Chapter 9

She awoke to a skull in the wood beam above her bed, with two vacant eye sockets and a macabre grin staring down at her.

As her eyes adjusted to the weak morning light, the skull receded back into the grain of the wood, nothing more than three knots in the shape of a face. Ivy lay in bed for what might have been hours or minutes, listening to the comforting tattoo of rain before finally dragging herself out of bed and dressing. She had hoped that her old ghosts would not follow her to Yorkshire, but with nothing but time and an empty house, it was easier than ever to slip into melancholy. Even reading late into the evening until she had a headache could not stave off old memories. Inevitably night would fall and she would be left alone with the moans and screams of a London infirmary, and the scrape of a shovel in the dirt of a communal grave playing endlessly in her mind.

The only thing that kept the loneliness at bay was the library. Cataloging, cleaning, exploring, and reading consumed Ivy's days. Wandering the book stacks at the British Library had always been a favorite pastime, not just because of the books themselves, but because of the stories they held, the hands they had passed through. Dog-ears, unexpected bookmarks, even forgotten love letters tucked into pages made it feel like a treasure hunt. Ivy's father would set her loose among the shelves, and when it was time for tea, she would proudly show him all of her prizes. Once she had found a funeral announcement tucked into a copy of Crime and Punishment, and another time a pressed flower in a book of poetry. She wondered if the people who used these little mementos as bookmarks remembered them later, or if they simply forgot about them.

Today she was nestled in the far end of the library, going through a set of drawers that lined the bottom of the shelves. Gray light spilled in from the windows, rain pattering light and comfortably against the glass. With her tea forgotten and cold, Ivy carefully pulled a drawer open, releasing dust that smelled of old paper and cigars. Inside there were a few empty notebooks, loose papers, and old pen nibs. The next two drawers yielded similar results. She was just about to close the last drawer, when a thick ledger caught her eye. Unlike the other books, this was bound in simple paper, and lacked so much as even a title. Lifting it out, she took it by the window where softly diffused light from the rainy day illuminated the browning pages.

Lists of numbers filled the first few pages and her heart skipped a beat. This was the library's record of book acquisitions. Titles were listed in the left column, with the prices paid and dates shelved listed on the right.

When she reached the end of the acquisitions list, another began. This list was written in a shaky hand, words started and then scratched out. Names, it was names of people, and they almost all shared one thing in common: the title of Hayworth. A genealogical record. There were a few other names here and there, but those were few and far between. Spouses, perhaps, or illegitimate children. Reverently, Ivy traced her finger down the list. These were her ancestors, distant though they may have been. But there was something strange about the list, something that made her hands go clammy and cold. Whoever had written it had scrawled it as if in a hurry, the names growing progressively more slanted and unreadable. And while they hadn't included birth dates or any other details about the individuals, they'd thought it important enough to include the death dates and age of each viscount.

As expected, the men in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries had mostly died in their forties and early fifties, a few outliers younger and older. But even as Ivy progressed through the centuries, the life spans did not increase. Not a single viscount had lived past the age of sixty. She thought of the late Lord Hayworth's gravestone, and his early death supposedly due to dementia. It seemed that the Hayworth family was more than a bit unlucky when it came to life expectancy—some might have even called them cursed.

A headache was forming behind her eyes, and Ivy rubbed at her temples. She felt dizzy and unsettled. The shelves seemed to spin around her, the faint scent of incense filling her nostrils. Suddenly she didn't want to be in the library anymore. She'd had enough of death, and even though the men in the ledger had lived and died long ago, there was something unnerving about the list of names, the abbreviated lives, and all the heartache and grief that must have filled the space between the lines.

Ivy watched as Arthur paced about her parlor, making a show of inspecting the paintings on the wall. He took out a cigarette as if he would light it, then pocketed it again before resuming his pacing.

She had forgotten that she had invited Arthur until Hewitt had arrived in the library with his calling card on a tray. But now that he was here, she was glad for the respite and a chance to clear her head.

But conversation, which had flowed so easily between them at the pub, now stalled after the usual pleasantries. Arthur continued to aimlessly stalk about the room, propelled by a nervous energy anathema to his usual laidback demeanor.

"You seem...nervous?" Ivy finally asked.

"Do I?" He set down the paperweight he had been absently palming. "I suppose I'm just anxious to see the library."

She didn't exactly relish going back to the library with the specter of the dead lords still fresh in her mind. But perhaps with Arthur by her side it would be tolerable though.

"Well, I can hardly blame you. I was the same way when I first laid eyes on it. Why don't we take our tea in with us?"

