Chapter 7

Voices fade, photographs are just tricks of lights and mirrors, and touch is a passing phantom. But scent lingers, and even long after the last particle of someone's essence is gone, the faintest smell can bring all the memories rushing back.

If she closed her eyes and put her nose to the soft, pilled wool of her favorite cardigan, Ivy could just make out the merest suggestion of roses and lilies. In a cold, unfamiliar place, the cardigan was like wearing the warm embrace of her mother. But then, she couldn't really wear something with loose buttons and holes around the cuffs to dine with a peer. Slipping instead into a wool tweed skirt and her best blouse, she tied a kerchief over her hair and ventured out to the stables.

She tiptoed through the abbey, still feeling more like the proverbial city mouse visiting the country mouse than a lady in her own home. In London, she could walk everywhere or take the Underground, free and untethered in her anonymity. But here she was isolated, and at the mercy of someone else if she wanted to leave. She again had the sensation that she was forever being observed, watched, though she supposed that was how ladies lived. She had exchanged the constraints of poverty for the gilded bonds of wealth.

In the stables, Minnie greeted her with a soft whicker, and hopeful eyes searching for a treat. To Ivy's immense relief, Ralph was nowhere to be seen. Ever since his bizarre outburst he'd seemed to be avoiding her. Luckily there was an old bicycle leaned up against the wall, a little rusty and cobwebbed, but with inflated tires and working pedals. Brushing away the webs, she wheeled it out of the stable, checking to make sure Ralph wasn't about.

The landscape that had whizzed by in a blur of dreary hills in the motorcar now crawled past her, and by the time she reached the village, her hair had come loose and her skirt hem was worse for the wear. Ivy hardly looked like a lady, but something told her that Arthur Mabry wouldn't mind. He was different from how she'd expected someone from the gentry to act, kind and warm, self-deprecating.

Wheeling the bike to the side of the pub, she leaned it against the stone wall and gave her hair a quick pat. Inside was warm and boisterous, much like a pub in London except most of the clientele were in waders and tweed caps. Old men lined the bar, ruddy noses deep in pints of ale and cider, and a spirited game of darts was taking place in the corner. Second after a library, a pub was a haven of warmth, and Ivy had always enjoyed spending an afternoon with a hot drink away from the polluted and cold streets of London. They might not have been strictly the most appropriate places for a woman, but as long as she and Susan had acted as if they belonged and didn't cause any trouble, no one had ever bothered them.

Sir Arthur was already seated at a table in the corner. Ivy still had a chance to back out, to pretend she hadn't seen him and leave. In London, she never would have accepted the invitation of a strange man, so what was she doing here? Turning in his seat, he caught her eye and gave her a bright smile, putting an end to her last-minute plans of absconding.

He stood to greet her. "Lady Hayworth," he said with a warm handshake and an old-fashioned kiss on the knuckles. "A pleasure."

She'd had to haul out a dusty copy of Burke's Peerage the night before just to find him and figure out how to address him properly. "Sir Arthur," she returned, unable to keep her own lips from pulling up into a smile. It all seemed so absurd to be rubbing shoulders with the son of an earl, meeting for lunch at a pub as if they were old friends.

He moved over on the bench, but she sat on the chair across from him. He was terribly charming and friendly, but what did she really know about him?

Unfazed, he flagged down a middle-aged woman carrying a tray.

"Sir Arthur," the woman said by way of greeting. "We've missed you 'round here. Do hope your father is in good health?"

"You know the old man," he told her with a wink. "A Zeppelin couldn't carry him off."

When the woman had taken their order, Arthur leaned back in his seat, his posture carelessly elegant. He was dressed casually, in a well-cut suit and crisply starched collar. "How are you finding Blackwood?"

She chose her words carefully. "I'm in awe of its size and the grand scale of everything, so I'm also a little surprised by its lack of modern amenities." She leaned in and whispered, "Do you know, there's no wireless?"

Arthur leaned in to meet her. "How barbaric!" he exclaimed in mock horror.

Ivy Radcliffe of Bethnal Green, London was not a giggler, so she was more than a little surprised when she discovered that Lady Hayworth giggled at this. "There is a gramophone at least, though it hasn't been used in some time. I think I should have died if I couldn't have music in that drafty old house."

"Is Mrs. Hewitt still head maid? Tough old girl, that one," he said, with something like admiration. "Blackwood Abbey could use some young blood, shake things up a bit though."

The food arrived, two big plates laden with thick, golden chips and steaming hot pie. "So," Arthur said, as he tucked into his pie, "did you find your library after all?"

