Chapter 5

The nightmares were always the same.

A ditch, dirt pouring down from above her, unable to grasp the fingers that desperately reached out from the soil. Muffled voices begging for help. A London hospital, the floors slick with blood, each sickbed occupied by a skeleton eternally waiting for a nurse that would never come. Searching for the face of her brother, a telegraph clutched in her sweating hands. Missing in action, it says. But every time she leans over a bed, the sheet falls away to reveal a tangle of disembodied limbs, blood everywhere. Then she awakens with a gasp, sweat trickling down her neck.

From somewhere just beyond Ivy's consciousness a clock struck the hour, and she was released from her nocturnal torments. Any moment Susan would flounce in and jump on the bed, tickling Ivy awake and demanding that she get up and read the morning gossip pages with her.

A rooster crowed. Why was there a rooster? When Ivy cracked her eye open, it wasn't the water-stained walls of their room that greeted her, but the mahogany posts of a grand bed, and walls with decadent blue wallpaper. A seam of dim light shone through the gaps in the heavy velvet drapes.

She sat up. She was in Blackwood Abbey, and she was no longer Ivy Radcliffe, but Lady Hayworth.

Her head felt fuzzy, as if she'd had too much to drink. Swinging her legs out of bed and going to the window, she drew back one of the heavy curtains. A gray, blustery day greeted her, the shrubs and trees surrounding the estate swaying in the wind, white sheep dotting the rocky green landscape beyond. The pressing sense of dread from her nightmare lingered, like a heavy weight sitting in her stomach.

A knock at the door brought her back into the present, and a moment later Agnes was wheeling in a cart with silver-domed trays. "Good mornin' m'lady," she said as she brought the cart to the foot of the bed. "Cook 'as sent up some nice hot breakfast for thee."

Removing the silver lids, Agnes revealed plates of kippers, eggs, porridge, and thick slices of country toast. Ivy's mouth watered. No more breakfasts of thin oats and tinned herrings for her.

"Thank you, Agnes," she said as she pulled on a cardigan over her nightgown and helped herself to a plate. Agnes bobbed a curtsy and turned to leave. "Wait." Ivy stopped her. "Will you stay a little? Have some tea with me?"

Surprise and unease warred on the girl's face, but she took a tentative seat on the edge of a chair, and accepted the cup that Ivy held out to her. Ivy desperately wanted to tell her about the hairbrush and how it had flown across the room, but she didn't want Agnes to think her foolish. Instead, she said, "I was thinking of going into town today. I don't suppose there are any bookshops?"

Ivy wasn't exactly clear how her new finances operated, but she still had her pension and, if nothing else, now that she didn't need to worry about room and board she could use that money for books and other luxuries that she had thus long gone without.

"Oh, no, m'lady. We don't have anything like that here." Agnes tilted her head in consideration. "Munson, two towns over, now I 'appen they might have one."

Of course, a little town like Blackwood wouldn't have a bookshop. "Well, no matter," Ivy said brightly. "I'd still like to explore the village." She turned her attention back to the toast, slathering it with butter and trying not to eat too fast in front of her maid.

"If that will be all, m'lady?"

"Oh, yes, thank you, Agnes," Ivy said. "There's no need for this ‘my lady' business," she added. "Between you and me, I'd much rather just be called Ivy." Agnes couldn't have been that much younger than her, and aside from an unbelievable stroke of good fortune, not much separated them.

Agnes looked uncomfortable at the request, but nodded. "If you insist, m'lady. I mean, Ivy."

Ivy offered her an encouraging smile. "I'd like that, thank you, Agnes."

With a hurried curtsy, Agnes hastily collected the dishes and disappeared with the cart.

After washing and dressing, Ivy made her way downstairs. She had kicked the hairbrush under the bed, unable to bring herself to handle it after what she'd witnessed. Her hair was short enough that she could run her fingers through it, pin it back without too much fuss.

The house was quiet. It must have been a lonely existence for Lord Hayworth when he was living here. An old man with dementia and a skeleton staff that seemed more concerned with keeping to themselves than anything else. She wondered how he had passed his time, if he had moved with ease through his aristocratic life, or if he had been cowed by the legacy that he carried.

Mrs. Hewitt had said that she thought there was a gramophone somewhere, so Ivy made her way to the north wing where most of the rooms were used for storage. The sheer scale of the abbey still astounded her. It must once have been a dynamic home, bustling with servants and families full of children and governesses. And before that it would have been busy in a different sort of way, with monks gliding silently down the halls, bells chiming, hymns drifting across the lawn.

After a few minutes of trial and error, Ivy found the old ballroom. Aside from the mysterious double door downstairs, few rooms in the abbey were locked. The door creaked open, and she tiptoed in, as if she might be interrupting some ghostly soiree. The ancient curtains were mercifully pulled back, allowing in what little daylight there was. Like most of the other rooms, the ballroom was largely empty, with its remaining furniture pushed to the sides and draped in sheets.

