Page 40 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

“Admirable, my lady. I am glad to hear it. Servants have no business dictating anything,” Lord Mabry said, stabbing his spoon in the air to punctuate his words. “That is the one piece of advice I will give you as you embark on this venture. Don’t let them forget who pays their wages and provides the roof over their heads. It’s the only thing that separates us from anarchy, and it’s the prerogative of our bloodline to keep the order.”

He sounded like one of those eugenicists, always concerned about the purity of English blood and keeping the classes and races separate. She briefly considered pouring the contents of her soup on his head, but thought better of it. Taking her smile as encouragement, he continued.

“When I came back from the front, I found my butler had been making himself familiar with the wine cellar, and all but two footmen absconded off to the city to find factory work,” he said. “Can you imagine? Off fighting for Crown and country, and the mice are at play.” He gave a heavy sigh and took a long draught of his wine. A stone-faced servant refilled his glass. “Ah well. We all had to do our bit, didn’t we?”

Ivy gave a minuscule nod, focusing on lifting the spoon of broth to her mouth without spilling it.

“Arthur couldn’t fight,” Lord Mabry said, oblivious to her discomfort.

Until now Arthur had remained silent. “Father—” he started, putting down his spoon.

“Bad lungs when he was a boy,” his father continued. “Can you imagine how that looked? A general asking his men to give their lives, while his own son sat at home and played tennis and read books?”

A muscle worked in Arthur’s jaw.

“I’m sure your son has made you proud in other ways,” Ivy hurried to put in, hoping to defuse what looked to be an explosive—if not common—matter of contention between the father and son.

“Your idealism is a credit to you, Lady Hayworth,” the old general said, “but I am well acquainted with my son and his flaws.”

“What my father won’t tell you, is that I was active in the local Home Guard, and visited the infirmaries to offer my services.”

“Bah.” Lord Mabry gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Women’s work, is what that is.”

Arthur motioned for a servant to refill his glass, and quickly drained it before having another poured.

By the time the fish course was served, Ivy could hardly stomach another bite, her head swimming and her stomach churning with rich foods. Arthur had her glass refilled, and leaned over to whisper in her ear, “You’re doing brilliantly, darling. I know this must be so tiring.”

Her hand found his under the table and gave it a squeeze. A not unpleasant buzz was overtaking her headache, making her feel light and giddy. Too much wine, but it was the only thing that helped soften the hard edges of her duties as hostess, and dispel the heavy cloud that had settled over her since meeting her future father-in-law.

The tinkling of silver against crystal, and then Arthur was standing, glass in hand, clearing his throat. “I know we are all eager to move into the library, but I would be remiss if I did not raise a glass to the real reason we are here tonight.” Here, he turned to Ivy and graced her with a brilliant smile. “My lovely fiancée, Ivy. I knew as soon as I saw her in the bookshop that I had found a rare treasure indeed, a woman who not only bore my bookish habits with grace, but encouraged and matched them as well.”

A ripple of polite laughter and round ofHear! Hear!

Ivy focused on the glass in Arthur’s hand, concentrating on the moving glints of light as he gestured. Sitting upright was becoming more and more difficult, the faces around the table starting to blur together. She caught the eye of one of the servers, and could have sworn it was Ralph. But what would he be doing up here serving dinner? She rubbed her eyes, made an effort to appear interested. She just had to make it through Arthur’s toast, and then she could beg off and go to her room. Why had she allowed herself to drink so much wine? She was going to be too drunk to even enjoy her own engagement party.

“So, a toast, if you please. To the most enchanting and gracious of women, the Lady Hayworth.”

Ivy managed what was probably a terrible smile, half standing from her seat to accept his praise. But she stumbled, and Arthur had to catch her by the elbow.

“You’ll have to forgive my fiancée,” he said with a laugh. “I’m afraid she’s enjoyed the evening a bit too much.”

Embarrassment burned her cheeks. Couldn’t he have handled that with a bit more tact, in a way that didn’t leave her feeling exposed and ashamed in front of all these important people? But she found that she was too far gone to object, and besides, she was tired. So tired.

“I think... I think I need togoliedown,” she managed to slur.

“Of course, darling,” Arthur whispered in her ear. “You’re not needed for this next bit anyway.”

Before she could ask him what he meant, the room was spinning away under her feet, the blur of smiling faces fading until all that was left was black.

21

“Ivy, wake up!”

Someone was calling her name, but Ivy was floating through the most exquisite dream, her headaches gone, her worries nothing but a distant memory. She was standing on a verdant hill overlooking an expanse of clear, gurgling water. Everything here was in bloom, the most extraordinary flowers and trees in colors that could never exist in nature. The wind was soft and warm—a far cry from the damp chill of Yorkshire—and caressed her as gently as a silk scarf. It had to be paradise, with exotic birds drinking deeply from trumpet-shaped flowers, and women bathing in aqua pools, their long hair streaming out around them like Botticelli’s Venus. Why would anyone try to wake her up? Inside this luminescent and heavenly dream it was safe. Out there dwelled chaos, horror. Parents died, leaving children to fend for themselves, and adored older brothers were sent off to perish in the trenches. Out there, a young woman had to survive by her wits alone, and even then, nothing was guaranteed. No, she did not think she wanted to return to all that.

Cold water hit her face and she bolted upright with a gasp. The birds took flight, the flowers faded. As she rubbed her wet eyes, the world began to take shape around her. A bed, not her own. Heavy velvet curtains blocked the windows and any light, but there was a stillness that told her it was nighttime. A sickly arsenic-green wallpaper swirled and danced in the dim candlelight. She looked down, and saw she was still wearing her black evening gown, the delicate silk clinging to her chest from the dousing of water. When she glanced back up, the dark outline of a man crouching in front of her became visible, his silver eyes piercing through her as if his next breath depended on hers. He wore the bottle-green livery of a footman, but something in the way he held himself told her he was no servant. Scuttling back up against the pillows, Ivy grabbed at the covers and pulled them over her chest in a flimsy display of modesty. The man’s dark brows drew together, and he scowled.

“Trust me, m’lady, I’ve no interest in what’s under that blanket.”

---