"I did," she said. "Mrs. Hewitt seemed very reluctant to admit me, and it was in a bit of disarray, but goodness! I never imagined anything so magnificent."

"It's something, isn't it? I daresay she wasn't keen on having to add it to her daily cleaning schedule." Arthur paused, his fork hovering over his pie. He started to say something, then closed his mouth again.

"What is it?" Ivy asked.

He gave her a self-conscious grin, then shook his head.

"Tell me!"

"Well, you're going to think me terribly rude or forward, or both."

"Maybe, but you won't know until you ask."

He gave a sigh and pushed his plate away as if she had him cornered. "The truth is, I would love to get into the library and see it for myself. My father speaks fondly of visiting years ago, and I'm terribly keen on old books."

Maybe it was the cider, warming her from the inside, or his good-natured conversation and earnest love of books. Either way, Ivy was inclined to agree to anything Arthur asked. "Of course, you must come and see the library," she told him. "You probably have a better understanding of what's in there than anyone else in the house, if your father has been there before. I would love to know more about it."

Arthur's dark eyes lit up. "I would be more than happy to be at your service in such an endeavor."

They ate, conversation and laughter swelling and flowing around them. Arthur was easy to talk to, and Ivy found her attention wandering to his face every time he became animated as they discussed books. It wasn't just that he was handsome—though he certainly was that—but there was a sparkle, an undeniable charisma about him. His conversation was soft and silky, a comfortable yet luxurious blanket that eased her mind and made her want to settle in and stay forever.

But then he grew somber as the subject shifted, and he started telling her about a memorial that the Munson village board was planning for fallen soldiers. "It's too easy for the world to forget, to move on," he said. "Our heroes should not be relegated to just names on a plaque, but it's better than nothing. There will be a large stone and a garden bed cared for by the Ladies' Auxiliary as well as several benches for quiet contemplation."

"Did you serve?" she asked cautiously. She'd learned to recognize the shuttered horror imprinted on the faces of returned soldiers, the reluctance to speak about the war, but she didn't see that in Arthur. He seemed altogether untouched by the grief and traumas of the world, a golden child in a bubble of light and laughter.

His eyes clouded. "No," he said bitterly. "A lung condition kept me from enlisting. Otherwise, I would have been at the front, showing those Krauts a thing or two."

She winced at his language. It prickled the pride of men not to be able to go fight, though Ivy wasn't sure why. She would have given anything for James to have had a medical excuse that kept him from being shipped off to some godforsaken muddy field.

"My father is the soldier of the family, a decorated general," he continued. "It was always expected that I would follow in his footsteps, but..." He trailed off, pushing the potatoes around on his plate. "And you? Did you have anyone in the war?"

Ivy nodded, tears pricking behind her eyelids. It seemed that tears were always just one memory away. She pushed the lump in her throat down. "Both my father and my brother," she told him. "My mother died shortly afterward from the flu."

She felt rather than saw him nod. "So you're all alone," he said quietly. There was no pity in his voice, thank goodness, just a resigned statement of fact. "Tell me about them, about your childhood."

Thrown off guard by his direct question, she folded her fists into her sleeves, as if she could make herself smaller, beyond notice, like a turtle retreating into the safety of its shell. "Why?" she asked warily. "What do you want to know?"

He shrugged, downing the last of his pint and motioning for another. "To be frank, I've never met anyone like you," he said with an appraising gaze. "We've had vastly different lives, but something tells me we have more similarities than we have differences. Besides," he added, "I like you. I want to know more about the girl sitting across from me."

Arthur leaned forward on his elbows, his dark eyes locked on Ivy, and gooseflesh sprang up along her arms. Some of her reserve melted away under the warmth of that gaze. No one ever asked about her. Aside from Susan, no one ever really looked at her.

"Well," she said, drawing in a deep breath, "my father was a professor. I spent most of my childhood in the library with him, or at home helping him catalog and index his research sources. We managed well enough. It wasn't until he lost his job, that things became...difficult."

The day was still sharp in her mind, her father coming home, the whispered conversation between him and her mother in the kitchen while she pretended to be absorbed in her book. After that, it had been different. It wasn't the creeping poverty, but the emptiness in her father's eyes, the way he went through the motions of life, but didn't seem to be fully present. Whatever had caused him to lose his job was never spoken of, and Ivy could only imagine that it had something to do with her father's progressive way of thinking, his refusal to pander to the wealthy sons of peers who came through his classroom. Soon after that, they had lost the neat little lodgings in Cambridge, and moved to a dreary flat in Bethnal Green where her father tutored a handful of students, and her mother could take in laundry.