The air was stale and heavy with dust as Ivy carefully navigated the shrouded shapes. Snagging her stocking on a protruding nail, she cursed; stockings weren't cheap, and she only had three pairs to her name. She was just bending to inspect the damage when behind her the door swung closed, and there was the soft patter of footsteps.

Ivy spun around. "Hello? Mrs. Hewitt?"

No one answered; the room was just as empty as it had been when she'd come in. She shuddered. She wouldn't have been surprised if there were rats or something even bigger like feral cats in an old wing of a house like this.

But there was no scurrying of paws, no animal squeaks. The hairs along her arms stood up, and the story Agnes had told her about the monk that supposedly haunted the abbey came back to her. Here, in this distant wing of the house with the moaning wind outside and stillness pressing around her, it was easy to imagine herself in the company of ghosts.

She stood frozen, waiting for something though she didn't know what. Her breath came in deep, even measures, her ear trained on the door. Gradually, when her legs were starting to grow stiff and numb, the sensation faded. She was on edge, jittery from the hairbrush, and now she was imagining things that weren't there. The more she thought about it, the more she wasn't even certain it hadn't been a dream.

Returning to her search, Ivy gently lifted the cloth from a hulking shape and was rewarded with an old gramophone. It was dusty and needed a good polishing, but it looked to be in working order. She would have to enlist Ralph or Hewitt to help her move it into the other wing, but already she was in a better mood, anticipating being able to listen to some music.

Wiping her dusty hands on her skirt, Ivy retraced her steps back to the door and gave it a good yank. God only knew how it had managed to swing itself closed in the first place.

Turning down the hall, Ivy nearly collided with Mrs. Hewitt.

"Oh! Excuse me, my lady." Her gaze dropped to the dust on Ivy's skirt. "Doing some exploring, were you?"

"I found the gramophone."

"Did you now." Mrs. Hewitt looked less than pleased. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I should be getting back downstairs." She moved to step around her, but Ivy stopped her.

"You're actually just the person I was hoping to see," Ivy said.

Mrs. Hewitt's look turned wary. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"I'd like a different room."

"Is your room not to your liking? I assure you it is by far the best room in the abbey, and I oversaw the cleaning of it myself. If—"

"No, it's not that. It's..." Ivy tried to put her thoughts in order, squirming a little despite herself under the housekeeper's steely inspection. "It's just that, there was an incident."

"An incident?" Mrs. Hewitt repeated, her brows raising.

"Yes. That is, a hairbrush. It went...it flew across the room."

There was no amount of confidence that would make the assertion sound dignified, or anything short of sheer fantasy. But Ivy waited anyway for Mrs. Hewitt to respond.

After a painfully long pause, Mrs. Hewitt sighed. "My lady, I'm not sure what you saw, or what you think you saw, but a different room will hardly change it. Of course, if you insist I will air out another room and have Agnes clean it. We will have to wash the linens and scrub the water closet..." Mrs. Hewitt made a show of wringing her hands.

"All right, Mrs. Hewitt. Never mind all that." It was a battle that Ivy didn't think would benefit her in the long run. Maybe she had just imagined it, and even if she hadn't, Mrs. Hewitt was right; there was no guarantee that it wouldn't happen in another room.

"Very good," Mrs. Hewitt said, impassive once again. "Will there be anything else, my lady?"

"As a matter of fact, I was hoping to go into the village. I'm afraid the weather was too uncooperative the other day for me to be able to remember the way. Could you point me in the right direction?"

The housekeeper looked as if Ivy had suggested traveling naked on horseback. "You mean to walk? Oh, no, my lady. The way is much too long."

Ivy's heart sank as another little piece of her freedom fell away. "Surely I will need a way to be able to get about?"

"You can always ask Ralph, and he will drive you where you need to go."

Relying on the mercurial Ralph for a ride did not strike Ivy as ideal. But she gave Mrs. Hewitt a tight smile. "Do you know where I might find him?"

Mrs. Hewitt pointed her in the direction of the stables, and then continued down the hall, walking as if she couldn't get away fast enough.

Ivy found Ralph mucking out an empty stall, sleeves rolled to the elbow, sweat darkening the hair at his neck. Like the stables of most wealthy families, it must have once housed racehorses of the finest bloodlines, but was now home to only a couple of plow ponies, a donkey, a big brown nag, the other end converted into a garage for the abbey's autos. The animals swung their heads over the stall doors, greeting Ivy with soft snuffs and inquisitive, velvety brown eyes. Though she'd never ridden a horse, she'd always felt a sort of affinity with the carriage horses of London, wild creatures that were broken and shackled, forced to exist in a habitat far removed from the green pastures they were used to. Ivy put out a flat palm, and the mare nuzzled against it, soft lips searching for food.

