Chapter 3

As the London buildings rushed past, and heavy smoke clouds were replaced with trees and fields, Ivy struggled to settle into the plush train seat. Her book lay tented and forgotten on her lap as she stared sightlessly at the passing landscape. Just as with signing the will, her preparations had taken place at breakneck speed, so as to leave little room for creeping doubts or second guesses. Sparse belongings were piled into her trunk, enough money to cover the rest of the month's rent was left with Susan, and then she was off. Now Ivy was bound for Yorkshire, and the abbey that was to be her new home.

A man in a tweed suit sat across from her, his newspaper proclaiming in uppercase bold fonts that unemployment rates were going up, some insufferable nonsense about the Eugenics Society claiming that birth rates were dropping among desirable populations, and that there were rumblings of German discontent. Ivy swept her gaze back to the passing landscape, a patchwork of rolling green hills and meandering stone walls. When was the last time she'd been out of the city? It would have had to have been when she was a child, a family trip to Brighton most likely. Cramped lodgings in a flat shared with two other families. Salty bathing excursions and sweet ices shared on the pier. Back when she didn't know that they were poor. They had been together, and so they had been happy. Every mile that the train gobbled up was another mile lost between her and her memories, her mother's grave, her grief.

"Excuse me, miss?"

The sound of the man's voice snapped Ivy from her thoughts. "I couldn't help notice your book there," he said, nodding to the volume that lay forgotten in her lap. "What are you reading?"

The book was a battered copy of Northanger Abbey, gifted to her by James. It had seemed like an appropriate choice for the trip, given her destination. James had always encouraged her love of reading and respect for books. He hadn't been the bookish type himself, much preferring nature hikes and woodworking, but that was the wonderful thing about James—he was full of surprises, nothing like you would expect.

Ivy closed the book, tucking it under her arm. Sharing even the title felt like giving away a piece of her brother. "Nothing...just a book."

"Must not be a very interesting book, you looked as if you were miles away."

And yet you thought it a good idea to strike up a conversation with me, Ivy thought.

"I'm being terribly rude," the man said, sticking out his hand. "I'm Ted Martin." When Ivy didn't return the gesture, he raised his brows in a prompt. "And you are...?"

Ivy glanced down at her finger and the narrow gold band that she wore. It had been Susan's idea, of course. "A ring on your finger is as good as being invisible to a certain sort of man." She hadn't needed to elaborate which sort of man that might be. Grateful for the armor, Ivy managed a smile, and extended her hand so that the ring shone. "Mrs. Radcliffe," she said.

The shift in his demeanor was instant. "Mrs. Radcliffe, a pleasure," he said stiffly. "I hope I didn't bother you."

"Think nothing of it."

The last hour of the journey was spent in blessed silence, the steady chug of the train's engine a comforting background. Ivy's eyes were just drifting closed when the train began to slow, and the muffled voice of the conductor passed through the cars. Shaking herself awake, she peered out the window. A heavy mist wreathed the land, but dark stone spires were just visible, piercing the clouds.

"Where are we?" she asked the man across from her.

He ducked his head, squinting out the window. "Blackwood," he told her. "That's the old church. Gloomy old town, I wonder that they even have a train station." He looked surprised when Ivy rose and began to gather her bags. "I hope your husband is meeting you at the station," he said, a glint of accusation in his eyes. "Nasty weather for a woman to be out alone."

"I'll be fine, thank you for your concern," she said curtly. Would she though? She had assumed that there would be cabs, but as the small station grew closer, it seemed unlikely.

The porter helped her off the train with her bags and trunk, then gave her a short nod. "Good luck, miss," he said, before hopping back on the steps of the slowly chugging train. Ivy frowned, not certain why he thought she would need luck. Only a handful of other passengers had disembarked, and already they seemed to have faded into the mist, meeting loved ones and being whisked away in automobiles. A lone bench sat in front of the station, a closed kiosk boasting of ices and cakes shuttered beside it. Susan had been right: this was a far cry from London.

"Lady Hayworth?"

It took her a moment to realize that whoever was speaking, was speaking to her. She was Lady Hayworth now, the last living member of an ancient and revered bloodline. Ivy spun around, coming face-to-face with a white placard bearing her name. She slowly raised her gaze, traveling up until she met the eyes of the man holding the sign. He was tall with a strong, stubbled jaw, and intensely dark gray eyes. Dressed in a duster coat, muddy boots, and a wide-brimmed hat, he looked more like a highwayman than a chauffeur.

"You're Lady Hayworth, aren't you? I'm here from Blackwood Abbey, to collect you."

