If you need me, I’ll be in the library.”

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