Page 4 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

Ivy’s lips kicked up into a weak smile. If only she had her friend’s confidence in herself. She had thought that she would have felt lighter somehow, as if years of grief would have simply sloughed off her as she stepped out of the solicitor’s office; after all, she was a new woman now, at least in name. But instead, she felt as if she’d just shackled herself to a dark and uncertain future, one where she would be completely alone with her ghosts.

3

As the London buildings rushed past, and heavy smoke clouds were replaced with trees and fields, Ivy struggled to settle into the plush train seat. Her book lay tented and forgotten on her lap as she stared sightlessly at the passing landscape. Just as with signing the will, her preparations had taken place at breakneck speed, so as to leave little room for creeping doubts or second guesses. Sparse belongings were piled into her trunk, enough money to cover the rest of the month’s rent was left with Susan, and then she was off. Now Ivy was bound for Yorkshire, and the abbey that was to be her new home.

A man in a tweed suit sat across from her, his newspaper proclaiming in uppercase bold fonts that unemployment rates were going up, some insufferable nonsense about the Eugenics Society claiming that birth rates were dropping among desirable populations, and that there were rumblings of German discontent. Ivy swept her gaze back to the passing landscape, a patchwork of rolling green hills and meandering stone walls. When was the last time she’d been out of the city? It would have had to have been when she was a child, a family trip to Brighton most likely. Cramped lodgings in a flat shared with two other families. Salty bathing excursions and sweet ices shared on the pier. Back when she didn’t know that they were poor. They had been together, and so they had been happy. Every mile that the train gobbled up was another mile lost between her and her memories, her mother’s grave, her grief.

“Excuse me, miss?”

The sound of the man’s voice snapped Ivy from her thoughts. “I couldn’t help notice your book there,” he said, nodding to the volume that lay forgotten in her lap. “What are you reading?”

The book was a battered copy ofNorthanger Abbey, gifted to her by James. It had seemed like an appropriate choice for the trip, given her destination. James had always encouraged her love of reading and respect for books. He hadn’t been the bookish type himself, much preferring nature hikes and woodworking, but that was the wonderful thing about James—he was full of surprises, nothing like you would expect.

Ivy closed the book, tucking it under her arm. Sharing even the title felt like giving away a piece of her brother. “Nothing...just a book.”

“Must not be a very interesting book, you looked as if you were miles away.”

And yet you thought it a good idea to strike up a conversation with me, Ivy thought.

“I’m being terribly rude,” the man said, sticking out his hand. “I’m Ted Martin.” When Ivy didn’t return the gesture, he raised his brows in a prompt. “And you are...?”

Ivy glanced down at her finger and the narrow gold band that she wore. It had been Susan’s idea, of course. “A ring on your finger is as good as being invisible to a certain sort of man.” She hadn’t needed to elaborate which sort of man that might be. Grateful for the armor, Ivy managed a smile, and extended her hand so that the ring shone. “Mrs. Radcliffe,” she said.

The shift in his demeanor was instant. “Mrs. Radcliffe, a pleasure,” he said stiffly. “I hope I didn’t bother you.”

“Think nothing of it.”

The last hour of the journey was spent in blessed silence, the steady chug of the train’s engine a comforting background. Ivy’s eyes were just drifting closed when the train began to slow, and the muffled voice of the conductor passed through the cars. Shaking herself awake, she peered out the window. A heavy mist wreathed the land, but dark stone spires were just visible, piercing the clouds.

“Where are we?” she asked the man across from her.

He ducked his head, squinting out the window. “Blackwood,” he told her. “That’s the old church. Gloomy old town, I wonder that they even have a train station.” He looked surprised when Ivy rose and began to gather her bags. “I hope your husband is meeting you at the station,” he said, a glint of accusation in his eyes. “Nasty weather for a woman to be out alone.”

“I’ll be fine, thank you for your concern,” she said curtly. Would she though? She had assumed that there would be cabs, but as the small station grew closer, it seemed unlikely.

The porter helped her off the train with her bags and trunk, then gave her a short nod. “Good luck, miss,” he said, before hopping back on the steps of the slowly chugging train. Ivy frowned, not certain why he thought she would need luck. Only a handful of other passengers had disembarked, and already they seemed to have faded into the mist, meeting loved ones and being whisked away in automobiles. A lone bench sat in front of the station, a closed kiosk boasting of ices and cakes shuttered beside it. Susan had been right: this was a far cry from London.

“Lady Hayworth?”

It took her a moment to realize that whoever was speaking, was speaking to her. She was Lady Hayworth now, the last living member of an ancient and revered bloodline. Ivy spun around, coming face-to-face with a white placard bearing her name. She slowly raised her gaze, traveling up until she met the eyes of the man holding the sign. He was tall with a strong, stubbled jaw, and intensely dark gray eyes. Dressed in a duster coat, muddy boots, and a wide-brimmed hat, he looked more like a highwayman than a chauffeur.

“You’re Lady Hayworth, aren’t you? I’m here from Blackwood Abbey, to collect you.”

Her shoulders slumped in relief. Of course she didn’t need to worry about a cab or making her way to the abbey by herself; she was mistress of a great house now, and as such an auto would be sent round for her. “Oh, yes.”

The man gave a curt nod, tucking the sign beneath his arm as he leaned down to collect her luggage. She didn’t have much—just her trunk of books, a valise, and a carpet bag with her clothes. All the same, she resisted the urge to help him; a woman of her class wouldn’t be expected to carry her own luggage.

But when she noticed him walking with a pronounced limp, Ivy hurried to relieve him of one of the bags. Up close, he smelled like coal smoke and leather and windswept moors. “Here, let me manage that one at least,” she said, grabbing her valise.

His grip on it tightened. “That won’t be necessary,” he said gruffly, and she got the impression that she had injured his pride. Limp or no, his long strides still accounted for every two of hers, and she had no choice but to jog to keep up with him.

The car that waited outside the station was black and sleek, and looked as if it had been recently polished. The chauffeur opened her door, then loaded her luggage into the back. A moment later they were rolling out onto the cobbled street and Ivy craned her head to see out the window. “Pity it’s so foggy out—I would have loved to see more of the town.”

She caught him glancing at her in the rearview mirror. “You won’t see much of the sun this time of year,” he told her. “Fog and wet is what we have here in Blackwood.” His Northern accent was thick and deep, musical, but hard to understand.

Disappointed, Ivy sat back in her seat, the little village crawling past them as the rain picked up. “I’m so sorry,” she said suddenly, “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name?”

The dark brows in the mirror rose. Was a lady of the house supposed to ask for the chauffeur’s name? She wasn’t certain, but it seemed rude not to.

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