Chapter 2

Thoughts as jumbled as the London traffic ran through Ivy's head as she bid Mr. Duncan goodbye and left the warm office. He'd sent her off with a small envelope containing a letter of introduction and enough money for train fare. Back in the rain with her shoes quickly soaking through again, it was as if the surreal meeting had never happened. A warm shop window boasting rows of books shone like a beacon in the dreary gray afternoon, stopping Ivy in her tracks. She lingered briefly, debating whether to go in and browse before meeting Susan. But books were dear, and if she didn't have the money for the soldiers, she certainly didn't have the money for something as frivolous as books. Perhaps once she was lady of Blackwood she would be able to afford books, fill a library with them. But until then, she would have to make do with what was left of her father's collection, which lived in a trunk beneath her bed.

Susan was waiting for her in the bow window of their favorite tea shop, a warm cup already in her hands. Ivy's friend was enviably untouched by the London weather, her dark bob immaculate, her light brown skin powdered and glowing. In a sea of dark coats and somber expressions, Susan stood out like a brightly plumed bird with her orange cloche hat and red lipstick. A quick glance at her reflection in the window told Ivy that her own blond bob was irreparably tousled, and no amount of makeup or clever styling would do anything for her drowned-cat appearance.

Ivy sat heavily down in the chair, her sopping coat dripping onto the linoleum floor. Steam curled invitingly out of a teapot, and Susan pushed a cup toward her.

"Bless you," Ivy said, gratefully wrapping her frozen fingers around the cup.

"Well?" Susan looked at her expectantly from kohl-lined eyes. "How did it go? What did the solicitor say?"

Ivy took a long sip of the hot tea, gathering her thoughts before responding. She was further spared having to answer right away by a diminutive woman drowning in a white apron, who set down a bowl of sticky toffee pudding with a clatter.

"Two spoons, if you please," Susan said.

The woman scowled. "It's thruppence for a second."

"Never mind, we'll share," Susan said breezily.

The woman stalked off, and Ivy accepted the spoon, dipping it into the sticky toffee and savoring the eye-watering sweetness.

"Well?" Susan prompted her after she'd relinquished the spoon. "What happened? What was the meeting about?"

"It seems..." Ivy paused, the situation still too extraordinary to be true. "It seems I've inherited an estate and title in Yorkshire."

Susan set her cup down, tea sloshing over the sides. "I'm certain I didn't hear you correctly. Say that again?"

"The solicitor said that I'm the last surviving member of the Hayworth family, and that I'm next in line for inheriting Blackwood Abbey in Yorkshire." Even saying the words out loud sounded preposterous. She was sitting in her favorite tea shop, talking with her best friend, and the streets of London marched on with their day. But she was not just Ivy Radcliffe anymore, she was the heir to an ancient name and title. Somehow, in the grand scheme of the universe, she was a lost puzzle piece that had finally found its place.

"Are you saying that you've been a duchess this entire time?"

"A viscountess," Ivy answered absently, stirring her tea.

Susan reached out and took Ivy's hand in hers, bringing her out of her thoughts. "Ivy, you're going to move to Yorkshire?"

Her friend's dark eyes shone with excitement, but there was also a shadow of something like hurt lurking there. Ivy brought her other hand to clasp Susan's. "I don't know yet, I think so. I..." She trailed off. How did she explain that the news had opened her eyes to the dark cloud under which she had been living these six years? Everything in London was a reminder of her sacrifices, of the family she had lost. She was not alone in her loss, but everyone here wore their grief like great overcoats, wrapped around them so tightly that they couldn't see each other. If Ivy stayed, her options were trudging to a job at a typewriter—that is, if the employment office deemed her worthy—or worse, shackling herself to a bore of a man. And that was if she could even find a husband; an entire generation of young men had been decimated, wiped clean off the earth. As for her dreams of continuing her father's work, well, no one would hire a woman to work in a university studying medieval manuscripts.

Across from them, a mother and her young daughter were sitting, sharing a plate of biscuits and sandwiches. The girl was rosy-cheeked and dressed in a darling pinafore, giggling when the milk from her cup clung to her upper lip like a little mustache.

Susan turned to see what Ivy had been looking at, then softened when she turned back. "Maybe there will be men there," she said. "Eligible men."

Ivy took a sip of her tea. "Maybe." But if there were no men in London, it was not likely that there would magically be any more in a tiny Yorkshire village. Not that she made much of an effort to meet anyone. Sure, she went to the occasional dances with Susan, but the men there weren't the serious type. Even if they were looking for something more than just a dance or a kiss behind a curtain, she suspected they weren't the sort she'd be happy spending her life with. Ivy had all but accepted that she would never have a family of her own, that her childhood had been an anomaly, and her one chance at happiness. Susan was the closest thing she had to family, and now Ivy was going to be moving across the country.

She squeezed Susan's hand. "Come with me," she said on impulse. "It would be good for you, for both of us. We can start fresh in Yorkshire. You know I'd be hopeless at running an estate, and you have such an eye for design and decorating."

Susan gave her a sad smile, slowly extricating her hand from Ivy's grasp. "You know I can't," she said. "My aunt is here, and she needs me. Besides..." Susan flicked her gaze to the window, where rain ran down in thick rivulets. "There are more opportunities in London for a single woman. What would I do in Yorkshire? Where would I go dancing? Goodness, can you imagine me doing the Charleston or Black Bottom in a village hall?"

Ivy had to concede the point. Susan was vivacious, loved dancing; she was made for the stage, trying new things and meeting new people. It was hard to imagine her thriving in a small Yorkshire town where nothing ever changed. The determination Ivy had felt holding the pen and scrawling her name on the line was quickly fading.

As if sensing her dwindling confidence, Susan patted her hand. "I'll come visit—you won't be able to keep me away. You're going to be brilliant, I just know it. I'll read about you in the society pages."

Ivy's lips kicked up into a weak smile. If only she had her friend's confidence in herself. She had thought that she would have felt lighter somehow, as if years of grief would have simply sloughed off her as she stepped out of the solicitor's office; after all, she was a new woman now, at least in name. But instead, she felt as if she'd just shackled herself to a dark and uncertain future, one where she would be completely alone with her ghosts.