Chapter 20

Cold air wrapped itself around Ivy, her bare arms prickling with excitement. She felt small standing at the bottom of the stairs in the great hall, anxious. The slinky, beaded gown had appeared in her room that morning with a note from Arthur. And with it, the daintiest little black slippers with matching beading appliqued into rosettes. Agnes had styled her hair into loose waves secured with a black feather fascinator, and when Ivy had looked in the mirror, a real lady had gazed back at her; she couldn't have asked for better armor for a battle against her nerves that night.

Despite Mrs. Hewitt's reservations, the party had come together beautifully. Fires roared in the grates, empty bedchambers had been cleaned and aired in anticipation of overnight guests, and everywhere the glitter of chandeliers sparkled in the candlelight. Servants Ivy didn't recognize scurried to make last-minute preparations, and Hewitt appeared with a tray of champagne flutes. She commandeered one in passing, draining it quickly and letting the bubbles float to her head. As long as Arthur was beside her, she would survive—no, conquer—the night.

Ralph was conferring with Hewitt near the door. Shaved and dressed in his sharp navy chauffeur uniform for once, Ivy felt as if she was seeing him for the first time, and her stomach gave a little flutter. He looked strong and handsome and reassuring, a solid figure against the unknowns of the night. He caught her eye, but did not return her anxious smile. Then he was gone again and the crunch of gravel outside drew her back to the present moment.

A footman materialized and announced Sir Arthur Mabry. Ivy all but ran to him; her anchor had arrived, and she need not fear being adrift in a sea of foreign social mores and obligations.

"Darling." He embraced her, then held her at arm's length, his dark eyes roaming over her. "You look...you're stunning, Ivy." There was a choke in his voice, and she shivered under his heated gaze.

"I'm so glad you're here," was all she could say. Dressed in white-tie with his black hair neatly slicked and parted, he looked like Rudolph Valentino, sparkling and handsome. And tonight, the world would see that he was hers, all hers. There were no ghosts or headaches or an intangible sense of dread; there was only the present moment, and it glittered and shone like a golden coin for the taking.

She'd barely had time to finish her champagne and reapply her lipstick when the first guests began to arrive. Every time the footman announced a new arrival, Arthur would quickly whisper in her ear who they were and how they should be greeted. Soon she found that her pasted-on smile was becoming genuine, and that she was actually enjoying herself. Everyone who came down the line was lovely, shaking her hand or kissing her cheek, treating her like an old friend. Why had she been so afraid of these people? She was one of them now.

A tall, serious man was the next down the line, and Ivy felt Arthur stiffen beside her. "My father," he murmured, as the man came to a stop in front of them.

"Father, may I present Ivy Radcliffe, the Lady Hayworth? Lady Hayworth, this is my father, the Honorable General Mabry, Earl of Norbrook."

He wore a full white-tie suit with starched shirt and tailcoat, looking altogether like a relic of a different era. Deep lines creased his long, jowly face, his stark white hair severely parted.

"How do you do, my lord?" Ivy greeted him, dipping a small curtsy.

"A pleasure, Lady Hayworth," he said, his voice all clipped vowels and upper-class nasal tones. "I couldn't have been prouder of my son when he told me the good news," he said. "The joining of two great families. Just think of the line your children will be starting."

"Father, you'll scare her off," Arthur said with a smile, though his eyes were hard, his body tense.

Ivy held her breath, sensing the tension and waiting for an argument between father and son to break out. But despite the skirmish, it seemed that they were not at war tonight.

By the time the line had ended, Ivy's feet were starting to pinch in her shoes. Her stomach rumbled, but before dinner there were to be cocktails in the parlor. Opulent bouquets of roses and lilies filled the vases, their sweetly cloying scent making her light-headed. It was strange to see the usually empty room filled with guests, the mingling scents of lady's perfumes and the autumn winds brought indoors. It felt as if the strings on a limp puppet had suddenly been picked up, setting it dancing and spinning. Maybe there was hope for Blackwood to be a real home yet.

"Lady Hayworth, so good of you to invite us," a gentleman with prolific side-whiskers told her as he grasped her hand in his clammy grip. "You must know how very eager we are to see the library. I've been waiting these twenty years to find myself in Blackwood, and now I'm afraid even another twenty minutes will be too much for me to bear."

"Easy, Sir Alfred," Arthur said, cutting in with a smooth smile. "There will be a viewing after dinner. No need to accost the lady while we are all simply enjoying good drinks and conversation."

"Of course, of course," Sir Alfred blustered. He murmured his apologies and blended back into the crowd.

"I wonder if some of them are here simply to see the library and the engagement was just an excuse to come," Ivy said.

"You mustn't mind some of our more enthusiastic members," Arthur told her around sipping his drink. "They're well-meaning, but unfortunately lacking manners."

Ivy watched the man snatch another drink off the tray of a passing servant. "I suppose you're right," she murmured. A headache was building at the base of her neck, tension blossoming upward to her head. The endless platitudes and introductions were beginning to wear on her, and the only thing filling her empty stomach was alcohol.

At last dinner was announced, and the party moved into the dining room. It was the first time Ivy would eat in the room since she lived at Blackwood. The dust sheets and spare furniture had been banished, and in their place were glittering crystal goblets, silver flatware, and hothouse flowers arranged in oversized urns. She ran a gloved finger along the back of a gilded chair. For every plate there were a dozen forks and spoons. Did all this finery belong to Blackwood? Was it hers? She would never understand the rich decrying their dwindling means, when so much wealth sat right under their very roofs in the form of fine furniture and silver collections. Was it really such a hardship to them to part with a few candlesticks and paintings?

