Chapter 18

"My lady, where have you been?"

It was a good question. Mrs. Hewitt watched as Ivy stopped at the bottom of the staircase and looked about, trying to remember what she had just been doing. There was mud on her boots, so she must have been bicycling or out walking, but she couldn't recall why or where. It had been what—a week? two?—since Arthur had swept her off her feet with his proposal, and her days were becoming progressively blurrier, moments strung together on a tangled string.

"I was... I believe I was bicycling."

"Well, there was a message from Sir Arthur," Mrs. Hewitt said. "I told him you were indisposed."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hewitt," Ivy said crisply as she peeled off her gloves. But Mrs. Hewitt made no movement to leave. "Yes?"

Mrs. Hewitt pursed her lips, her long face stamped with disapproval and an edge of worry. "Is there...is it true, that there's an understanding between you and Sir Arthur?"

Ivy paused before taking the first stair. Word certainly traveled fast. "I don't see how it's any of your business, but in fact, yes. We are engaged to be married."

The color drained from Mrs. Hewitt's face. "Oh, my lady, you can't," she said.

A movement out of the corner of her eye, and Ivy caught sight of Ralph, hovering just outside the doorway. She found herself unaccountably irritable that he was once again looming about watching her, as if he had some claim on her. At her words, he threw down the tool belt he had been carrying, the clatter echoing through the hall. There was a wild glimmer in his eyes as he stalked away that sent her stomach into a free fall.

"I can, and I will," Ivy snapped, dragging her gaze from where it lingered at the doorway. "Now please, I don't want to hear any more about Sir Arthur or what I may or may not do. I am an adult woman, and lady of this house. I will marry whom I please."

A headache was coming on, and the pain was building hot and fast behind her eyes, almost to the point of blinding her. She reached for the marble banister to steady herself, and was vaguely aware of Mrs. Hewitt's brows drawing together in concern.

"Excuse me," Ivy mumbled. She turned and hurried upstairs, collapsing into her bed.

Something was pressing down on her eyes, as if someone had tied a blindfold tightly about her head. When she raised a shaking hand to her temples, her fingers met a damp towel. She was groggy, and it felt as if she'd been sleeping for years under some sort of enchantment. Dried blood caked her nose, and her mouth was dry as cotton.

A shift in the air and faint rustle of movement told her that she wasn't alone. With the effort of what felt like rolling a boulder up a mountain, Ivy cracked open her eyes. Blue wallpaper and the familiar pattern of crenelations on her bedroom window greeted her. Then a blurry face leaned over her, slowly coming into focus.

She squinted against the gray window light. "Arthur, what are you doing here?" Her voice came out cracked, as if she had not spoken in many days.

"You're awake." Relief flooded his face. He perched on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping toward him. "You never returned my message, and I was beginning to worry. Then you missed the charity auction, and I knew that something must be wrong."

"What are you talking about? What auction?"

"Why, for the war orphans. When I told you that the Ladies' Auxiliary was holding one, you insisted on helping coordinate it." He paused, looking at her with concern anew. "Don't tell me that you forgot about it?"

"I..." Ivy trailed off. "I helped plan an event?" It sounded plausibly like something she would do, but she hadn't the faintest recollection of it.

Arthur's expression softened from incredulity into something like pity, and Ivy felt like a small child being comforted after a tantrum. "Yes, you were very keen to help the cause. Of course, I cautioned against it. But you would stay up planning it all night and oversee all the little details yourself. That's why I was so alarmed when I arrived and you were nowhere to be seen."

"Oh, dear," Ivy said. She could bear her forgetfulness if it was only her that it affected, but now it seemed that others were suffering for it. "Were the children very upset?"

"There were some tears, yes. But not to worry, it went off otherwise without a hitch, and the ladies were able to raise a good sum of money, I was told."

"When...when was that?" Patches of memories came back to her: the engagement, riding her bicycle, confronting Mrs. Hewitt, a terrible headache. But she couldn't for the life of her remember anything about a charity event.

In the doorway, Agnes was hovering, her fingers twining around each other at her waist. She shared a concerned look with Arthur.

"Almost a day ago," he told Ivy.

No, that couldn't be right. She closed her eyes and swallowed. "It's nothing, just a headache." But even as she struggled to her elbows, a wave of fatigue washed over her. This wasn't just a headache and a bloody nose. Desperately, she tried to remember what had led her to this moment, but it was like water running over smooth pebbles, and no memories stuck.

