Chapter 16

Someone had been in her room while she was gone.

The door was closed. Ivy never closed her door, mostly because after her first few days at the abbey she'd learned that there was no use in keeping it closed; Agnes came in the late mornings to turn down her bed and then several more times over the course of the day to tend to various tasks, so Ivy had gotten in the habit of simply leaving it open. This wasn't Bethnal Green where one needed to worry about locking and bolting the door against thieves and other unsavory characters.

The first thing she noticed when she peeked inside was the cold. The abbey was drafty and prone to dampness, but this was like a wall of ice. Crossing to the windows, she tested each of them in turn. They were all closed tight, just as always.

The second thing she noticed was the paper scraps strewn about the furniture and carpet, like a flurry of snowflakes. It looked as if someone had shredded an entire book and left the evidence in plain sight. Crouching, Ivy scooped up some of the paper scraps. Phrases like Mad Monk and Agnes in the library, all written in her own hand, jumped out at her.

Rocking back on her heels, she let the paper slip from her fingers. Someone had come into her room, found her journal, and then destroyed it. Not just destroyed it, but made a violent mess of it. It felt like a message, a warning. Hastily sweeping up the scraps, Ivy opened the grate and fed them to the fire.

The solitary clink of silver on china and the occasional gust of wind rattling the window were the only sounds as she ate her dinner alone in her room that night. A deep sense of wrongness had settled in the pit of her stomach after finding the destroyed journal. Someone had come into her space, violated her most private possession. This might have been her house, but with rooms always being opened for cleaning and furnishings and decorations already established generations before her arrival, it hardly felt like hers. The journal had been a place to keep her secrets, document her fears and the events of her day-to-day life.

Ivy pushed her plate away, having no appetite for even the soft white bread and delicately seasoned ham. Who could she trust? Who would do such a thing? Although Mrs. Hewitt and the rest of the staff were protective of Blackwood and its library, there was also something they weren't telling Ivy. Otherwise, why hadn't they simply explained everything to her the way Arthur had? Why did they go to such trouble to dissuade her from taking an interest in it? Ivy would have understood, and it would have made her job of cleaning and cataloging that much easier. The more she mused on the whole situation, the more she was inclined to accept Arthur's offer of help. She was only one person, and the library was special and warranted the best care that could be had.

Determined to make her mark on Blackwood and refusing to be intimidated, Ivy braved a headache the next day and headed for the library. Arthur had asked her what the oldest book was in the collection, and now that she knew there were monastic texts dating back centuries, she was eager to find out. If nothing else, she was sorely in need of a distraction.

There were countless shelves and corners that she hadn't yet inventoried, but today she started with the end furthest from the great windows. The dust was thicker here, the book spines faded and soft-edged from wear. Each shelf was fitted with a reading desk, though most of the chairs had long since gone missing. It truly was a magnificent library. She had been to countless libraries and reading rooms with her father, but none of them had possessed such character, such a sense of arms opening wide to embrace her. Someday she would polish the mahogany rails that lined the gallery, buy chairs to replace the missing ones, and polish the grimy marble busts until they glowed white. But even now, in its decaying glory, it was the most beautiful sight in the world. Something told her that if there were to be a true treasure in the collection, it would be lurking here, in this forgotten corner. Heaven truly was an untouched stash of books, just waiting to be opened and read.

The carpet whispered under Ivy's feet as she made her way along the shelf, eventually giving way to bare wood. It was so quiet when it wasn't raining, every sigh of the wind, every turn of a page amplified in the cavernous room. Stopping in front of one of the shelves lining the wall, Ivy traced her finger down a gilded spine. She had all but forgotten that this was the spot where the ghostly footsteps had led her. It had been dark that evening, but now with the gray light filtering in through the window, she could see that it looked as innocuous as any other shelf. She stayed her finger. There was one book that was wrong though, somehow out of place. It wasn't leather-bound as were most of the other books, and the texture beneath the fabric binding was soft and worn, as if many fingers had touched it over the years, but just in one spot—the top of the spine. Tentatively, Ivy grasped the spine to pull it down, when suddenly the entire shelf groaned and simply disappeared. She stumbled backward as a secret passage revealed itself.

