Page 7 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

“Yes, I was anxious to have a look around.”

“I was just leaving,” Ralph announced, more to Mrs. Hewitt and the man than to Ivy. “There’s wood needs chopping out back.”

Ivy stepped aside from the doorway as Ralph’s sleeve brushed her on his way out. He gave her a nod and then was gone.

Mrs. Hewitt turned to the man, a hand on his arm. “My lady, this is Hewitt, head butler of Blackwood Abbey.”

The spare, graying man gave a short bow from the waist. He had a neat mustache, and impeccable posture, the picture of British dignity and comportment. “A pleasure, my lady. I hope you will let us know if there is anything we can do to make you feel more at home here at Blackwood.”

So, the butler and head maid were married. Ivy wasn’t sure if that was standard practice in a house like this, but she liked the idea of it. Mrs. Hewitt was far from welcoming, but Hewitt had a certain warmth about him, and for the first time since setting foot in the old abbey, she allowed herself to feel as if this might really be her home.

“Thank you, I certainly will,” she told the butler.

He gave her another short bow, and then excused himself, leaving Ivy with Mrs. Hewitt and the remnants of the servants’ tea.

“Since you are here now, would you care for a cup of tea?”

Ivy looked down, realizing she was still clasping her cup, the contents now cold. “A top-off would be lovely.”

She seated herself at the table, and Mrs. Hewitt poured her a fresh cup. A clock in the corner ticked, and somewhere outside a rooster crowed. Though the kitchen was large, it felt cozy, a far cry from the damp, echoing house above it. Through the small ground-level window she could see Ralph heading out onto the grounds, an ax in hand. Ivy nodded toward the retreating figure. “I didn’t realize Ralph did more than just driving.”

“We all do more than strictly our roles, otherwise nothing would get done,” Mrs. Hewitt said. Her tone made Ivy feel as if she didn’t understand what a hard day’s work entailed. “Ralph drives, tends the horses, and does most of the groundwork. He’s a good lad,” Mrs. Hewitt added, her eyes softening.

Ivy thought of the way that he had rebuffed her help, and then his concern when he assumed she was a widow, and shame flushed through her anew. “He fought, didn’t he?”

Mrs. Hewitt, her back already plank-straight, seemed to stiffen further. “Yes,” she said shortly. “He did.”

“Where did he serve? How was he injured?” She knew she was overstepping polite conventions, but in the absence of answers about her own family, every story, every anecdote helped her understand what James and her father had gone through. It felt like they had all been in a story together, a book, but her father and brother had gotten to the ending without her, and she needed to fill in the blank pages.

A long moment stretched out before Mrs. Hewitt finally answered. “The Somme,” she said. “And he was injured by a mine. But never ask him about it,” she hurried to add. “He doesn’t remember, and it would only serve to upset him.”

“Of course not,” Ivy murmured. “Mrs. Hewitt,” she asked suddenly, “is there a telephone here I might use? I’d like to make a call.”

The housekeeper looked surprised. “Telephone? Of course not. Whatever need would we have for a telephone?”

Ivy could think of quite a few things, but decided to keep them to herself. She had so badly wanted to hear Susan’s voice, to let her know that she had arrived safely. “Do you know where I might find one?”

“I believe the post office in town has one.”

So another car ride to the village would be required. The sky was already darkening; it would have to wait until tomorrow. “Very well. Would you be kind enough to show me about the abbey now?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Hewitt said, rising stiffly. “If you will follow me.”

Mrs. Hewitt gave her a cursory tour below stairs, including the old servants’ quarters and an empty wine cellar. “There is no need for you to plan menus or advise on meals. We have a plain cook from the village come every morning and make a hot breakfast and prepare a simple luncheon. Dinners are prepared by myself,” Mrs. Hewitt told Ivy over her shoulder as they made their way up the stairs. “We have simple fare here, however, it is your prerogative as lady of the house to change something if it isn’t to your liking.”

“I’m sure it’s all wonderful,” Ivy murmured, just grateful that she didn’t need to ever worry about where her next meal would come from. At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Hewitt made to go straight, but Ivy stopped.

“What room is behind those doors?” she asked, gesturing to the double doors ahead of them. “I thought I heard something in there.”

“Nothing of interest,” Mrs. Hewitt said without turning. “You must have imagined it. It was used as an infirmary during the war. If you will follow me this way, we’ll pass through the main hall and go to the dining room.”

The infirmaries in London had been overcrowded, soldiers lying on the ground when no bed was available, and diseases tearing through the wards with horrifying efficiency.

“What soldiers came here?” she asked. “I mean, how were they chosen?”

“Heavens, how should I know,” Mrs. Hewitt said. “Come along this way, if you will.”

A shiver ran down her spine. Luxurious or not, it had still been an infirmary and it was possible that men had died behind those doors. With one last lingering look, Ivy fell into step behind Mrs. Hewitt who was setting a brisk pace.

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