Page 6 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

Something like pity crossed his face, softening the hard lines of his jaw and brow. “A widow, then?”

“No, that is, I just wear it in town, so that men don’t...” She felt her cheeks growing hot. Ralph was still fixated on the ring. Twisting it clumsily off her finger, she switched it to her other hand. Ralph had been in the war, that much was clear from his limp and the dark, glassy look that haunted his eyes. And here she was, pretending that she was a widow, so that she didn’t have to talk to strange men.

Ralph looked back to the door. “Well, if that will be all, then...”

Belatedly, she realized he was waiting for her to release him. “Oh, yes, of course. Thank you, Ralph.”

“No need to thank me,” he said, his voice gruff. He looked only too grateful to finally escape her.

When the door had shut behind him, Ivy threw herself down on the bed. Susan would never believe this. The thought of her best friend brought an ache to her chest. Later, she would have to see if there was a telephone somewhere in the abbey and give the boardinghouse a ring. She let her gaze wander around her new room. Amidst all the grandeur and finery, though, there was a want for something familiar. At least London had boasted all the places she had shared her childhood with her family, but here was vast, unexplored territory that was void of memories and familiarity. Well, she would just have to make her own memories. After all, a fresh start was only fresh if one embraced the changes that came with it.

4

As easily as she could have fallen asleep on the soft bed after her journey, Ivy forced herself to get up and change into a fresh skirt and cardigan. She was certain Mrs. Hewitt had something else in mind when she’d suggested that she change, but Ivy was no grand lady, and these were her warmest clothes.

As promised, a few moments later there was a knock on the door and a dark-haired girl stuck her head in. “M’lady? I’ve brought tea,” she said in a broad Yorkshire accent. “May I come in?”

Ivy beckoned her inside. The girl wore a blue service dress with a white pinafore and lace cap, the sort of outfit one would expect to see in a posh London tea house. Setting the tray carefully down on a table near the fire, she dropped a curtsy. “If that will be all, m’lady?”

“Yes, thank you.” The girl turned to leave, but Ivy changed her mind. “Sorry, that is, would you stay a moment, please?”

Darting an uncertain glance at the door, the girl returned to the tableside. “Yes, m’lady?”

Ivy bit back the urge to tell the girl she didn’t need to address her in such a fashion. “What’s your name? And what is your position at Blackwood?”

“My name?” The girl wrinkled her nose as if she’d never been asked such a question before. “Agnes Miller. I’m an all-about maid. I live in the village and come in for day work.”

So some of the staff just came in for the day. That would make sense, given that up until recently there had only been one person living in the old house.

“Do you like it here?”

Agnes shifted her weight in her leather work shoes. Ivy had a pair just like that. “I like it well enough, I ’spose. Never saw much of the old Lord Hayworth—he mostly kept to his room. During the war I came with me mam to help look after the soldiers. The abbey ’as a bit of a reputation around the village, but aside from being dark and gloomy, it’s not bad.”

“What kind of reputation?” Ivy asked, intrigued.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Agnes said, shifting her gaze as if she was sharing confidential information. “The usual sort of stories about spooks that rise up from an old place like this.”

“Do we have a resident ghost, then? Or maybe more than one restless spirit?” She was half joking, but Agnes looked deathly serious.

“Bein’ as it used to be an abbey, there’s stories that the ghost of a monk haunts the house. Never seen anything of him myself, and I wouldn’t pay them no heed if I was you, m’lady.”

Ivy gave the young maid a smile. “I won’t. Thank you, Agnes.”

After Agnes had beat a hasty retreat, Ivy poured herself a cup of tea, and, wrapping her hands around the warm cup, ventured out to explore her new home.

Some of the doors along the corridor were locked, but most opened easily, revealing bedrooms with furniture draped in white dust sheets. When it became clear that most of the upstairs rooms were vacant, she made her way back downstairs to the great hall where she had first entered the house. Mrs. Hewitt had turned on the lamps, and even though it was still dark Ivy could see how the abbey could be a comfortable, even homelike place with the right touches. It still seemed surreal that she was the one responsible for those touches now. So many of these grand old estates seemed not to have survived the war, or had been converted into hotels as Mr. Duncan had said. The weight of the responsibility to keep the abbey running settled heavy on Ivy’s shoulders. Where would she even start to learn about the duties and protocols that guided her new station in life? She didn’t know the first thing about overseeing a staff or keeping accounts of a large estate.

Leaving the hall behind, Ivy chose the right-hand corridor, following a wide hallway lined with more paintings and empty vases until she came to the dining room. Generations of Hayworths peered down at her from their heavy gilded frames, some in fancy ruff collars, others in romantic gowns with windswept landscapes behind them. She shivered under their haughty gazes.So, this is the girl to whom all of our fortunes have led,they seemed to say as they looked down their noses at her. Hugging her tea, Ivy tried to imagine the cold room once boasting great feasts and parties, glittering with crystal and filled with lively conversation. Now the chairs were covered in dust sheets and pushed up around the edges of the room, no longer needed for entertaining on a grand scale.

Retracing her steps to the hall, this time she took the corridor branching off to the left. This was where she had seen Mrs. Hewitt disappear. The hall came to an abrupt end, with only two options leading off of it; one was a narrow staircase that presumably led down to the kitchen and cellar, and the other was a heavy set of double doors.

There was a low humming emanating from behind them, as if a machine were running, or perhaps it was the buzzing of electricity. She tried both handles of the ornately carved doors, but they were locked fast. Pressing her ear against the wood, Ivy strained to hear better. It was so faint, just the suggestion of sound, that she wasn’t certain if she were really hearing something at all, or if it was just the heightened buzzing of silence. She shook the handles again, putting all her weight into it. They didn’t budge. She would have to ask Mrs. Hewitt for all of the house keys if she wanted free run of her new home.

Downstairs, Ivy followed the sound of voices to the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Hewitt, Ralph, and an older man sitting around a long, rough-hewn table all drinking tea. Mrs. Hewitt was knitting, her needles flashing fast and sharp. At Ivy’s entrance, they all bolted up, Ralph taking a little longer to get to his feet.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt your tea.”

“Quite all right, my lady,” Mrs. Hewitt said with a tight smile. “I was just going to fetch you, but it seems that you’ve already taken it upon yourself to explore.”

---