The light from the window seemed to dim, and the rest of the library faded away as she stared at the dark recess where but a moment ago a shelf had been. Her heart pounded in her ears, the weight of her discovery slowly sinking in. This happened in Sherlock Holmes novels, not real life. Curiosity quickly overtook her, and before she could think better of it, she was squeezing through the opening and into the dark passage.

Ivy was only three steps in when she realized she would need some sort of light to help her see. Pushing cobwebs aside, she hurried back out to the library, grabbed the torch that Mrs. Hewitt kept by the door in case of the electricity going out, and plunged back in. The torchlight bounced off roughly hewn stone walls, a musty heaviness settling around her. The passageway was short, and in no more than five steps she was through it, and expelled into a small, dark room with a surprisingly high ceiling. Stringy cobwebs hung from every corner, and the air was thick and warm, old. The only furnishing was a heavy wood table which stood against the far wall, and next to it a lectern draped in brittle velvet. As Ivy slowly made her way to the table, the air turned cold, her arms prickling with gooseflesh. At any moment the hidden door could swing closed behind her, and she would be trapped. No one knew where she was, and she doubted that anyone would be able to hear her yell for help. But she moved forward all the same, pulled to the table by some unseen force.

Brushing aside the dust, Ivy studied the empty table. It was old, simple, devoid of decoration save for the turned wooden legs and empty cubbyholes that lined the back. Perhaps it had belonged to one of the monks when Blackwood had been a proper abbey. She ran her fingers gently along the top of the lectern. The cloth draped over it was insubstantial to the touch, and it was a wonder that it didn't simply fall away to dust as she lifted it. Whatever lay under that cloth, she was probably the first one in decades—if not centuries—to gaze upon it. Perhaps she should leave it be, come back another time with gloves and a better light. But something drew her to it, and she couldn't help herself.

With the cloth lifted, she stilled her hands, her heart beating hard. Mounted to the lectern was a single manuscript, older than any Ivy had ever seen. Its creamy vellum pages had turned brown at the edges long ago, and a frayed red ribbon lay disintegrating on the open page.

Even the most elaborate manuscripts that she had spent nights poring over with her father paled in comparison to the book that lay before her. Strange figures danced in the margins, bathing in pools of turquoise water with exotic flowers. The language was unfamiliar. Not Latin, and not some older form of German or Italian. Not having been exposed to centuries of light and pollution, the images were as brilliantly colored as the day they had been painted. Leaning closer, Ivy was just about to risk turning the page when a noise stopped her. The hairs on her neck lifted, and her fingers fell away from the manuscript. The room was still and silent as a tomb. Then another creak, deliberate, this one closer.

Why had she thought exploring this remote and hidden chamber was a good idea? Mrs. Hewitt would find her decomposing body months later, clucking her tongue that her young mistress could have been so stupid. Spinning around, Ivy half expected to come face-to-face with some ghastly apparition. But the torchlight fell upon a man of flesh and blood. A man she knew.

Ralph filled the doorway, a dark silhouette, before he moved all the way into the room and the torchlight threw his face into shadows. "What are you doing here?" His voice cut through the stifling silence, and despite it being Ralph of all people, she had never been so glad to see another human being in her life.

But her relief was short-lived. Her breath steadying and heart rate slowing, she drew herself up. "I could ask the same of you."

The room grew even smaller with Ralph in it, his energy dark and dangerous. Was he angry that she had stumbled upon this place? Had he followed her to make sure that she never spoke of it again? He was like a shadow, always at her heels, and she wondered how often he was just out of sight, watching her.

His jaw worked, but he didn't say anything, just took a step closer to her. Instinctively, she moved away, backing into the table.

"For Christ's sake, Ivy, I'm not going to hurt you."