"My mother was an American, the daughter of a wealthy banker," Ivy continued.

Mina Radcliffe had thrown herself into the role of wife and mother and still had found time to campaign with the women's suffrage movement. Their home had been cozy and safe, a refuge. Mina had given up all the comforts of her old life, but she had forged a new one, where everything she did was for her children. The only relic of her old life that she had managed to keep was her harp, a big golden thing with twinkling strings that sat in the corner of the parlor. Ivy's father refused to entertain the idea of selling it, even when they were desperately in need of the money it could have brought in. Late at night, after the cooking and dishes and endless chores of the day were done, Mina would take her callused fingers to the strings and coax the most ethereal music from them. As a little girl, it had been like watching a fairy queen sitting on her throne and holding court.

"She was beautiful," Ivy added in a whisper.

"And your father?" Arthur gently prodded. "What was it he studied, exactly?"

"Medieval history, esoteric manuscripts in particular." There was more to it than that, but her father's work felt sacred, and she wasn't certain that Arthur would understand the intricacies of his brilliance. "There's even a manuscript he discovered named after him. He could read a dozen different languages, including dead ones. And he was generous with his knowledge, never put himself above anyone else. His students loved him."

"He sounds like an incredible man," Arthur said softly. "How lucky you were to have a father like that."

Ivy could only bring herself to nod. She had been lucky, but it had made the loss all the more keenly felt.

"I am not fortunate to enjoy such a relationship with my parents. My mother died when I was very young, and I am a great disappointment to my father." He was forging ahead, carelessly knocking back the rest of his drink before Ivy had a chance to absorb this strange turn of conversation. "He makes no secret of the fact that he believes I should have been at the front to see action."

She hesitated, parsing out the right words. "Does he really believe that, even with your lung condition?"

Arthur's expression hardened. "Of course he believes it, and he has every right to."

His response surprised her, and she paused, her glass lifted halfway to her lips. "What do you mean?"

"I was born to follow in my father's footsteps. I played soldier as a little boy, was in the Scouts. And of course I wanted to make my father proud, what son doesn't? But I was sick as a child, and my blasted lungs never recovered so now I have to live with the knowledge that I sat at home while my countrymen went out and sacrificed their lives. I would have given anything for that glory." He ran his finger over the rim of his glass, his fair face darkening.

Ivy's gaze skimmed over the people absorbed in their own conversations around them. She was unused to speaking confidentially with other people in the room. "War is not so glorious," she said, keeping her voice low out of habit. "I would have given anything for my father and brother to remain home. No one thinks of glory when they are in the mud, dying far away from everything and everyone they love."

Arthur regarded her for a long moment with an unreadable expression. "Well, we all had to do our bit, didn't we?"

Everyone had done their bit, and some more than others. Everyone had darned socks and knitted hats, rationed, and stood in bread lines. But some had also sent their brothers, their husbands, their fathers to the trenches to be injured or killed. Yes, Ivy had done her "bit," and then some.

"I've made you sad," he said, the clouds lifting from his face, his good humor returning. "You mustn't mind me. I daresay my father gets in my ear sometimes."

"Not at all," she said, only too glad to escape to a different topic. "May I ask you something?"

"I'm an open book," Arthur said, leaning back and spreading his palms. "Ask me anything."

"You said your father knew the late Lord Hayworth, did you ever meet him?"

"Oh, let's see. A handful of times, perhaps. Kept to himself mostly, and I believe he was quite sick toward the end of his life."

Ivy pushed her pie around, trying to hide her disappointment. They finished their meals in silence, until Arthur glanced at his watch. "I hate to do this, but my father is expecting me for a club meeting and I completely lost track of the time." He paused, running a speculative gaze over Ivy. "You should come."

There were only two kinds of clubs in London: gentlemen's clubs, and those that had drinking and dancing. Ivy had liked going dancing with Susan, but she had a feeling that wasn't what Arthur was talking about. "What sort of club?" she asked.

"Oh, it's all very informal. Just some of the scholarly-minded local gentry. We discuss literature and host lectures...that sort of thing. I can't say women usually attend, but then, you are something of an anomaly. I mean that in the most complimentary way," he quickly added. "I'm sure they would be very keen to hear about your father's work."

Ivy glanced down at her cycling attire, and then out the window where dark clouds were gathering. Discussing literature did sound lovely, but was she ready to take her place in a society comprised of earls, lords, and other aristocracy? How would they accept her, a young woman from the wrong part of London who had miraculously ascended to their class overnight? She didn't even have a fit dress.

"Another time, perhaps," she said, with a warm smile to let him know that the invitation was appreciated.

