She was gone.
She was really gone.
Ivy Leavold had left me—left me and Markham Hall and had gone to find the family I’d hidden from her—which was something I didn’t regret.
I only regretted not doing a better job.
I had tried to give her space as she packed and as Gareth had readied the carriage to take her to York. She wouldn’t hear of taking any money, she said that solicitor—damn him to hell—would help her, but I still folded two or three hundred pounds into her purse when she wasn’t looking. Then I walked to the library and locked the door, taking the entire decanter of Scotch into the window seat with me so I could drink as I watched her leave.
It felt like it took only seconds, even though it had taken almost an hour between her whispering I’m leaving and the carriage wheels rolling out of the courtyard. An hour between me sliding inside of her and her walking out of my life.
No, our life.
God was punishing me, I was sure of it. It wasn’t enough that I would burn after death. He wanted to punish me now—strip away the only thing that mattered to me. Three months ago, nothing mattered. Not my estate or my wealth. Even my friends weren’t enough to color the gray-washed days of my existence.
But then Ivy came, and I felt something again. Something that wasn’t anger or shame or the emptiness I’d begun to cultivate as carefully as a gardener cultivates his garden. I felt curiosity at first, along with the urge to shield her and take care of her. And then desire. And then love.
And now loss.
I drank until all the thoughts left my mind, stumbled to the sofa and knew no more.
I’d been to London twice as a girl with my parents, but nothing prepared me for the choking, bustling mess that greeted me when I alighted from the train platform. People swarmed around me, pushing and yelling, and I had to blink against the smoky air that pervaded every corner of the station.
“Miss Leavold?”
It was an older man, perhaps in his fifties, in a smartly pressed suit and with the officious air of a servant. I knew at once he must be the person my aunt Esther had sent to collect me.
I nodded.
“Good. Shall we proceed? Your trunk has been arranged for.”
With a last look at the train that had borne me all the way from Yorkshire and had been the recipient of many quiet tears, I nodded. This was my life right now. In a strange town with strange people.
Without Mr. Markham.
Esther Leavold lived in a small but fashionable house on Gilbert Street, barely a stone’s throw away from Grosvenor Square. It was hard not to be nervous as our carriage stopped and as the servant led me inside the front foyer. I didn’t know what to expect; I had never met this Esther Leavold and I couldn’t remember ever hearing of her, although since she had spent the last thirty or so years in India, I supposed it wasn’t inconceivable that she wouldn’t have been spoken of much by my parents. And Thomas barely spoke about anything at all, unless it was to chastise me for talking too much or for spending too much time out of doors.
Nevertheless, I walked into 27 Gilbert Street expecting an old woman and instead encountered someone who did not look so much older than myself.
She was petite and wildly curvy, with rounded breasts and hips and a small waist, with blonde hair twisted up into the fronted curls that seemed to be so fashionable here in London. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties, but this was only a hazarded guess, because her tiny bow mouth and bright blue eyes gave the impression of a child. And the energy with which she swept into the foyer and gathered me into an embrace—that seemed very childlike too.
“Hel-hello,” I said, my breath choked from her tight hug. “Thank you for—”
She let me go and waved a hand. “No, no. No thank yous, please. It’s bad enough to come to England and not know anyone, and even worse to discover that any relations you can presume upon for company are dead. You are doing me the favor by coming to stay with me. It’s quite lonely, you know, being unmarried at my age.”
I caught a glimpse of the silver dish on her table, filled to the brim with calling cards. Not that lonely, I thought as she led me into the parlor and rang for tea.
“Now, I know you must be exhausted from the journey, but I really must insist you take something to fortify yourself before you rest, and also we must make plans for tonight and tomorrow. The Lady Samantha Haverford has invited me to supper and I think I should bring you along. What a perfect place to introduce you to the important people here—and I know what you’re thinking, Ivy, you’re wondering how I can know since I’ve only come from Bombay eight weeks ago, but Lady Haverford was introduced to me by Colonel Barnes—a former beau, if you must know, but really a good man—and Barnes always has the best taste in refined company.” She stopped to a take a breath—possibly the first she’d taken since I walked in the door.
