Chapter 15

CHAPTER15

Islept most of the day, in my own bed, since Mr. Markham had to attend to a problem on a tenant’s farm. ?When I emerged, the late afternoon sun was beginning to sink and the smells of dinner wafted through the halls. ?I dressed—one of my old ones, since I felt strange donning one of the new ones if I was to be alone for dinner—and walked downstairs, passing Mrs. Brightmore carrying a hamper.

It was full of the sheets from Mr. Markham’s room. ?I flushed and looked down, hoping that we would continue in our habit of not addressing one another, but I heard a muttered word as I passed.

“Slut.”

Now I flushed for a different reason, anger pulling at every part of me. ?“It is none of your business.”

She turned to me, harsh lines around her mouth. ?“You are not the first, you know. ?And you won’t be the last. ?He was wild before he married Arabella and he’s been wild ever since. ?You are nothing to him but a way to pass the time.”

The fury that rolled through me was all the stronger for the fear that birthed it. ?“I wouldn’t expect you to know anything of how he feels.”

“You think so?” She stepped closer to me, and once again I realized how young she was, younger than her bearing and plain clothes made her appear. ?“I’ve worked in this house for years. ?He handpicked me from another house because he was so impressed with me. ?You think that you—a charity case—can do any better than his late wives, both beautiful and wealthy? ?And even they could not capture his heart. ?He is destined for someone better. ?I’ve always known it. ?Better than that whore Violet Leavold, and better than you.”

It was in the way that she said it, the way that her shoulders straightened and her chin lifted, that I realized the truth. ?“You’re in love with him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped.

I didn’t answer. ?I didn’t need to. ?The heart of her spite had been laid bare, and we both knew it. ?I turned away from her and walked away, knowing I couldn’t scorn her for her feelings.

How could I, when I wasn’t entirely sure my own love wasn’t as hopelessly misplaced as hers?

“You’ll be gone soon enough,” she called after me. ?“Just like the late Mrs. Markham!”

I went to the library.

I went outside.

I wandered through the garden.

But still agitation stabbed through me, relentless slices of doubt and worry and suspicion. ?Would it always be like this, loving Mr. Markham? ?Passion and fear, laced together, one chasing the other until it was impossible to tell where one started and the other began?

I couldn’t articulate to myself why Mrs. Brightmore’s words ate away at me, after the pleasure of last night and after the genuine need for me I’d seen in him this morning. ?After I had told myself that I trusted him, that I didn’t care about the strange circumstances around Violet’s death. ?That I would throw away that tiny chance at a future away from Markham Hall to live however long I could in Mr. Markham’s bed.

But eat away at me they did. ?Maybe it was the certainty in her tone. ?Or the blazing conviction in her eyes. ?She felt so sure that I’d be tossed aside like so much rubbish.

Or was she sure that I would be dead?

Despite the warmth in the garden, I felt chilled to the core. ?I couldn’t endure this any longer, the way Violet’s death hung around Markham Hall like a poisonous fog. ?I had to find out the truth. ?Had to.

My wanderings had taken me to the front gate of the property, where I stood looking out onto the road to Stokeleigh, and a faint idea substantiated itself. ?Without giving myself time to thoroughly canvass the wisdom of my plan, I set off for the village, hoping that the policeman who’d investigated Violet’s death would be readily found.

It only took fifteen minutes for me to reach the village, by which time moisture had dampened my brow and my hair had grown a little disheveled from the wind. ?I stood at the head of the high street, wondering where I should go and whom I should talk to, when—inevitably—I was approached by Mrs. Harold.

“Miss Leavold! ?What a surprise!”

I squinted at her in the sunlight. ?She only had one of her retinue trailing behind her, and her arms were full of flowers.

“I was picking flowers for the altar,” she explained. ?“Would you walk with me there? ?It’s only a short way.”

Of course, I didn’t want to. ?The rector’s wife irritated me beyond measure . . . but. A single thought prevented my instinctive refusal of her offer: she was the most well-informed person I’d met thus far—well-informed and willing to share her hoarded information. ?If I wanted to find the policeman who’d carried out the murder inquiry, Mrs. Harold would know his name, location, family history, and current medical ailments.

“I’d love to walk with you,” I said and I meant it.

* * *

Three hourslater and I was outside the police building in Scarborough. ?I had walked the ten miles by myself rather than taking a horse or asking Gareth to hook up the phaeton for me. ?I didn’t want anyone to know about this errand—especially not anyone who might feel duty-bound to report it to Mr. Markham. ?But as I pushed my way across the busy sea-scented street, I felt a tug of uncertainty. ?Would it be inappropriate for me to show up unannounced? ?I was hardly familiar with how these things worked—perhaps most people wrote letters to inquire about these sorts of things rather than visit in person. ?Or they had a solicitor or agent inquire for them.