Arthur gently pressed her back into the pillows. "I've already sent for a doctor—my personal physician."

"That's not—that's not necessary," Ivy protested.

Bringing a glass of water to her dry lips, Arthur tipped her head back to help her drink. "I'm afraid it is, darling."

The water blazed a deliciously cold trail through her body. She could have drunk an entire bucket's worth, but Arthur drew the glass away after a few sips. "Easy now," he said gently. "Won't do to make yourself sick on your empty stomach."

At some point Agnes had gone to fetch Mrs. Hewitt, who had insisted on joining them in the room, as apparently it wasn't proper for her to be in bed with a man beside her. Ivy hadn't the energy to dismiss the housekeeper, so she lay there with Arthur tenderly holding her hand, and Mrs. Hewitt hawk-eyed and disapproving in the corner. At last the physician arrived. Middle-aged with silver-gray hair, piercing blue eyes, and neatly dressed in an expensive-looking dark tweed suit, he was a far cry from the neighborhood pharmacists from whom her mother used to purchase two-penny bottles of cures.

"Lady Hayworth," he said, giving her a short bow at the neck. "My name is Dr. Prescott. I hear you are in some discomfort."

Ivy opened her mouth to respond, but Arthur swooped in. "Headaches," he told the doctor. "My fiancée is suffering from terrible headaches, perhaps brought on by eye strain from reading. As you can see, it's gotten so bad that she became incapacitated."

The doctor gave a knowing nod. "All too common, I'm afraid." He opened his black bag and pulled out a stethoscope which he placed modestly on Ivy's chest over her blouse. Apparently satisfied with whatever he heard, he removed the tool, and proceeded to rifle about in his bag for something.

"This is absurd," she was able to mumble.

Dr. Prescott ignored her protest. "My lady, may I ask what you have been doing in addition to reading lately? Anything that might have overexerted you?"

Doing her best to keep a level voice despite his patronizing tone, she said, "I've done nothing out of the ordinary. I—"

"My fiancée has started a book lending program in the village," Arthur cut in. "She spends hours selecting books in the library, then bicycles all the way into town and back by herself. She helped organize a charity auction for war orphans, and this is in addition to her duties at the abbey. She's unstoppable, I'm afraid."

The doctor shared a look with Arthur as if they were both in on some big secret, one which her feminine mind was incapable of understanding, then gave her a wan smile. "My lady, I believe what we have here is a case of nerves coupled with fatigue. And is it any wonder? A young woman thrust into a new social position, running a large household by herself, and taking on extra projects which involve long bicycle rides. It's a well-studied phenomenon that bicycling for women can upset the flow of blood, causing it to rush from the head to the uterus. I'm prescribing you something to take in the evening to help you sleep, and lots of rest besides that. Absolutely no more bicycling. I saw you have a lovely Austin motorcar in the drive, and I should think that would be a preferable mode of transportation." He paused, thoughtfully stroking his little beard. "You're lucky your fiancé will be helping you, and relieving you of some of your burdens—not all ladies would be so lucky. Now, I don't want to hear about any more bicycle rides or long nights spent in the library." Standing, Dr. Prescott shook hands with Arthur, who showed him out.

When the men were gone, Ivy's gaze slid over to Mrs. Hewitt who was sitting still as a statue in the corner, eyes trained at the foot of the bed. Though her back was straight and jaw set, she looked less severe today, her graying hair more loosely styled, a fine mist in her dark eyes. "I told you to stay out of that library." Her voice held no reproach, only a weary sort of resignation.

"I hardly think reading is the cause of this."

Mrs. Hewitt sighed, looking tired, older than her already advanced years. "I should have sent you packing the moment you stepped foot here. Imagine, them sending a young woman!"

"What do you mean, ‘they' sent me? I'm the heir to Blackwood, and I've the paperwork to prove it. I came of my own volition. No one sent me." Closing her eyes, Ivy sank back onto the pillows. The staff were all bitter. It was the only explanation. Alone in the house with naught but the lonely moors about them, and they turned to cruel tricks and stories to torment her, to see how long it would take them to drive Ivy out. They were used to having the house to themselves, and resented a new young mistress coming in and stirring the pot with modern ideas. Ivy gave a huff, turning her attention to the window where gray clouds were scudding low across the sky.