"Can I do something for you, m'lady?"

Ivy startled, not realizing that Ralph had heard her come in. He was leaning against his rake, watching her with an interest that made her cheeks heat.

Returning to stroking the nag's long brown face, she focused on regaining control of her erratic heartbeat. "I didn't realize we had any horses at Blackwood. Are they riding horses?"

"No, Minnie here came from a slaughter auction," he said. "Her owner said she was ornery and wont to bite, but I think she was just in the wrong hands."

"Will you break her in? Put her to the plow?"

Ralph had come up beside her, and the mare transferred her attention, eagerly nuzzling into his palm. "I have no interest in breaking her," he said, running his hand over the horse's neck with long, soft, strokes. "But I will tame her, accustom her to the harness. She could make a fine lady's horse."

Realizing that he was looking at her, Ivy's blush stupidly deepened. "Oh, I can't ride."

"Mm. Well, I assume you didn't come here to pass the time with the horses."

"Yes, that is, I was hoping to go into the village. Mrs. Hewitt said you would—"

"I can drive you," he told her, fetching his cap from a hay bale and pulling it on.

"I'm so sorry to interrupt your work," she said as she hurried to follow him down the corridor and out into the mist. She was also sorry to leave behind the warmth; the stables felt safe and snug in a way that the abbey didn't.

His broad shoulders fell in a shrug. "Driving you is my work," he said without turning.

She bit her lip. Ralph was still dressed in his stable clothes, his boots muddy and pants smeared with dirt. "I can wait if you need to...that is, your clothes..."

At this he finally turned and raised a brow at her. It was the closest thing to a smile she had seen on him since coming to Blackwood. "Embarrassed by a little dirt on your chauffeur, are you, my lady?"

"What? No! Of course not. And you really don't have to call me that," she informed him, crossing her arms. "I'm not some high-born lady, you know."

Continuing his loping walk to the front drive, Ralph gave a shrug again. "If you say so, my lady."

Unsure of how she had somehow been made to feel as if she was in the wrong, Ivy ignored the mocking bow Ralph executed as he opened the car's door for her.

They pulled up in front of a small stone building with a post box and bench outside. "Post is in there," he said nodding toward the building. "Pub is next door, and if you need any essentials there's a small shop across the road. I'll be here when you're ready to leave."

"You're going to wait in the car?"

"Aye. Take your time." With that, he leaned back in his seat, and pulled his cap down over his eyes.

"Well, now I won't be able to," Ivy grumbled as she got out of the car. Really, she was expected to do her errands while he waited for her like a dog? It felt as if she were being guarded, watched.

Leaving Ralph to his nap, Ivy took her time walking to the post office. Blackwood was quaint, the quintessential English village complete with banners for a harvest festival hanging over the main thoroughfare, and red-and-blue bunting fluttering in the breeze. Susan would have been horrified at the lack of cinemas and department stores. The thought of her best friend propelled her inside the post office, where the promise of a telephone waited. But after calling only to have Mrs. Beeton inform her that Susan was out, Ivy felt restless and defeated.

She returned to the car. "Would it be possible to drive to Munson?" she asked through the window. "Agnes said there was a bookshop there."

Ralph stared at her, his jaw set, and she was sure he was going to say no. But he gave a nod, and got out to open the door for her. This time the drive seemed much shorter, the landscape less alien now that she had seen it before. When traveling through London, there was always some spectacle, whether it was a policeman in a bare-knuckle fight with some street tough, a dog upending a cart of fruit, or a sea of grim-faced men in a labor march. Here, the landscape was vast and beautiful, but every crooked tree and rocky outcrop they passed looked the same. Brown heather and overgrown grass stretched endlessly with only the occasional farm or derelict gate to differentiate them. She tried to think of something to ask Ralph and start a conversation, but the yawning moors didn't spark so much as a question.

"Let me guess, you'll be waiting right here for me?" she asked as she got out in front of a small bookshop, the double-paned glass windows boasting rows and rows of books.

"Now you're getting it," Ralph answered, settling back into his seat, his long legs folded under the steering wheel.

"If I were you, I would bring a book with me at least. That way I would have something to do while I was waiting."

"You aren't me, thank God," he said with maddening nonchalance.

Insufferable, was what he was. Well, she wasn't going to waste any more time trying to strike up a conversation or a friendship; the promise of new books awaited.

Munson was still small by London standards, but it was infinitely more varied than Blackwood. Shoppers bustled along the streets, motorcars navigating around them. Several tea shops and restaurants boasted chalkboard signs advertising their menus. But most importantly, they had a bookshop, and so anything lacking could be easily forgiven.