Standing, Arthur brushed her hand with a kiss. "Lady Hayworth, it was a pleasure. I look forward to exploring the library with you." He let his gaze sweep over her, then linger at her mouth, before excusing himself.

A rush of heat ran through her as she watched him weave around tables, all fluid grace, exchanging friendly greetings with some of the men at the bar. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her like that, and she'd forgotten the little thrill of it.

Retying her kerchief and slipping into her coat, Ivy left the warm pub, and hopped on her bicycle. Raindrops were starting to fall, and the few pedestrians in town were hurrying for cover. With any luck, she could make the ride back to Blackwood before it got worse.

But the gods were not on her side. Rain began to fall fast and heavy, picking up with breathtaking speed. Bloody brilliant. The ride into the village had been mostly downhill at least, but now she was working against a gradual incline as well as the wind.

Her skirt was stuck to her thighs, and any protection her flimsy coat offered had long since given way. Miserable rain. Even in London the weather wasn't usually so unforgiving, and if it was, there was always an awning or shop to duck into. Thunder cracked and a moment later a flash of lightning illuminated the sky. A lone tree, crooked and bare, stood behind a wall and Ivy started to head for it, until she remembered there was something about trees and lightning storms. She would have to take her chances on the road.

Mud sucked at the bicycle wheels, and she wrestled to free them, throwing her weight against the stubborn contraption. Her feet went out from under her, and she found herself on the ground, cold quickly seeping in through her skirt as pain shot through her leg.

She closed her eyes, wishing very much that she had taken Arthur up on the invitation to his club. If she allowed herself to indulge in self-pity, she might have come to the conclusion that she was going to die here, wet, cold, and alone at the side of the road, all because she had been too proud to ask her chauffeur for a ride.

Ignoring the throbbing in her leg, she scrambled to her feet. Riding was out of the question, so she doggedly righted the bicycle and began pushing. As if to punish her efforts, the wind kicked up, a gust nearly knocking her back over. Step by limping step, she put her head down against the wind and began the long walk back.

The sound of an automobile motor cut through the deluge, and Ivy navigated the bicycle to the side of the road to get out of the way. Except that the car didn't pass, it slowed down and drew up beside her, mud splattering her already drenched skirt.

The window lowered, and Ralph stuck his head out. "Get in, my lady," he ordered.

As if her afternoon couldn't have gotten any worse, here was Ralph of all people to witness her plight. Even with the miserable weather and dismal state of her clothes, his demand abraded her.

"I am perfectly fine," she countered, making to push her bicycle from the rut of mud where it was caught again. If she conceded defeat, she would lose the only sliver of independence she had.

Ralph pulled his head back inside and for a moment she thought he was going to keep driving and leave her there. But then there was a slam of a door, and he was coming around to her side. He easily disengaged her hands and lifted the bicycle, stowing it—muddy wheels and all—in the back. The rain made quick work of obscenely slicking his sleeves to his leanly muscled arms. Ivy tore her gaze away as Ralph stood before her, hands on hips, rain dripping from the brim of his cap. "Will you get in yourself, or would you like me to put you in as well?"

Glaring at him, she allowed him to open the door for her. The warm leather seats felt decadent, and she could have leaned back her head and fallen asleep right then if not for her pride.

Ralph slid into the driver's seat, wiping rain out of his eyes. Pressing his foot to the pedal, he muttered a colorful stream of curses as the car heaved itself out of the mud and onto the road. The windshield wipers worked frantically to clear the rain.

"You should have asked me for a ride into town," Ralph said, once they were back on the road.

Ivy crossed her arms in an attempt to appear unflustered, despite shivering from head to toe. "I have a bicycle, I didn't need you to drive me."

An unimpressed grunt. "What was so important that you had to pedal into town by yourself?" His gaze flicked up into the mirror to meet hers, a flashing hint of interest behind the indifferent fa?ade.

"If you must know, I was meeting a friend at the pub."

"Who do you know in Blackwood?"

"You certainly ask a lot of questions for someone who has made it clear that you don't like me."

Ralph's brows gathered in a frown. "Why would you think I don't—"

But Ivy didn't want to hear it. "I met a man named Sir Arthur Mabry at the bookshop the other day and he invited me to lunch at the pub."

There was silence for a moment, and Ivy thought that was the end of it. But then Ralph let out a soft curse. "And you thought it was a good idea to meet a man by yourself, a man you don't even know?"

The censure in his voice caused her to stiffen in surprise. "Do you always speak so directly to your employer?"

"And here I thought you said you weren't a ‘real lady' and didn't believe in, what was it? ‘Class distinctions'?"

