Page 8 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

“The original structure dates back to the thirteenth century, when it was founded as a nunnery and then a Cistercian abbey, and is listed in the Domesday Book. After the dissolution of the monasteries, King Henry VIII bestowed it upon the Hayworth family.”

They arrived in the great hall, and Mrs. Hewitt pointed out some of the more notable portraits.

“Where is the late Lord Hayworth?” Ivy asked her. She was more than a little curious about her predecessor, the man who supposedly provided her delicate link to this illustrious family.

Mrs. Hewitt led her to a modestly sized portrait of an average-looking man with graying hair and a receding chin, perhaps in his middle forties. Nothing about him looked particularly aristocratic, and there was certainly no family resemblance to the Radcliffes.

“How did he die?” she asked.

After a heavy moment of silence, Mrs. Hewitt began walking again. “Dementia,” she said. “Now, over here we have the Bordeaux tapestries. These tapestries have been in the abbey since Sir Gerald Hugh Hayworth brought them back from a campaign in the seventeenth century. I don’t suppose you care much about the history, so I won’t bore you with the particulars.”

“On the contrary—I am very interested in medieval history,” Ivy told her, excitement bubbling up. “My father was a professor and I find this all terribly interesting.”

Mrs. Hewitt’s lips pressed into what Ivy was beginning to suspect was the only line of defense against some rather cutting words. “Of course you do,” she said, as they continued to the dining room.

“Is this where Lord Hayworth took his meals?”

“He took his meals in his room toward the end of his life,” Mrs. Hewitt told her. “Of course, you are free to do the same if you choose. Hewitt will be happy to arrange it.”

Grateful that she wasn’t expected to eat by herself in the echoing room, Ivy murmured her assent.

“This has always been the family’s preferred sitting room,” Mrs. Hewitt said, leading her into the parlor through the sliding door. It was comfortable enough, with a large fireplace lined with bookshelves, and heavy red velvet drapes. Yet Ivy couldn’t see herself sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs on a rainy evening, reading or composing a letter. It was still larger than any single place she had ever lived, and it would just be her, alone.

“Is there a gramophone or wireless?” she asked hopefully.

“I believe there’s a gramophone somewhere, but it hasn’t been used for years,” Mrs. Hewitt answered. “There is no wireless.”

“Maybe we could purchase one.” The idea of living in the great abbey with no music, no friends, no sound other than the driving of the rain and howling wind was becoming increasingly disheartening.

Mrs. Hewitt turned to Ivy, her face etched in hard lines. “You will find that I run a very tight ship here, my lady. We operate on a threadbare budget, and are happy to do so, but there is no room for frivolous purchases. If you are interested in making improvements, might I suggest flower arranging or perhaps reupholstering some of the furniture.”

Brought back down to earth, and by her housekeeper no less, Ivy kept quiet for the rest of the tour. After a time, all the endless halls and empty rooms blurred together, and she was fairly certain that she would never remember how to get anywhere in the abbey. They ended back by the great stairs, and Mrs. Hewitt stood with her hands clasped in front of her waist. “I hope that you will be comfortable here, my lady, and that you will be satisfied by the service of myself and the rest of the staff. If you need anything, you may always ring for one of us. Now, I must get back downstairs to see about dinner. I will have Agnes bring you up a tray at eight.”

Before Ivy had a chance to thank her, Mrs. Hewitt turned on her heels and clicked away down the hall.

Slowly, Ivy made her way back upstairs to her room. The tour, rather than making her feel at ease in her new home, had overwhelmed and somehow disappointed her all at once. How was she supposed to fill her time now that she not only didn’t have to work, but was expected to live a life of leisure? She didn’t care for the blood sports that the aristocracy seemed to favor, and she had no friends here with which to host gatherings. She didn’t like the feeling of being watched, whether it was from the portraits or empty suits of armor, and she didn’t like feeling as if she was simply the latest tenant to an indifferent landlord. She was mistress of her own house—and not just any house, anabbey—so why did she feel instead as if she was a prisoner?

A tap at the door, and Ivy eagerly went to answer it. Maybe it was Agnes, she would keep her company. But when she opened the door, there was no one there. She stood, staring out into the empty hall.

“Hello?”

There was no answer, but there was a heaviness in the air, as if someone were just out of sight, watching her.

Ivy gave the empty hall one more sweeping gaze, then quickly closed the door and threw her body weight against it as if that would keep out whoever had knocked. It had probably just been one of the servants moving about in a room down the hall.

Then came an icy gust sweeping across her skin.

Every hair along her neck lifted, and in the stillness that followed she was hyperaware of the texture of the carpet, the condensation gathering on the windowpanes. For a moment everything stood still, the air charged with quavering energy. Something was wrong, very wrong. She knew it the way a roe deer knows when it is in a rifle’s cross hair before a shot is even fired.

Then in the time it took her to blink an eye, a hairbrush flew off the vanity, whizzing past her ear and slamming into the wall. It clattered to the ground, the silver handle glinting as it rocked back and forth gently until it came to a complete stop.

Heart pounding loud and hot in her ears, Ivy yanked the door back open and threw herself into the hallway, running at breakneck speed.

When she reached the stairs, she let her body sag against the marble balustrade and gulped down huge breaths of air. The unicorns and lions in the dark forests of the tapestries regarded her with unsympathetic eyes. How did one explain a hairbrush flying across the room? And how was she supposed to set foot in her room again, let alone sleep there? There had to be dozens of bedrooms in the house; she would ask Mrs. Hewitt about preparing another one and moving her things.

With shaking legs, Ivy made her way downstairs. She would have given anything to be back in her old room, sharing a bed with Susan, teasing her about her icy feet. But instead, she was trapped in an old house with an indifferent staff, nothing to fill her time, and the uncanny feeling that she was sharing her home with something that very much wanted her gone.

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