Page 72 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

Ivy leaned against the shelf, read the brief letter again. Her father hadn’t just known of Lord Hayworth and Blackwood, he’d known about the manuscript and library, and it seemed the curse that went along with them. Lord Mabry had said something about having her father removed from his job at the university; had her father actually met with Lord Hayworth at some point and seen the manuscript for himself? What had he made of it? He must not have believed the stories of curses surrounding it, or perhaps he simply thought there was no chance that he or anyone in their family would actually inherit Blackwood someday.

Mrs. Hewitt, bless her, was making a study of a book, giving Ivy time to hastily wipe her eyes and fold the letters back up.

“Is everything all right?” she asked presently.

“Yes. No, I don’t know,” Ivy admitted. “It was a letter from my father to Lord Hayworth.” She didn’t elaborate, and Mrs. Hewitt didn’t pry.

The housekeeper pressed her lips, clearly fighting with herself about what she was about to say. “I don’t want to add to your troubles, my lady, but there is something you should know.”

“I suppose you had better tell me now while my handkerchief is still out,” Ivy said.

“Ralph found Agnes.”

For a moment a delirious happiness overtook her. “She’s alive? What happened, I—” But then she saw the look on Mrs. Hewitt’s face. “Oh, no,” was all she could manage to say.

“It is my understanding that there was...well, there was not much of her left, from what Ralph told me.” Mrs. Hewitt picked up a biscuit, put it back down again. She’d gone a little green. “Ralph said that there was evidence that the rest of the blood didn’t just come from pigs as they claimed.”

The implication settled between them; there had been others. The Sphinxes had tried to recreate the monk’s experiments, trading in blood for eternal life or whatever it was they thought they would gain.

“We should call on her family, pay for a memorial,” Ivy said. Poor, sweet Agnes. Her family could never know what had become of their daughter; it would devastate them.

“And it was all for nothing,” Mrs. Hewitt responded with a shake of her head. “Those villains should rot for what they’ve done.”

“I believe Ralph would shoot every one of them if he were given leave,” Ivy said. She still felt as if she were holding her breath, waiting for Scotland Yard to come to investigate Lord Mabry’s and Sir Arthur’s deaths, and haul her away in handcuffs.

“That’s just what I fear,” Mrs. Hewitt said, bending to retrieve a book she had dropped. “He would do anything for the people he loves, even if it means landing himself in trouble.” She squared a knowing look on Ivy.

Ivy’s cheeks burned as she concentrated on pouring a cup of cool tea, her lips pressed tight. The silence grew heavy and prickly.

“He cares for you, you know. And I think,” Mrs. Hewitt said, pretending to inspect the book, “that you have some affection for him as well, do you not?”

Pages flipped by in Ivy’s mind, detailing embraces that she did not remember, kisses and hoarsely whispered promises that might have been dreams for all she knew. “Apparently,” Ivy said. “Though it was built on gestures and words that I don’t remember. Besides, I’ve had enough of men. I was hardly a bride and now I’m a widow.”

“What on earth are you talking about? You’re no more a widow than I am.”

“But Arthur is dead.” The teacup trembled in Ivy’s hand as a cold panic started in her fingertips, spreading up her arms and through her chest. “Are you telling me he’s not dead?”

“Of course he’s dead, and I’m quite sure he’s somewhere far warmer than here, where he belongs. What I mean, my lady, is that you were never married.”

“But... I saw a photograph. Arthur showed me our wedding portrait.”

Mrs. Hewitt actually had the nerve to laugh. “Did he now? I’ll not pretend to know how he managedthattrick, but mark my words when I tell you that Arthur Mabry died a bachelor.”

“Are you certain?”

The housekeeper raised an affronted brow. “Quite certain. As soon as you announced your engagement, I wired Mr. Duncan, the estate’s solicitor, and informed him not to draft a single document, unless instructed to do so by your ladyship herself, in person. I didn’t want that snake Mabry having wills and documents drafted in your name while you were wasting away under the effects of the library. He told me that a friend of yours had come around his office, and was concerned for much the same reasons as I was. In any case, I heard from him shortly after—” here Mrs. Hewitt broke off and gave Ivy a meaningful look “—that night. He wanted to know if the engagement had been broken, as he hadn’t heard a word from Lord Mabry, Sir Arthur, or yourself.”

Ivy sat in stunned silence. “And you didn’t think to tell me any of this?”

“I hadn’t the foggiest that you were under the impression you were married, my lady.”

Ivy slumped back into her seat. She wasn’t married. She never had been. All the unpleasant places her mind had gone trying to fill in the blank spaces of an unremembered marriage...none of it was real, none of it mattered anymore. Instead, she was left with a vast, unwritten page, one where anything was possible. One where she wasn’t bound to a ghost, one where she was free to write her own story with whomever she wanted.

She took a long sip of her tea when she realized Mrs. Hewitt was watching her expression with keen interest. “It doesn’t matter,” Ivy said a little too quickly. “It doesn’t change anything between Ralph and I.”

“Doesn’t it? Well, I will tell you one thing,” Mrs. Hewitt said. “My first duty is to Blackwood, but I will guard that boy’s heart as if it were my own.”

Desperate to change the subject, Ivy chanced a sidelong look at the housekeeper and put down her tea. “You care for him,” she said. “More than just as a friend or fellow servant.”

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