But, I reflected as I smoothed my hair and dress, I was Violet’s only living family. ?I had the right to ask around, the right to know what happened. ?Surely, my familial connection to the victim would cover over any irregularities in my approach?

The building was nondescript, a small brick affair, and I was met with an industrious—if gloomy—interior. ?A man was crossing the foyer when I entered, a hat tucked under his arm.

“May I be of service?” he asked, seeming to want to be anything but.

“I’m looking for Officer Mayhew,” I said, having learned the name I needed from Mrs. Harold earlier that day.

The man blew out a breath then gestured for me to follow him further into the murk. ?Far-spaced windows weakly illuminated several desks, all covered in papers, and corridors leading down even darker halls. ?Tobacco smoke overwhelmed me, making my eyes sting, and I didn’t realize that the man had stopped until I very nearly ran into him.

“A lady for you, Mayhew,” he said and then departed without any further pleasantries.

Mayhew grunted but didn’t look up for a moment, his hand jotting notations as he peered at a barely legible list—a shop inventory it looked like.

I sat without being invited to, and he finally looked up, surprised. ?I don’t think the man’s introduction had even registered with him. ?He was handsome, much younger than I expected, perhaps the age Thomas would be if he were still alive. ?Reddish hair and grayish eyes, a strong and determined mouth.

“I apologize, Miss?—”

“Leavold,” I supplied.

“—Leavold,” he said slowly, memory filtering in through his eyes. ?“I didn’t notice you. ?How may I help today?”

I didn’t see any point in dancing around the subject. ?“My cousin died two months ago now, Mr. Mayhew. ?I would like to know more about the circumstances surrounding her death. ?Her name was Violet Markham—née Leavold—and she was married to Julian Markham of Markham Hall.”

He looked at me a long moment, a look of consideration and calculation, and finally he released a long sigh. ?“I’ll be back in just a moment,” he said, standing and leaving his desk. ?True to his word, he was only gone for a few minutes, returning with a thin sheaf of papers bound with twine.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much,” he said, slicing the twine cleanly with a small knife. ?“Because I learned very little in my investigation. ?And if the investigation were not closed, I would not be able to divulge even that much. ?But since it is finished and since you are the only kin of hers that has come forward to inquire . . . ” As he talked, he disseminated his bundle in small, precise piles around his desk. ?The papers now appeared grouped by content—or by date. ?It was difficult to decipher the handwritten words upside down. ?He looked me once more in the eye. ?“What do you already know?”

“That she was killed in the early hours of the morning. ?Thrown from her horse. ?That Mr. Markham was purported to be the first to find her, but that there were other footprints in the frost . . . ”

A thick piece of paper was presented to me as I said this. ?It took me a moment and several rotations of the paper to make out what I was looking at. ?“It’s the sketch of a footprint,” I said.

“Yes. ?April can be, for all its chilly nights, quite mild during the day. A servant had come from Markham Hall very early to tell us that Mrs. Markham was missing. By the time the police had come, she was dead, obviously, and the frost had mostly melted off the grass. ?Mr. Markham told us of the tracks, that he was certain another party had found his wife before he did. ?We found nothing until an officer, working to find the horse’s prints, found a spot of half-fading frost under a nearby bush. ?There we found a vague footprint along with other marks that suggested someone had knelt there before they stood.”

I tilted the paper again. ?“It looks quite large,” I said. ?“It must be a man’s.”

“I agree. ?It is nearly the same length as my own foot. ?But do you see how pointed it is at the top? ?How distinct that point is! ?Mr. Markham owned no shoes with such a point, although that in and of itself isn’t such solid evidence. ?He would have had plenty of time to hide or even burn a pair of shoes if he wanted, before the police arrived.”

It didn’t fit with my image of Mr. Markham at all, a hunched man furtively feeding a pair of shoes into the fire. ?And I had seen his eyes and his face, had heard his voice when he told me about finding Violet that fateful morning. ?No. ?I believed Mr. Markham on this point at least. ?The print belonged to someone else.

Another sketch was passed to me, this time of the saddle. ?I studied it for a moment. ?“Yes,” I murmured. ?“It does look as if someone cut it.”

“They cut a little more than halfway through the cinch itself. ?And they would have known Mrs. Markham to be quite a vigorous horsewoman—everyone knew it. ?She had only crossed half the field behind the stables before the saddle failed and she was thrown.”