The tray was brought in, and as they made their way across the hall and into the corridor, Ivy stole a sidelong glance at her companion. For all that Blackwood was a lonely and strange place, what luck that she should find such a kindred spirit who loved books and learning almost as much as she. And what's more, he didn't seem threatened by her knowledge; rather he welcomed it. She wasn't so na?ve as to think that many men were comfortable with a learned woman, let alone that they might deign to discuss such topics as literature which were considered unsuitable for the female mind.

Ivy put her hand to the door, then paused. "I should warn you, it was in somewhat of a state when I came here. I'm working my way through it, but there's still a lot to be done."

Arthur hardly seemed to hear her. He craned his neck as if he would be able to see through the wood door. "Yes, yes. I'm sure it's fine."

Pushing open the door, Ivy switched on the lights, and stood back to let Arthur inside. Two steps in and he came to a halt, awestruck as he craned his neck up toward the vaulted ceiling.

"It's magnificent," he murmured. "More than I could have imagined."

Rather pleased with his reaction, Ivy hurried to give him a tour. "The bulk of the novels and fiction are here, but I'm thinking of moving them to the upper level. As you can see, some of the railings need to be replaced along the gallery, and at some point I'd like to expand the electrical lighting to help reach the higher parts of the library." She looked to Arthur to gauge his thoughts, but he seemed to be in another world, rapturous and lost.

She trailed him, enjoying seeing the library for the first time again through his eyes: the never-ending shelves, the marble busts, the carved balusters and spiral staircase growing like a beanstalk to the second gallery. If his eyes blurred or head swam from the effects of mildew, he was too much of a gentleman to mention anything.

"What is the oldest book in the collection?" he asked, his fingers lingering on an exquisitely gilded set of encyclopedias before moving on.

Ivy thought. "There is a second edition of The Generall Historie of Plantes by John Gerarde," she said proudly. "And a great number of treatises from the seventeenth century. There might be others, but I haven't gone through everything yet."

He nodded absently, as if he hadn't really expected an answer. "It's a shame this has been kept closed up so many years. Just think of the knowledge that this room contains."

"Well, now that I'm here, I plan on rectifying that."

Suddenly turning to face her, Arthur took Ivy by the shoulders, peering at her with unnaturally bright eyes. "Ivy," he said, "what you have here is a treasure. A real treasure. You must open it up, make it available to academics. My club, for example, they would benefit so much from even just one afternoon spent here. It's a crime to keep all of this hidden away."

"I... I hadn't thought about it," she managed to say, taken aback by his fervor. But as she watched him wander around the shelves, occasionally pulling a volume out and inspecting it, the idea grew on her. "You're right," she said, musing. "It's a shame the closest bookshop is in Munson, and there's no lending library in town."

Arthur set aside the book he was looking at. "A lending library? That's not quite what I meant."

"But it would be wonderful, wouldn't it?" The idea grew on her. Here was her chance to really become part of the village, to make her mark. She envisioned a mobile cart that could travel to the outer reaches of the village, delivering books to those who normally wouldn't be able to access them. Perhaps there was even a corner of the village hall that could be dedicated to a bookshelf or two. Her dream was building itself faster than she could keep up.

Arthur looked uneasy, and she wondered if she had somehow offended his aristocratic sense of propriety. "Of course, your club must come and visit in either case," she hurried to add.

They spent another half hour in the library, though she got the sense that Arthur wasn't really with her. She hadn't realized that the library would prove so inebriating to someone other than herself; after all, it was her library and while she was enamored with it, it was probably not so different from most libraries held by the aristocracy. It was growing dark outside by the time Arthur ruefully replaced the book he had been leafing through and turned toward her.

"Ivy," he said, taking her hands in his, "this has been sublime. You have no idea what this library means to me, to my family."

She gave him a puzzled smile. "I'm sure I don't, but I'm glad you enjoyed your visit all the same." Her excitement at sharing her library with him had gradually dimmed as it became clear that his visit was more for the books than for her.

He must have sensed her disappointment, because his eyes softened. "I did, but I wouldn't be a gentleman if I didn't mention that it was your company which made it so delightful. How about this. Next sunny day, I'm taking you for a lark in the countryside. No books, no dust, just you and I and the fresh air."

"I'd like that," she told him, unable to help the smile that touched her lips. She knew that she was treading into dangerous territory with this young man, but she couldn't seem to help herself. He wanted to spend time with her, to get to know her. He was bright and pleasant and well-read, not to mention handsome. Her mother would have warned her that young men were best approached with caution, especially those who were used to getting what they wanted. Never mind her mother, Susan would have her head if she knew that things were progressing as quickly as they were. But meeting Arthur was like the sun breaking free of the clouds that had shrouded her for the past few years, and she would not turn her face from the light, not after all the storms she had endured.