Page 7

“Did you know that Blackwood Abbey has a library?”

Ivy had hardly slid into the back seat and deposited her new stack of books on the seat beside her, when she bombarded Ralph with the question.

He started the engine, a jerky puttering that soon smoothed into purring as he shifted gears and pulled away from the shop. “Is that so?” he asked without the slightest hint of interest.

“Yes, apparently quite a grand one. I wonder that Mrs. Hewitt didn’t mention anything about it,” she added, more to herself. It had to be through those locked double doors at the far end of the hall—the only place Ivy hadn’t seen for herself. Mrs. Hewitt had said that room had been used as the infirmary during the war. Maybe it had suffered damage or become disorganized, and the housekeeper hadn’t wanted Ivy to see it in such a state. Well, no matter, she would assure Mrs. Hewitt that she didn’t mind a little mess.

The car had barely rolled to a stop when Ivy threw open the door and let herself out, ready to find her library.

“M’lady. Wait.”

Ivy turned to find Ralph standing beside the car, fidgeting his cap around in his hands. “Yes? What is it?”

Ralph glanced about as if checking to make sure no one was around, and then he was swiftly closing the distance between them, drawing her around the corner and out of sight of the front door. “What are you—”

Taking her by the shoulders, Ralph brought his face down to her level. His breath smelled like cinnamon, and his body radiated heat. Too stunned to resist, she stood there, letting him handle her as if she was a doll, and not lady of the house.

“Listen to me. You get out of here, my lady. Get as far as you can and don’t come back.”

His fingers dug into her shoulders, but she just blinked at him. “What?”

“It’s only going to get harder to leave,” Ralph told her. “You’ll start forgetting, and then before you know it there will be nothing left of you. You should leave, today. Christ, I should have put you back on the train as soon as you arrived.”

“What are you talking about? Ralph!”

Her voice seemed to snap him from his agitation, and he drew back, dropping his hands.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’re never to touch me like that again. Do you understand?” Her face was flushed, her heart racing, and she didn’t like the way that her skin was tingling where his fingers had been. “Do you understand me?” she repeated.

“Aye, I understand,” he said darkly.

She hurried back to the house, but not without one last glance behind her. Ralph stood, hands in pockets, making no secret of watching her retreat.

Best not to dwell on whatever had just happened. She raced to the double doors at the end of the hall. They were locked, as she had expected. Finding the nearest bellpull, she rang for Mrs. Hewitt as if the house were on fire.

The poor woman appeared from thin air, wiping her hands on her apron. She looked around, bewildered. “My lady, are you all right?”

A little sheepish that she’d made such a fuss, Ivy cleared her throat. “I’d like to see the library, please.”

Mrs. Hewitt blinked. “The library?”

Ivy faltered. Had Sir Arthur been mistaken? “I was told there was a library. I believe it’s behind these doors.”

“I see.” Mrs. Hewitt had regained her composure, her back straight, her hands folded at her waist. “I told you, my lady—that room has not been opened in some time and is not in a fit state at the moment.”

So there was a library. Her heart beat faster. “I won’t be put off by a little dust, I promise you,” Ivy told her. “I spent my childhood in libraries among some of the oldest, dustiest books.”

Mrs. Hewitt looked as if she wanted to say something else, but Ivy preempted her. “Please open it, Mrs. Hewitt,” Ivy said, in what she hoped was her most authoritative tone.

Irritation twitched at her lips, but Mrs. Hewitt heaved a sigh and rummaged for a key on her belt. Ivy held her breath as the housekeeper unlocked the doors, and slowly pushed them open.

It was dark inside, the only light coming from the fading twilight filtering through a set of tall, crenelated windows at the far end. Mrs. Hewitt swept inside first, fumbled at a switch on the wall, and a moment later dim electric lamps dotting the walls buzzed to life. Ivy sucked in her breath. Even in the poor light it was magnificent.

“Why is it kept closed up?” she asked without tearing her eyes from the soaring bookshelves that lined the walls.

Behind her, Mrs. Hewitt shifted, a floorboard creaking under her shoes. “There’s no reason to keep it open. We don’t have the staff to keep it dusted and in order.”

Books sat spine to spine, all hues of red and green and deep brown leather, the occasional glimmer of dusty gilt titles winking in the dim light. Marble busts of great men sat sentry along the walls, their vacant eyes once white but now grimy and gray. It rivaled the libraries at Cambridge and London, and it was all hers. The air was a little stale and there was the unmistakable whiff of mildew, but it was hardly in the condition which Mrs. Hewitt had implied. It was not unfit, it was simply unused.

“Well, I think it’s a shame,” Ivy said. “From now on, please keep it unlocked. It doesn’t matter to me if it’s dusty or mildewed. I’ll take care of it.”

“Very good, my lady,” Mrs. Hewitt murmured, though her tone indicated she thought it was anything but. “The electric in here is very old and unsound, and I would not recommend coming in after dark as the strain on the system could ignite a blaze. Candles are likewise a great risk of fire.”

Ivy hardly heard her as she moved further into the library. This would be her safe haven at Blackwood, a domain in which she finally felt comfortable. The dark wood shelves and familiar smell of leather and paper wrapped around her, safe and cozy. Above her, a narrow gallery ran the length of the vaulted ceiling, a reminder of the building’s ecclesiastical history. If she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, she could almost feel herself transported back through the centuries. Every book held not just the story written in its pages, but a secret history of the hands that had touched them, had loved them. Hers. This was all hers. A lifetime of learning and scholarship lay before her, something that would have otherwise been closed to a woman like her.

Though she wanted more than anything to start a fire in the fireplace and curl up with a blanket and a book, she felt a headache coming on and Mrs. Hewitt was waiting impatiently at the door, her hand hovering over the light switch.

“It’s no wonder,” Mrs. Hewitt said when Ivy mentioned her headache. “You’ve hardly sat still for more than five minutes since you got here. I will send your tray up shortly.”

Throwing one last wistful glance at the library, Ivy followed Mrs. Hewitt out. She couldn’t help but notice that Mrs. Hewitt discreetly turned back, locking the doors behind her after all.