The bell tinkled on the door, and Ivy closed her eyes as she stepped into the shop, the familiar scent of books and leather welcoming her. Whether it was London or Munson, it didn't matter, a shop full of books was a refuge, a quiet place away from the storm of the world. A spectacled man gave her a nod of welcome from behind a book-lined counter, and an orange tabby came and wound round her legs. With a sigh of happiness, Ivy began browsing the shelves, every once in a while taking down a book and tenderly flipping through the pages. She found herself in the local history section, searching for anything having to do with Blackwood and its abbey. If this was to be her new home, she wanted to learn as much about it as possible, and Mrs. Hewitt didn't seem eager to tell her much beyond the basics she had imparted during her tour.

A book of Norman abbeys and churches in the area caught her eye, and soon she was so lost in the pages, that she didn't notice the bell at the door, or the new customer that had entered.

"Keen to learn about local history?" The voice came from right beside her, and was polished and clipped, not like the broad Northern accents that surrounded her. When Ivy looked up, she found a well-dressed young man of about her age, standing close enough that she could smell his expensive cologne. He had a movie-star look about him, dark hair, defined jaw, and a confidence that could only come from having been raised knowing one could have whatever one wanted.

"I'm keen to learn about any sort of history," she replied, wary at this unexpected overture.

"A woman after my own heart." He flashed a brilliant smile, and stuck out his hand. "Sir Arthur Mabry. How do you do?"

"Ivy Radcliffe," she said automatically. "Well, I suppose now Lady Hayworth."

To her surprise, he didn't look the least bit nonplussed. She had expected that he would have scoffed or raised a brow at her usual workaday clothes. But he didn't bat an eye at her wool skirt or worn-in cardigan. Instead, he gave her a broad smile that illuminated his clean-cut face. "You don't say! A woman has inherited Blackwood Abbey!" Almost sheepish, he quickly added, "I apologize. It's only that my father was very good friends with the late Lord Hayworth, and we wondered who was next in line for the title."

"That would be me." She cast him a sidelong glance. Any other time she would have regretted taking off her gold band, but there was something inviting and easy about this young man, and truth be told, she was finding her new home to be a lonely place without the hint of a smile or friendly face. Besides, this wasn't a stranger on a train, this was someone who had come into a bookshop, seeking the same sort of refuge as she.

"Well, welcome to Blackwood, and I daresay, Yorkshire?"

"What gave me away?" she asked. "The accent, I suppose?"

"Might as well have a sign around your neck saying you're from London," he said, a wink gilding his bluntness. "What luck that we should bump into each other like this, and in a bookshop of all places. But I must say, I wouldn't expect the lady of Blackwood Abbey to be perusing a bookshop, not when the abbey boasts one of the finest libraries in the county, if not England."

The book she had been holding nearly fell from her hands. "The abbey has a library?" She was certain she hadn't seen one on Mrs. Hewitt's tour, and she definitely would have remembered if anyone had mentioned it. He couldn't possibly be referring to the few bookshelves that lined the fireplace wall in the parlor, could he?

A finely shaped brow arched. "It most certainly does. Don't tell me that you haven't seen it yet?"

"Well, no. That is, I only arrived the other day. I haven't had much time to explore." The house was large—huge, really—so it stood to reason that she wouldn't have seen every corner yet. But a library was hardly an old bedchamber or water closet. Why hadn't Mrs. Hewitt mentioned anything about it?

"You have an enviable task in front of you then."

"I haven't much else to do, so I suppose so." She hadn't meant her words to come out quite so pathetic sounding, but they were out before she could stop herself.

"I should say so." Sir Arthur was regarding her with a thoughtful tilt of his head, and she waited for him to excuse himself from the conversation. But instead, he surprised her. "Listen, if it's not too forward of me, I'd love the chance to show you around, introduce you to some of the society here in Yorkshire. I can't imagine what a shock it must be to come from London and be thrown into an entirely new life. What do you say?"

A loneliness that was deeper and older than she could fathom swirled and eddied around her, threatening to pull her down into its depths. Ivy, who wore the wedding band to avoid conversation. Ivy, who was content to share her world with only one other person. Ivy, who had never left her little corner of London. Is that who she wanted to be? She worried at her lip. What had started as an innocent conversation was quickly slipping past her control. But there was a hopefulness in Sir Arthur's voice, and he seemed genuine enough. Better yet, he liked books and anyone that liked books had to be, at the very least, a decent person.

He must have felt her indecision. "How about this—let's have lunch at the King's Head next Monday, right in the village. We can compare our reading lists and chat about the inanities of country life. If you find my company tolerable, perhaps we can go from there." He stuck his hand out. "Deal?"

Ivy found herself smiling at the young man in the bookshop who had successfully swept her off her feet. "Deal," she agreed, shaking his hand.