Arthur helped Ivy to her seat, and at long last the food was served. As she sipped a dainty spoonful of broth, Ivy discreetly let her gaze roam over the dinner guests. There was an undercurrent of restless energy flowing around the table; men checked their pocket watches, and ladies whispered to one another. They all wanted to see the library, and were just muddling through the meal until it was time. Ivy's heart sank. This was supposed to be a celebration of her and Arthur's engagement, an introduction for her into society. Ivy dutifully made small talk with the gentleman on her left, but the luster of the evening was quickly wearing off. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was someone else who was supposed to be here, a friendly face who she had been looking forward to seeing. But she couldn't for the life of her remember who.

"Tell me, how do you find Blackwood Abbey?" Lord Mabry asked as he viciously stirred at his soup. "I knew the late Lord Hayworth and he wasn't terribly keen when it came to improvements and upkeep. Dreary old place, but not without its charm."

"It's far grander than I ever imagined," Ivy said, trying not to sound too much like the starry-eyed girl from Bethnal Green she was. "The library in particular is divine."

The older man's gaze lifted from his bowl and a nostalgic smile touched his thin lips. "Ah yes, the library. The jewel of Blackwood. I am very much looking forward to the viewing after dinner. I do hope that it hasn't turned to dust after it was commandeered as an infirmary during the war."

Here, at least, Ivy could find her footing. "In truth, the staff seemed reluctant to open it. But I've had the wiring redone and am in the process of cataloging the collection and cleaning it up. I hope to bring it back up to snuff."

"Admirable, my lady. I am glad to hear it. Servants have no business dictating anything," Lord Mabry said, stabbing his spoon in the air to punctuate his words. "That is the one piece of advice I will give you as you embark on this venture. Don't let them forget who pays their wages and provides the roof over their heads. It's the only thing that separates us from anarchy, and it's the prerogative of our bloodline to keep the order."

He sounded like one of those eugenicists, always concerned about the purity of English blood and keeping the classes and races separate. She briefly considered pouring the contents of her soup on his head, but thought better of it. Taking her smile as encouragement, he continued.

"When I came back from the front, I found my butler had been making himself familiar with the wine cellar, and all but two footmen absconded off to the city to find factory work," he said. "Can you imagine? Off fighting for Crown and country, and the mice are at play." He gave a heavy sigh and took a long draught of his wine. A stone-faced servant refilled his glass. "Ah well. We all had to do our bit, didn't we?"

Ivy gave a minuscule nod, focusing on lifting the spoon of broth to her mouth without spilling it.

"Arthur couldn't fight," Lord Mabry said, oblivious to her discomfort.

Until now Arthur had remained silent. "Father—" he started, putting down his spoon.

"Bad lungs when he was a boy," his father continued. "Can you imagine how that looked? A general asking his men to give their lives, while his own son sat at home and played tennis and read books?"

A muscle worked in Arthur's jaw.

"I'm sure your son has made you proud in other ways," Ivy hurried to put in, hoping to defuse what looked to be an explosive—if not common—matter of contention between the father and son.

"Your idealism is a credit to you, Lady Hayworth," the old general said, "but I am well acquainted with my son and his flaws."

"What my father won't tell you, is that I was active in the local Home Guard, and visited the infirmaries to offer my services."

"Bah." Lord Mabry gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Women's work, is what that is."

Arthur motioned for a servant to refill his glass, and quickly drained it before having another poured.

By the time the fish course was served, Ivy could hardly stomach another bite, her head swimming and her stomach churning with rich foods. Arthur had her glass refilled, and leaned over to whisper in her ear, "You're doing brilliantly, darling. I know this must be so tiring."

Her hand found his under the table and gave it a squeeze. A not unpleasant buzz was overtaking her headache, making her feel light and giddy. Too much wine, but it was the only thing that helped soften the hard edges of her duties as hostess, and dispel the heavy cloud that had settled over her since meeting her future father-in-law.

The tinkling of silver against crystal, and then Arthur was standing, glass in hand, clearing his throat. "I know we are all eager to move into the library, but I would be remiss if I did not raise a glass to the real reason we are here tonight." Here, he turned to Ivy and graced her with a brilliant smile. "My lovely fiancée, Ivy. I knew as soon as I saw her in the bookshop that I had found a rare treasure indeed, a woman who not only bore my bookish habits with grace, but encouraged and matched them as well."

A ripple of polite laughter and round of Hear! Hear!

Ivy focused on the glass in Arthur's hand, concentrating on the moving glints of light as he gestured. Sitting upright was becoming more and more difficult, the faces around the table starting to blur together. She caught the eye of one of the servers, and could have sworn it was Ralph. But what would he be doing up here serving dinner? She rubbed her eyes, made an effort to appear interested. She just had to make it through Arthur's toast, and then she could beg off and go to her room. Why had she allowed herself to drink so much wine? She was going to be too drunk to even enjoy her own engagement party.

"So, a toast, if you please. To the most enchanting and gracious of women, the Lady Hayworth."

Ivy managed what was probably a terrible smile, half standing from her seat to accept his praise. But she stumbled, and Arthur had to catch her by the elbow.

"You'll have to forgive my fiancée," he said with a laugh. "I'm afraid she's enjoyed the evening a bit too much."

Embarrassment burned her cheeks. Couldn't he have handled that with a bit more tact, in a way that didn't leave her feeling exposed and ashamed in front of all these important people? But she found that she was too far gone to object, and besides, she was tired. So tired.

"I think... I think I need togoliedown," she managed to slur.

"Of course, darling," Arthur whispered in her ear. "You're not needed for this next bit anyway."

Before she could ask him what he meant, the room was spinning away under her feet, the blur of smiling faces fading until all that was left was black.