I set the sketch down, banishing the image of her body tumbling from the horse, trying to unimagine the sound of a scream cut short. ?“Mr. Mayhew, do you have any reason to believe that Mr. Markham killed my cousin? ?That seems to be the popular opinion in Stokeleigh and beyond, yet he wasn’t charged with the murder, so how complete can his guilt truly be?” ?I sounded like I was trying to convince myself, not ask a genuine question. ?I cleared my throat. ?“I would like to know, for Violet’s sake.”

Mr. Mayhew plucked at the corners of the paper stack in front of him. ?“That’s not an easy question to answer, Miss Leavold. ?They were heard fighting viciously the night before her death?—”

“By the rector’s wife?”

“—by an entire dinner party of people. ?Her relative unhappiness seemed to be well-known. ?And . . . ”

He seemed reluctant to speak whatever he was thinking out loud, handing me another paper instead.

I scanned through it. ?It took me a moment to realize it was the coroner’s description of Violet—or of her dead body. ?Clinical descriptions of her twisted neck, of her skin otherwise unmarred, of her early state of?—

I gasped.

I reread.

No, it was impossible even on a second inspection. ?It could not be true.

My heart pounded. ?“Was he—is he—the coroner, I mean, is he quite certain?”

Mr. Mayhew slid the paper out of my trembling fingers. ?“I do not want to trouble you with the particulars of his often gruesome vocation, but yes—he was entirely sure. ?His best estimates put the age of the fetus at somewhere between two to three months—closer to three, he felt.”

Nausea coiled in my stomach and I was suddenly very glad that Mr. Mayhew didn’t allow me to read further, to flip over to the penciled drawings on the back.

“You must compare the dates of the pregnancy with her marriage to Mr. Markham,” he said, neatly stacking the papers. ?“The child was clearly conceived before the wedding ceremony. ?Not as unusual as people often suppose, perhaps, save for that Violet Markham was known in London for—pardon my boldness here—being at times too fond of the company of the opposite sex. ?Even though she and Mr. Markham were engaged to be married, he may have had reason to believe the child was not his own. ?I’ve seen one or two men driven to passionate violence at the discovery of ordinary infidelity. ?But I have seen many, many more fly into a fury when they realize their wife carries another’s child.

“So,” he continued, his voice almost bland with professionalism, “do I believe Mr. Markham killed his wife and the fetus inside of her? ?Personally, I do.”

Dread nestled against the nausea. ?I didn’t speak, trying to master my thoughts, which presently fled from any semblance of order.

“However, there was not enough evidence to lay the charge at his feet. ?The fighting, the pregnancy, his placement at the scene of her death—to me it speaks of certain guilt. ?But where is the knife that cut the saddle? ?Where is the witness to him doing it? ?And what of this lone footprint that seems to corroborate his version of events? ?He is a powerful man in this county, Miss Leavold, and the person who accused him of murder would have to have more than instincts to call to his aid in a courtroom. ?Would you like a glass of water? ?You look pale.”

I knew I must be pale; it felt as if all of the blood in my body was pouring out of my heart and onto the floor. ?A baby. ?There had been a baby. ?That was heartbreak enough. ?And then to hear Mr. Mayhew’s calm, experienced voice laying out his interpretation of the facts so precisely . . .

It’s only his interpretation, I told myself. He doesn’t know Mr. Markham like I do—he hasn’t seen how lonely he is, how tender he can be. ?But I couldn’t find it in myself to give those words the credence they needed to ring true. I didn’t know what to believe about Violet’s death or what to believe about Mr. Markham.

And yet I was still in love with him.

When I got back to Markham Hall, I took a small dinner of soup and bread in the parlor, and then retired to the library, too restless to sleep and too agitated to lie still. ?I tried to read, tried to focus my mind on anything other than Mr. Markham and the suspicions that surrounded him, but it was useless. ?Instead, I found myself staring at the small portrait of Arabella Markham. ?What sort of girl had she been? ?Quiet and shy? ?Or dainty and demanding? ?Had she known that she loved a future murderer? ?If gossip was to be believed, her own future murderer?

And if Mr. Markham had killed Violet, which Mr. Mayhew seemed certain of, had he known about the pregnancy? ?Was that his motivation or was it something else? ?Was the child his?

Without meaning to, I pressed my hands against my own stomach. ?Would I carry his child one day? ?Could I be right now, at this very moment? ?And why, oh why, did that idea thrill me as much as it scared me?