Her shoulders slumped in relief. Of course she didn't need to worry about a cab or making her way to the abbey by herself; she was mistress of a great house now, and as such an auto would be sent round for her. "Oh, yes."

The man gave a curt nod, tucking the sign beneath his arm as he leaned down to collect her luggage. She didn't have much—just her trunk of books, a valise, and a carpet bag with her clothes. All the same, she resisted the urge to help him; a woman of her class wouldn't be expected to carry her own luggage.

But when she noticed him walking with a pronounced limp, Ivy hurried to relieve him of one of the bags. Up close, he smelled like coal smoke and leather and windswept moors. "Here, let me manage that one at least," she said, grabbing her valise.

His grip on it tightened. "That won't be necessary," he said gruffly, and she got the impression that she had injured his pride. Limp or no, his long strides still accounted for every two of hers, and she had no choice but to jog to keep up with him.

The car that waited outside the station was black and sleek, and looked as if it had been recently polished. The chauffeur opened her door, then loaded her luggage into the back. A moment later they were rolling out onto the cobbled street and Ivy craned her head to see out the window. "Pity it's so foggy out—I would have loved to see more of the town."

She caught him glancing at her in the rearview mirror. "You won't see much of the sun this time of year," he told her. "Fog and wet is what we have here in Blackwood." His Northern accent was thick and deep, musical, but hard to understand.

Disappointed, Ivy sat back in her seat, the little village crawling past them as the rain picked up. "I'm so sorry," she said suddenly, "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name?"

The dark brows in the mirror rose. Was a lady of the house supposed to ask for the chauffeur's name? She wasn't certain, but it seemed rude not to.

"Ralph," he said shortly.

"Your full name, Mr...?" she prodded.

A heavy pause. "I go by Ralph."

His tone didn't invite further conversation, so Ivy pretended to be absorbed in the shrouded landscape that they passed. They had left the jumbled streets of the village, and were now winding along a lonesome road, broody moors stretching out around them, the only landmarks the occasional crooked tree or cairn of old stones. She would have almost certainly been miserably lost if she'd had to find her own way.

By the time they pulled up to a gravel driveway, the rain was coming down in sheets. So much for exploring the grounds of the abbey. The car came to a stop in front of an imposing facade with marble steps, chimneys disappearing into the gray sky. Through the rain and the mist, Ivy was able to make out the impression of a heavy fortress made of dark stone with rambling additions. It must have once been a staunch defender of civilization amidst the moors, though it appeared a weary sentry, with its crumbling stones and overgrown grass. From the crenelated windows to the stately battlements, it certainly delivered everything that a Gothic abbey ought to. Yet it was a graceful decline, dignified and suited to a castle on the wild moors.

Ralph turned off the engine, then jumped out, flipping up the collar on his coat. "I've no umbrella," he said as he opened her door. "You're going to have to make a run for it."

Used to navigating the rainy streets of London, Ivy held her scarf over her head and made a dash for the marble steps. Behind her, Ralph followed with the luggage. Just as Ivy was about to pull on the iron knocker, the door swung open, revealing an older woman in a navy-blue service dress looking as startled as she.

"Oh, forgive me, my lady! I didn't realize you had arrived. I was just coming with an umbrella to meet you." She stepped aside, her long skirt skimming the stone floor.

Ivy hurried inside, grateful to be out of the rain, though the chill of the November day seemed to be just as pervasive in the house as it was without. Inside was much like the outside, opulent on a grand scale, but fraying at the seams when inspected closely: tapestries worn, carpets patched, and chandeliers missing candles. Behind Ivy, Ralph set down her luggage with a heavy thud.

The woman closed the door behind him, before turning back to Ivy. "Welcome to Blackwood Abbey, my lady. I'm Grace Hewitt, head housekeeper."

Everything about the woman was neat and tidy, from her tightly coiled dark hair to her crisply ironed dress. If not for the firm set of her lips and slightly aloof gaze, she would have looked almost motherly.

Ivy stuck out her hand. "How do you do, Mrs. Hewitt?"

Looking at the outstretched hand as if Ivy had offered her a slimy toad, the older woman reluctantly returned the gesture. Ivy added not shaking hands with the service members to her list of things she wasn't supposed to do now that she was a lady.

"You'll have to excuse me," she said, shoving her hands in her cardigan pockets. "I'm not used to any of—" she broke off, looking about the grand hall "—this. I hope that you'll help me find my footing at Blackwood. I clearly have a lot to learn."

