Page 71 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

“Maybe some things are more important than others,” he said, a touch of petulance in his voice.

“That’s not fair.”

Ralph kicked at a rock, sending it skidding down the steep embankment. “None of it is.”

“I don’t remember my marriage to Arthur, and really, how can you even call it a relationship? He used me, lied to me and manipulated me. Even if I thought differently at the time, there was never any real love between us.”

Ralph flinched, as if she had struck him. “Don’t say his name. I never want to hear that name again.”

She watched him, moving between the shadows and the light, all restless energy in the shape of a man. “He was part of my life, even if it was a dark part,” Ivy said evenly. “I can’t simply choose to forget him, and truthfully, I don’t want to. I’ve come to realize that my memories are precious, even the bad ones.”

Ralph had turned away, was recklessly climbing back down the rocks, heedless of his limp.

“Ralph, wait.”

He stopped, but it was only to help her over the rocks. Once they were back at the auto, he let go of her hand and wordlessly opened the door for her.

“Here,” she said, unwrapping the muffler. “Take it.”

“I don’t want it back.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “It’s clearly yours, you should have it.”

With a dark look, he finally accepted the muffler and threw it onto the front seat. Then they left the abbey behind, the setting sun throwing the ruins into stark shadows and quiet obscurity once again.

36

The library had once again become her escape.

But this time it was not ghosts or the banal duties of being a lady from which she sought refuge, but Ralph. They had not spoken since the kiss on the ruins the day before, and really, what was there to say? Knowing that she’d had him and then lost him without so much as a memory of their friendship was somehow worse than never having had him at all.

Lucky for her, there was endless work to be done to salvage the books after the fire. Shelves needed repairing, books needed to be dried and aired after being damaged by water, and cataloging had to be started from scratch. Mrs. Hewitt pulled books from the shelves, gave them a dusting, and then handed them to Ivy who noted them in her ledger. They worked quietly, but companionably. It was pleasant, working with a shared purpose, a fire crackling in the grate and a tray with warm tea and biscuits between them. The headaches that had once plagued her were things of the past, and she no longer dreaded the aftermath of her time spent in the library. All of her plans for restoration came back to her, and she had the time now to dedicate to making the library as beautiful and welcoming as it was important. The lending library in the village was all well and good, but people deserved to experience the magic of a library like Blackwood, to have doors opened to them and be welcomed into a place of learning.

Dusting the spine of a book and about to hand it to Mrs. Hewitt to shelve, Ivy let out a little sound of surprise when a slim packet of letters slid out from between the pages and onto her lap.

“My lady, what is it?” Mrs. Hewitt asked.

Unfolding the envelope, Ivy shook her head that she didn’t know. She quickly scanned the lines written in an unfamiliar hand.

To my kin and heir,

I write this with heavy heart, in a rare moment of clarity. If you are reading this, then perhaps you will already understand why I say that, or perhaps you have no idea what I am talking about. I hope that it is the latter, but in case it is the former, then I hope you are in a likewise lucid moment.

Firstly, my apologies. For everything. I know the Radcliffes are struggling, and many times I have battled myself in whether I should shed my cloak of anonymity and step forward. But in the end, I am a coward. My only consolation is that by remaining anonymous, that my misfortune and ill-luck shall not stalk the next generation of Hayworths. Perhaps my solicitor shall not be able to find you, though I doubt that will be the case with the dogged Mr. Duncan.

Regardless, if you do find yourself at Blackwood, I beg of you, run. There may be consequences, but these pale in comparison to what you will endure should you choose to stay.

Ivy paused in her reading, aware of Mrs. Hewitt watching her expectantly. Poor Lord Hayworth. He seemed well-meaning, but could he really have been so naïve as to think that the next Hayworth heir wouldn’t succumb to the same fate as all the others? She tried not to think of what would have happened if she had found this letter earlier in her tenure at Blackwood, all the heartache it might have spared.

“It’s a letter, written by Lord Hayworth,” she told Mrs. Hewitt. “It seems he had a stroke of consciousness and wanted to warn me, or whoever came after him, about the library.”

Mrs. Hewitt let out a heavy sigh. “I often felt like a warden of a man awaiting the scaffold. It was my job to guard him, make sure that he stayed so the library could feed, but it didn’t mean that I didn’t feel compassion for him. He was a good man, a little aloof perhaps, but always even-tempered and kind to the staff.”

Ivy didn’t say anything. Mrs. Hewitt may have just been doing her job and holding up her end of a centuries-old agreement, but it was hard to feel sympathy for any grief on her part.

Ivy turned her attention back to the other paper in her hand. It was a letter posted from London, the return address their old flat. Hungrily, she unfolded it the rest of the way and drank in the familiar, yet long-ago handwriting of her father.

Cousin, if what you say is true about the library, then of course I am both shocked and sympathetic, though I fail to see how I could be of assistance. Work and family obligations preclude me from traveling to Yorkshire at present, but when next you are in London, pay me a call, and we can discuss it further if that will ease your mind.

---