The difficulty of it was that I wasn’t sure if I was concerned about Violet’s murder only because I cared about the value of her life. ?The concern partially emerged from a more selfish, a more ancient part of my mind—the one designed for self-preservation. ?Like a wolf catching the alien scent of lead and steel on the wind, like a rabbit catching sight of the fox, my very body trembled with the need to flee my hunter.

Or fight him.

Or fuck him, a dark voice whispered in my mind.

The problem was that I knew of very few prey who had the third reaction. ?So did that make me stupid? ?Or strong?

There was a knock at the door. ?Adrenaline surged through me, tensing my muscles and making my pulse race. ?I turned to see Gareth coming inside the room.

Gareth. ?Not Mr. Markham.

“Hello,” I said, struggling to tamp down the manic energy that now coursed through my veins.

“Miss Leavold,” he said. ?“Do you need anything? ?More light perhaps?”

“A fire would be nice,” I managed, “but only if it’s no trouble.”

“Of course not.” ?He set to it right away, but his mannerisms were slow and thoughtful, as if he were trying to find a way to introduce a topic. ?I had no guess as to what that topic might be, and I didn’t care. ?My thoughts only touched around three points: Mr. Markham, Violet, the baby.

Mr. Markham, Violet, the baby.Mr. Markham, Violet, the baby.Mr. Markham?—

“I let Raven loose,” Gareth blurted.

I stared at him as if he were speaking Icelandic. ?“What?”

“Raven. ?Last night. ?I was the one who let the horse out.”

“Oh.” ?Last night’s events filtered through my thoughts, piercing the murk of fear and lust and doubt.

He was talking fast now. ?“I knew you had gone up to Mr. Markham’s rooms, and I know what happened when his guests were here, I mean, I saw you on the parlor floor with them and their hands all over you, and I didn’t know if you needed help or not. ?Although, I did know, because I know what kind of man my master is and I’m only sorry that I let the horse out too late—I had hoped to distract him and save you from his advances altogether.”

It all finally processed—the fact that Gareth had seen me while I had been laid so intimately bare the night I played Blind Man’s Buff, his misguided help, the risk he had taken in order to “save” me. ?I almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it in the face of what I had learned from Mr. Mayhew today. ?Who could care about saving my maidenhead when my very life was at stake?

But it would not do to be so blunt, Thomas would say. ?“Gareth, you shouldn’t have.”

“It was worth it,” he said. ?“I . . . I wasn’t able to help Violet. ?I wanted to help you.”

Oh. ?That put a different frame on things. ?I wished that he had been able to help Violet too.

I searched for a way to explain myself without sounding ungrateful. ?“Gareth, I wasn’t coerced into anything by Mr. Markham. ?I wanted to be in his rooms. ?I wanted to be on the parlor floor. ?I asked for all of that.”

Realization dawned on his face, and he turned back to the stacked logs, face aflame. ?“Oh.”

“Thank you?—”

“No, no, I understand,” he mumbled, standing up. ?Fire now crackled behind the andirons, making his fair hair orange. ?“My mistake.”

“I do appreciate the sentiment,” I said, a little pleadingly. ?I didn’t want to lose his goodwill when I had so little of it in this new life of mine.

He nodded. ?“It was nothing,” he said, eyes still downcast, and then he left.

Frustrated, I turned back to Arabella’s portrait, angry with Gareth and angry with myself and angry with Mr. Markham. ?Why had Gareth done something so presumptive? ?So potentially employment-threatening? And all for the memory of his master’s dead wife?

And—selfish as I knew it was to think—how could anybody expect me to exhibit gratitude now? ?Tonight? ?When all I wanted to do was roar and slash and howl, to run until I was insensate to everything except the breath stinging in and out of my lungs?

“Ivy.”

The sound took all of the air out of the room. ?I had no idea how long Mr. Markham been standing there and watching me think my half-crazed thoughts. ?But before I could ask or explain, he’d crossed the room and pressed his lips to mine.

“Every time I find you in my house, I have this desperate fear that it will be the last,” he said in between kisses. ?“How can I keep a wild animal caged in such a forlorn pen?”

Wild. ?Yes. ?I was wild. ?And that very wildness urged me to push him away. He would be the death of me, he had killed Violet . . .

He moved his lips to my neck, and that voice perished as suddenly as it had arisen. ?Want kindled within me, and God help me if the fear did not make the desire all the sharper. ?God help me if the danger did not ignite additional layers of excitement in my chest, and when his lips finally met mine again with the hunger of a starving man, the prey within me crowed at conquering the predator.

His lips on my skin were arousing, keenly thrilling, but at the same time, the most natural thing in the world. ?He and I were meant to touch each other, caress each other. ?How could I fear the man I was made for? ?No matter what he had done?