It was the right thing to say. Mrs. Hewitt gave her a tight nod, drawing up her chin with obvious pride. "I've served four generations of Hayworths," she said, "and I intend to provide you with the same unparalleled service. Begging your pardon, my lady, but how exactly are you related to the late Lord Hayworth?"

"He was apparently a distant cousin on my father's side. I never met him, and didn't even know we were related until the solicitor informed me that I was his only heir."

Mrs. Hewitt's lips pressed tighter. For some reason, this did not seem to be a satisfactory answer. "I see. Well, there will be time for all these details later. Ralph," she said, looking past Ivy's shoulder to the doorway. "Take Lady Hayworth's luggage to the blue room, won't you? Just follow Ralph, he'll show you the way," she told Ivy. "I will give you a tour of the abbey, as well as introduce you to the rest of the staff once you are changed from traveling and settled in. I'll have Agnes bring up some tea in the meantime."

With that, Mrs. Hewitt was gone in a swish of skirts, her heels clicking away down some unseen corridor. Feeling as if she'd failed some sort of test, Ivy turned to see Ralph gathering up the luggage again. Now that he had shed his hat, she could see the gold threaded in his brown hair, the way the lamplight caught shifting flashes of gray in his dark eyes. He couldn't have been more than a couple of years older than her—James's age, had her brother lived.

"Follow me, my lady," he said gruffly.

"I really wish you would allow me to help," Ivy said, hurrying to catch up with him as he mounted the stairs. "I can certainly manage my own valise."

Ralph grunted. "Determined not to be a proper lady, are you?"

"I only became ‘a proper lady' a few days ago with the stroke of a pen," she informed him. "And as I told Mrs. Hewitt, I have a lot of learning to do. Besides," she added, "I don't really believe in class distinctions." Perhaps it was her American heritage or her father's liberal views, but her parents had always been adamant about instilling in her the notion that the accident of one's birth should not determine their place in the world. They had been careful that while they had made sure she was literate and well-spoken, she never looked down on those who were not.

A snort, and it was clear that was to be the end of their exchange.

Despite Mr. Duncan's warning that the great house was in less than pristine condition, it was still easily the grandest place Ivy had ever been. The carpets might have been a little threadbare in places, and there was a persistent chill that clung to the echoing hall, but the marble staircase was magnificent, and giant tapestries in muted tones hung from the second-story gallery. Everything was neat as a pin, proof that Mrs. Hewitt did indeed take her job seriously.

They reached the second landing, and Ralph headed down a long hall, lined with heavy oil paintings and more tapestries. Goodness, there was even an armory, complete with mounted crossed battle-axes and silver suits of armor. Jane Austen would have no doubt found it all a little too on the nose for satire on abbey living.

Coming to an abrupt halt, Ralph nudged open a door with his knee, and then gestured Ivy inside. "This will be you, then," he said, dropping her bags at the foot of an ancient four-poster bed. "Water closet is through there, and bellpull right there will connect you to the kitchen if you need anything."

Entranced by the grandeur, Ivy moved through the room, gaping at the oil paintings that hung on the wall, the fine china basin and flocked blue wallpaper. Ralph made no movement to leave, rather, his gaze on her sharpened as she reached out to touch a velvet drape.

"I can't believe this is real," she whispered.

"You're married," Ralph said from behind her. There was no surprise in his voice, just a statement of fact.

"What?" She glanced down at the ring on her finger. "Oh, no."

Something like pity crossed his face, softening the hard lines of his jaw and brow. "A widow, then?"

"No, that is, I just wear it in town, so that men don't..." She felt her cheeks growing hot. Ralph was still fixated on the ring. Twisting it clumsily off her finger, she switched it to her other hand. Ralph had been in the war, that much was clear from his limp and the dark, glassy look that haunted his eyes. And here she was, pretending that she was a widow, so that she didn't have to talk to strange men.

Ralph looked back to the door. "Well, if that will be all, then..."

Belatedly, she realized he was waiting for her to release him. "Oh, yes, of course. Thank you, Ralph."

"No need to thank me," he said, his voice gruff. He looked only too grateful to finally escape her.

When the door had shut behind him, Ivy threw herself down on the bed. Susan would never believe this. The thought of her best friend brought an ache to her chest. Later, she would have to see if there was a telephone somewhere in the abbey and give the boardinghouse a ring. She let her gaze wander around her new room. Amidst all the grandeur and finery, though, there was a want for something familiar. At least London had boasted all the places she had shared her childhood with her family, but here was vast, unexplored territory that was void of memories and familiarity. Well, she would just have to make her own memories. After all, a fresh start was only fresh if one embraced the changes that came with it.