He had never used her Christian name before, and there was something vulnerable, hurt, in his tone that stopped her. A wave of déjà vu washed over her. No, he had used her name before, but when? She had faced Ralph before, outside, on the moors with the wind and rain at her back. But why would she have been alone with him, in the moors of all places? Her mind desperately fought to gain purchase on the memory, like waking from a beautiful dream with only the faintest notion of what it had been about. But no details crystallized, only a deep, unnervingly familiar ache of longing that settled in her chest. She shook the half-formed memory from her head. That wasn't what was important right now.

"Did you follow me here?" Ivy asked in a whisper.

Ralph didn't say anything, he didn't need to; his silence was answer enough.

"What do you want from me?" Her heart had started racing again, Ralph's closeness robbing her of any clarity of thought. The little room filled with the scent of woodsmoke and the outdoors. This was madness, yet she couldn't help the hopeful expectation that he come closer to her, touch her. She could practically feel the warmth of his hands on her skin, his breath on the tender spot behind her ear. Why did this all feel so familiar? Why did she want Ralph of all people to step into her space, to wrap his arms around her and pull her to his chest and never let her go?

But Ralph didn't move. "You shouldn't be here," he said in a low voice that sent shivers down her spine.

The gravity of his tone snapped her out of whatever silly fancy she had been indulging in. "What do you mean? What is this place?"

Sighing, Ralph ran a hand through his hair, standing the short, golden-brown strands on end. He looked as if he had been working in the stables, his shirt collar loose, his sleeves rolled. "You're too curious for your own good," he said on the back of a heavy sigh. "Too stubborn."

The way he said it, it was with a familiarity, an intimacy. This was more than a breach of conduct between an employer and employee. He spoke with the confidence of a friend, or even a lover. "You've been spending time with Arthur Mabry," he continued before she had a chance to respond.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"What has he told you about the library?"

Ivy's tongue darted over her dry lips, Arthur's strange plea coming back to her. Something told her to tread carefully, that there was more to the mutual distrust between Ralph and Arthur. "He told me that the Blackwood library is special, that it holds a lot of rare books on occult subjects."

Ralph's gaze sharpened. "Did he ask to come to the library?"

She knew he wasn't going to like her answer, though she wasn't sure why. "He—he already has come. He asked if he could bring his club next time."

"Christ," Ralph muttered to himself, confirming her suspicion.

"It's my home," Ivy countered. "I may invite who I wish."

Ralph drew his hands down his face, looking unbearably tired. "You have no idea," he said. "No idea. Don't let them come."

Something in the weariness, the hollowness of his tone brought her up short. "What do you mean?"

He shook his head. "You should go." He stood aside, waiting for her to pass.

But she stood her ground. "There is something strange about this library, something more than what Arthur told me." Her words came out in a rush. "I get headaches here, but I went to see the eye doctor and he said my vision is perfect. The books I lent out unleashed...something. There's a reason Mrs. Hewitt and everyone else doesn't want me to spend time in here." She drew herself up to her full height which was only to his shoulders. "I am your mistress and I demand you tell me what is going on."

There was a hint of amusement in his eye as he raised a brow at this, but it quickly dissipated. "You're right," he said, taking her by the shoulders. "I am going to tell you something, and I need you to listen. To really listen. No questions, no interrupting."

She opened her mouth but he stopped her. "I mean it, Ivy."

The use of her name again, the gravity of his tone, and she clamped her mouth back shut. Her nerves were alive, dancing in anticipation.

"Leave. Go now, today. Pack up your things and go back to London. Don't listen to anything Mrs. Hewitt says, or Sir Arthur for that matter. Just leave, as soon as you can."

Ivy stared at him, the muscle working in his jaw, his anxious eyes searching hers. That was it? Was she going mad? She had braced herself for...well, she didn't know for what. But something more than that. She wrenched herself free of his grasp, and his hands fell away. It was getting harder to breathe in the small room.

"What on earth are you talking about? Why would I leave?"