Ivy bristled. "I don't. That is, I'm not. But you certainly have a way of getting under one's skin. In any case, pope, chauffeur, or the king himself, I don't see how it's any of your business with whom I converse."

If Ralph had a witty rejoinder, he kept it to himself as he swung the automobile onto the winding drive. Rain droplets obscured the landscape, but the outline of Blackwood Abbey was just visible as they pulled up. The gray stones were stained black with rain, and Ivy couldn't imagine a less inviting place to come home to.

Ralph stopped the motor, and for a moment, it was just them in the silent car, rain pelting against the metal and glass. "You be careful of Sir Arthur, my lady," Ralph said suddenly. "I know it's not my place, but I also know that you haven't any friends here yet, and I don't want to see you fall in with a bad lot."

"Thank you, Ralph. Though I'm certain the son of a decorated war hero and peer can hardly be considered a ‘bad lot.'"

"All the same, I shouldn't trust him."

"And I suppose I should trust you and take your word as the final one on the matter?" she retorted. "After all, I don't really know you either."

Her words hung in tense silence. "Listen to me," Ralph finally said, his voice so low that she had to lean toward the front seat. "You shouldn't trust me. You shouldn't trust anyone here."

Another cryptic warning, and this one no more coherent than the first. "What? Why?"

Ralph didn't elaborate, though the hunch in his shoulders and tightness in his jaw told her he had more thoughts on the subject. Finally, he heaved a sigh. "Don't get out yet," he instructed as he dashed out, opened an umbrella, then came around to her door and let her out.

"Oh, thank you," she said, surprised at the chivalrous act, though really, he was just doing his job.

He saw her to the door, then went back for the car. Ivy trudged up to her room, drew herself a warm bath, and indulged in a long soak. A truly impressive bruise was starting to blossom on her thigh where she had fallen in the rocky mud, and her muscles ached with cold. With the rain pounding against the windows and storm clouds racing along the moors, she felt small and young. Alone. She couldn't expect to be able to get to the village on her own, and now it seemed that even if she did, she'd quickly be found out. What had Ralph been doing in town, anyway? Driving about, looking for her? The thought only made her feel more like a prisoner.

A draft of cold air blew in from somewhere, and she shivered, wishing that she'd secured the windows before getting in. Settling deeper into the tub, she let the warm water soak away some of her anger. But her eyes flew open when there was a long, slow creak, as if someone was walking across the floorboards, trying not to be heard. Ivy sat very still.

"Hello? Agnes?"

There was no response. Then footsteps, the soft sweep of fabric, like a dress trailing along the floor. Ivy had put the unsettling incident with the hairbrush out of her mind, but now she wondered if she'd dismissed it too quickly.

"Hello?" she whispered again, this time chancing a look over her shoulder back into her room.

Nothing.

James had always teased her for believing in ghosts, but to believe in ghosts was to believe in an afterlife. And there had to be an afterlife, there just had to. Otherwise Ivy would never see her family again, and without that distant promise, life would simply be unbearable. During the war, spiritualism had swept the nation, as mothers and wives, desperate for closure, had flocked to séances in the hopes of reuniting with their men, even if only for a moment. Susan had once dragged Ivy to one, where the table lifted and bangs and moans could be heard coming from the walls. The medium—an ancient woman draped in strands of pearls and dressed in black lace—had claimed to have sensed the presence of a man in military uniform. Every woman present had gasped, certain that it was their loved one come back from the battlefield. But Ivy had seen the strings attached to the table legs as they were leaving, and ever since then her romantic notions of ghosts had been tarnished.

She gripped the sides of the porcelain tub, her body wracked with shivers as the air grew colder. This wasn't the dramatic commotion of a séance; this was quiet, a building sense of dread, as if she was sharing space with something that wasn't human.

"What do you want from me?" Her voice came out cracked and small.

Closing her eyes, Ivy held her breath, feeling the air move about her. The smell of incense and warm herbs tickled her nose. Bells tolled in the distance—or were they in her mind?—reverberating through her bones. When she finally had the nerve to open her eyes again, the movement had stopped, the sensation vanishing. The water had grown cold, and her fingers were pruned with wrinkles.

She hurriedly clambered out of the tub and wrapped herself in a towel. Everything was just as it should be, the windows closed and locked, the door firmly shut. If she had been disappointed by the séance, then she was downright disturbed by the confirmation of her beliefs. Something supernatural had occurred—she was sure of it—but rather than being comforted, all she wanted to do was escape somewhere safe and warm and filled with old friends.

It was time to explore her library.