Page 5 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

“Ralph,” he said shortly.

“Your full name, Mr...?” she prodded.

A heavy pause. “I go by Ralph.”

His tone didn’t invite further conversation, so Ivy pretended to be absorbed in the shrouded landscape that they passed. They had left the jumbled streets of the village, and were now winding along a lonesome road, broody moors stretching out around them, the only landmarks the occasional crooked tree or cairn of old stones. She would have almost certainly been miserably lost if she’d had to find her own way.

By the time they pulled up to a gravel driveway, the rain was coming down in sheets. So much for exploring the grounds of the abbey. The car came to a stop in front of an imposing facade with marble steps, chimneys disappearing into the gray sky. Through the rain and the mist, Ivy was able to make out the impression of a heavy fortress made of dark stone with rambling additions. It must have once been a staunch defender of civilization amidst the moors, though it appeared a weary sentry, with its crumbling stones and overgrown grass. From the crenelated windows to the stately battlements, it certainly delivered everything that a Gothic abbey ought to. Yet it was a graceful decline, dignified and suited to a castle on the wild moors.

Ralph turned off the engine, then jumped out, flipping up the collar on his coat. “I’ve no umbrella,” he said as he opened her door. “You’re going to have to make a run for it.”

Used to navigating the rainy streets of London, Ivy held her scarf over her head and made a dash for the marble steps. Behind her, Ralph followed with the luggage. Just as Ivy was about to pull on the iron knocker, the door swung open, revealing an older woman in a navy-blue service dress looking as startled as she.

“Oh, forgive me, my lady! I didn’t realize you had arrived. I was just coming with an umbrella to meet you.” She stepped aside, her long skirt skimming the stone floor.

Ivy hurried inside, grateful to be out of the rain, though the chill of the November day seemed to be just as pervasive in the house as it was without. Inside was much like the outside, opulent on a grand scale, but fraying at the seams when inspected closely: tapestries worn, carpets patched, and chandeliers missing candles. Behind Ivy, Ralph set down her luggage with a heavythud.

The woman closed the door behind him, before turning back to Ivy. “Welcome to Blackwood Abbey, my lady. I’m Grace Hewitt, head housekeeper.”

Everything about the woman was neat and tidy, from her tightly coiled dark hair to her crisply ironed dress. If not for the firm set of her lips and slightly aloof gaze, she would have looked almost motherly.

Ivy stuck out her hand. “How do you do, Mrs. Hewitt?”

Looking at the outstretched hand as if Ivy had offered her a slimy toad, the older woman reluctantly returned the gesture. Ivy added not shaking hands with the service members to her list of things she wasn’t supposed to do now that she was a lady.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said, shoving her hands in her cardigan pockets. “I’m not used to any of—” she broke off, looking about the grand hall “—this. I hope that you’ll help me find my footing at Blackwood. I clearly have a lot to learn.”

It was the right thing to say. Mrs. Hewitt gave her a tight nod, drawing up her chin with obvious pride. “I’ve served four generations of Hayworths,” she said, “and I intend to provide you with the same unparalleled service. Begging your pardon, my lady, but how exactly are you related to the late Lord Hayworth?”

“He was apparently a distant cousin on my father’s side. I never met him, and didn’t even know we were related until the solicitor informed me that I was his only heir.”

Mrs. Hewitt’s lips pressed tighter. For some reason, this did not seem to be a satisfactory answer. “I see. Well, there will be time for all these details later. Ralph,” she said, looking past Ivy’s shoulder to the doorway. “Take Lady Hayworth’s luggage to the blue room, won’t you? Just follow Ralph, he’ll show you the way,” she told Ivy. “I will give you a tour of the abbey, as well as introduce you to the rest of the staff once you are changed from traveling and settled in. I’ll have Agnes bring up some tea in the meantime.”

With that, Mrs. Hewitt was gone in a swish of skirts, her heels clicking away down some unseen corridor. Feeling as if she’d failed some sort of test, Ivy turned to see Ralph gathering up the luggage again. Now that he had shed his hat, she could see the gold threaded in his brown hair, the way the lamplight caught shifting flashes of gray in his dark eyes. He couldn’t have been more than a couple of years older than her—James’s age, had her brother lived.

“Follow me, my lady,” he said gruffly.

“I really wish you would allow me to help,” Ivy said, hurrying to catch up with him as he mounted the stairs. “I can certainly manage my own valise.”

Ralph grunted. “Determined not to be a proper lady, are you?”

“I only became ‘a proper lady’ a few days ago with the stroke of a pen,” she informed him. “And as I told Mrs. Hewitt, I have a lot of learning to do. Besides,” she added, “I don’t really believe in class distinctions.” Perhaps it was her American heritage or her father’s liberal views, but her parents had always been adamant about instilling in her the notion that the accident of one’s birth should not determine their place in the world. They had been careful that while they had made sure she was literate and well-spoken, she never looked down on those who were not.

A snort, and it was clear that was to be the end of their exchange.

Despite Mr. Duncan’s warning that the great house was in less than pristine condition, it was still easily the grandest place Ivy had ever been. The carpets might have been a little threadbare in places, and there was a persistent chill that clung to the echoing hall, but the marble staircase was magnificent, and giant tapestries in muted tones hung from the second-story gallery. Everything was neat as a pin, proof that Mrs. Hewitt did indeed take her job seriously.

They reached the second landing, and Ralph headed down a long hall, lined with heavy oil paintings and more tapestries. Goodness, there was even an armory, complete with mounted crossed battle-axes and silver suits of armor. Jane Austen would have no doubt found it all a little too on the nose for satire on abbey living.

Coming to an abrupt halt, Ralph nudged open a door with his knee, and then gestured Ivy inside. “This will be you, then,” he said, dropping her bags at the foot of an ancient four-poster bed. “Water closet is through there, and bellpull right there will connect you to the kitchen if you need anything.”

Entranced by the grandeur, Ivy moved through the room, gaping at the oil paintings that hung on the wall, the fine china basin and flocked blue wallpaper. Ralph made no movement to leave, rather, his gaze on her sharpened as she reached out to touch a velvet drape.

“I can’t believe this is real,” she whispered.

“You’re married,” Ralph said from behind her. There was no surprise in his voice, just a statement of fact.

“What?” She glanced down at the ring on her finger. “Oh, no.”

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