Ralph cut his gaze away, a lump rising and falling in his throat before he spoke again. "I told you already, but you forgot."

Clutching at his arm, she forced him to meet her eye. "So there is something to do with my mind, with the forgetting. What does it have to do with the library? Why can't you just tell me?"

"I—I don't want to frighten you," he said, his voice suddenly unsure, as if he were a shy suitor at a dance.

"But I'm already frightened! Terrified, even. My mind is starting to slip and I don't even know what's real anymore or who I can trust. I wake up in fogs, and my mind...it feels like a book with missing pages, like I'm constantly trying to piece an incomplete story together. There's something wrong, I don't know how I know, but there is."

His eyes dropped to her hand on his sleeve, as if he was momentarily entranced by her fingers. "It's no use. You'll forget I said anything about it in any case. It's for the best."

Openmouthed, Ivy stared at the man who only moments ago she had thought was going to kiss her. Then realization dawned on her. "This is about Sir Arthur, isn't it? Someone told me there was a history between his family and the Hayworths, and you don't want me to associate with him. Though why a brooding chauffeur would care about my personal life is beyond me."

Ralph drew back, a flash of hurt deep within his eyes that almost knocked the breath out of her. She expected him to put up some pretense of denial, but all he said was, "There you have it."

His words fell flat between them.

"So I should leave my home because of some bad blood between a distant relation and the man with whom I choose to spend my time?"

It was a small room, but it felt downright claustrophobic now. Ralph had a controlled sort of energy, like a hound waiting for a command before the attack. She shivered with anticipation. "He's only interested in the library, Ivy," he said. "It's no secret that his father is insolvent, that they're holding on to their estate by a thread. The Mabrys will bleed you dry in more ways than one. He doesn't care about you. Not like I—"

Ralph broke off, but her retort was already pouring out of her, fast and desperate. "You think that Arthur is only spending time with me because he's using me to get to the library?" Heat climbed her body. The idea was insulting beyond belief, yet she couldn't help remember the look on Arthur's face when he first set foot in the library, how entranced he had been, as if he had finally found Elysium. "Isn't it possible that he finds my company enjoyable? That he wants to be with me for me?"

Arthur had been her one friend here, someone who had sought her out. But then the doubts came crawling out of the wall like hungry little rats. Why would someone like Arthur Mabry be interested in her? She was attractive enough, and she was clever and possessed a title and estate. But she didn't speak the right way, carry herself the right way, and she hadn't come by her money in the right way either. Hadn't her mother faced the same predicament when she'd set out from America, a rich heiress looking to pair her wealth with the title of an Englishman? And hadn't her mother told her a thousand times that such matches were sure to flounder and result in misery?

"Ivy, please, listen to me. I'll drive you to the train station, today."

Crossing her arms, Ivy stared past Ralph's shoulder. "I'm not leaving." Even if she wanted to, where would she go? Back to barely scraping by in London? Back to living a half life? Blackwood might have been a strange, dreary place, but it was her birthright. It was the only place she made sense, and she would not admit defeat and go running.

"Ivy—" he started.

"And that's another thing—you can't keep calling me that. It's Lady Hayworth. Think me a snob if you will, but this is my home, my birthright, and I'm staying."

The pause that followed was only heightened by their closeness, the stillness of the room. When Ivy chanced a look at Ralph, he didn't just look upset or disappointed, he looked...heartbroken. His large body seemed to shrink in on itself, a little of the quicksilver light in his eyes dimming. It did something to her, an uncomfortable fissure opening deep within her chest, and she wished it were as simple as going to him, putting her head on his shoulder and telling him that she didn't mean it. But there was nothing simple about their situation, and the threads of her feelings for Ralph and Arthur were getting all tangled up. She needed space, needed to get out.

Ralph shook his head, his soulful gray eyes awash in sadness. "You're making a terrible mistake."

"But it's my mistake to make," Ivy said, shouldering past him, leaving him to the cobwebs and forgotten manuscript.