Mrs. Hewitt ignored the question. "The others, well, they were all men, and all had a sense of entitlement about them, which is to be expected. But it seems you've made your mind up. You've seen it for yourself," Mrs. Hewitt continued. "Why do you think we tried to stop you from lending the books out? Don't you see what happens? It's not my place to interfere—quite the opposite. But it's untenable that things carry on in this way."

Ivy sat up as straight as her aching body would allow, the coverlet falling away. "You're talking about the books," she said. There was a connection to be made, but her groggy head was struggling to make it, like a flint not quite catching the flame. "Something happens when they leave the library. Is that it?"

Mrs. Hewitt worried at the ring of keys at her belt, before quickly catching herself and returning to her usual composure. When she didn't offer any more information, Ivy rubbed a frustrated hand across her bleary eyes. "But Arthur said it was all coincidence."

"And you would believe him?"

"Seeing as he's the only one who's offered so much as one word of explanation, then yes, what choice do I have but to believe him? You sit there and hem and haw and beat about the bush, dropping crumbs of hints, but you won't tell me a thing."

Mrs. Hewitt drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair, her lips sealed as tight as a tomb. "I'll leave you to your rest," she said, standing abruptly.

"Wait," Ivy said, sensing her chance to learn more slipping away. "Wait, please stay. I'm sorry I—"

But the door had already clicked shut, and with it, the closest chance she had to any answers from Mrs. Hewitt disappeared.

Ivy let out a curse. Fumbling on the bedstand for the bottle the doctor had left, she read the label and gave a weak laugh. Morphine. It would help with the headaches and then some. With shaking hands, she administered three drops of the clear liquid into the glass of water beside her, and gulped it down.

Closing her eyes, she let the room swirl around her, the morphine taking the hard edges off reality. How had it come to this? Only weeks ago she had boarded a train, full of hope and excitement. And why not? She now had a home, food in her belly, and a fiancé who adored her more than anything. But what was real was starting to grow fuzzy and soft, like an old daguerreotype. The strange conversations, the books that seemed to foreshadow, if not cause, the contents of their pages to spill over into the world. How did she know if any of that was real?

Once, in the early days of the war, one of James's friends had joined them for dinner. He had already seen action, and been sent home on leave on account of a shrapnel wound in his shoulder. Mother had uncorked a bottle of wine to celebrate, the loud pop reverberating through the small flat. James's friend had fallen to the floor, and for a moment Ivy had been afraid that the cork had hit him. But he was unharmed—physically at least. It took them at least half an hour to coax him out from under the table, and when he sat in his seat again, his eyes were far away, haunted, his body shaking. Afterward, her father had told her that some soldiers were coming home changed by what they had seen in the trenches, doomed to be haunted by their war memories for the rest of their lives. Shell shock, he had called it. Was that what was happening to her? She had never been in a war, but perhaps it was the same principle. Perhaps the shock of receiving the bequest and moving into Blackwood after everything she had been through had taken a toll on her mind that was only now coming to light.

Ivy's dreams were vivid and feverish that night. An older woman in a medieval gown and white headdress floated through her room, pausing at the foot of her bed to turn all-seeing eyes on Ivy. Something in the woman's placid demeanor was kind and warm, and made Ivy feel safe, like a guardian angel. But then she was gone, and in her place, a hooded monk. His face was obscured, but all the same, something cold gripped Ivy by the spine, telling her that she did not want to know what lay in the depths of that crimson hood. She tried squeezing her eyes shut, but her dream mind would not let her, and she was forced to watch as the hood fell away. A scream stuck in her throat as it revealed a hideous skull, bits of crusty flesh and skin hanging from the bone, and eye sockets crawling with maggots. One fell on the bed, and she kicked at the blankets, desperate to get the wriggling thing off.

She awoke the next morning to sheets bunched and tangled, damp with sweat. Her mouth tasted of chemicals, and the fatigue that weighed her down felt artificial, as if she had been pushed deeper and deeper into her mattress by heavy hands. Bolting up, she clawed at the covers, looking for any sign of the maggots, but of course there were none. It had been a dream. A terrible dream, but a dream nonetheless. At that moment she pledged she would not touch that horrid morphine again, no matter how bad the headaches became. She didn't trust that doctor and how quick he had been to diagnose her. In fact, she didn't trust anyone. Not Ralph, not Mrs. Hewitt, and as much as it pained her to admit it, not even her fiancé.