As if reading my thoughts, he pulled away. ?“Ivy, we need to talk.”

Trepidation coursed through me. ?It was a ridiculous fear given what I had learned today . . . but what if he told me that we couldn’t continue on like this? ?I had expected him to abandon me at some point—all men abandoned their mistresses—but this was too soon, too, too soon.

I let him guide me to the sofa, and then he went over to a low bar to pour himself a glass of something dark and smoky-smelling. ?He handed me a glass too, which I accepted but did not drink. ?I felt wary, on edge. Please don’t let this end yet, I prayed. I need more of this. ?More of him.

He sat next to me, tugging at his cravat. ?He still wore his traveling boots and he smelled of the summer evening—dry grass and sunlight and that indefinable male scent that always clung to him.

“I want you,” he said after a minute. ?Relief swelled.

“You may have me anytime you like, sir.”

“Sir?” He raised his eyebrows. ?“Have I frightened you or distanced you in some way?”

My mind flashed to the police station, to the scribbled coroner’s report. ?“No,” I lied, “but?—”

He held up his free hand. ?“No sir then, unless my cock is inside of you. ?Then you may call me whatever you like.” ?He finally pulled his cravat loose and tossed it on the floor. ?“Do you remember the night we were in here together? ?When I made you come for the first time?”

Heat sank between my legs at the memory. ?“Yes,” I said, breath threading through my voice.

“You remember all the things I said to you?”

Once we start, there will be no stopping. ?I’ll have you in every room of this house, on every surface. ?I’ll make you climax as often as it suits me, even if it’s several times an hour for an entire night. ?I’ll make you thrash underneath me and beg . . .

I nodded, biting my lip.

“I meant those things. ?I am sorry that I couldn’t stop myself from taking you . . . ” His eyes trailed down my body. ?“But I’m not a saint, Ivy. ?And you are truly so delicious.”

The heat was flaring now, spreading to my breasts, to every part of my body.

“I want to show you how to please me and how I can please you. ?I would like to teach you how lovers can be with one another. ?But first, we must talk about your position within my household.”

My position. ?As a poor nobody. ?A thought of Molly and her reputed wealth wormed through my mind, but I forced myself to ignore it. ?All I had left in this world was my freedom and my pride; I’d sacrifice neither, not even for Mr. Markham.

I raised my chin, meeting his gaze, and he must have seen some of the conflict in my eyes, because he shook his head and said, “No, wildcat. ?That’s not what I meant.”

“Good,” I said.

“This is exactly why I wanted to talk about this,” he said, leaning forward. ?“Don’t feel for a moment that I care about your status. ?In fact, I rather like it. I like having you here like this—all to myself and unattached to anybody else.”

The words were dark, the meaning darker. ?I shivered. ?He liked having me entirely at his mercy and his whims. ?And I liked it too.

He took a sip of his drink and then set it down on the table next to the sofa. ?“But I have to know that you aren’t acquiescing to this out of fear or worry for your survival. ?There’s no quid pro quo in my bed. ?I don’t want that. ?I don’t want you to want that.”

I breathed again, my fists unclenching. ?I hadn’t even realized that they were clenched in the first place.

He put his hand on my thigh, and instantly, my anxiety and anger flooded away, replaced with desire. ?“I want to educate you, wildcat, not use you.”

“So how do we go forward?” I asked. ?“I don’t know how this works. ?Do we live as we do now and keep my . . . education . . . a secret? ?Or am I to be more like a mistress?”

Here his face set. ?Time seemed to slow incrementally, everything half a beat too slow and drawn out, from the desultory crackle of the fire to the languid throb of my pulse.

“Neither,” Mr. Markham said. ?“I want you to be my wife.”

To Be Continued…

* * *

Thank you for reading The Awakening of Ivy Leavold!

Julian and Ivy’s sexy, gothic tale continues in The Education of Ivy Leavold…

I knew I was taking a risk loving a man like Julian Markham. But I thought that love was enough to cover over his darkness.

I thought wrong.

Ivy Leavold came to Markham Hall looking for a home and a new start, and instead she found the enigmatic Julian Markham--along with a love that threatened to consume them both. ?Now Mr. Markham is offering her a new life as his bride, as the mistress of Markham Hall, and Ivy wants nothing more than to say yes.

But Ivy knows that the closer she binds herself to Mr. Markham, the closer she binds herself to danger. ?And the deeper their love grows, the closer she gets to discovering the truth surrounding her cousin’s death. ?Once she does, the explosive secret will rip them apart...possibly forever.

Read The Education of Ivy Leavoldnow!