Chapter 8

The lock had been easy enough to pick.

Ivy and Susan had found themselves on the wrong side of Mrs. Beeton's front door plenty of times after staying out past curfew, and a hairpin was all it took to pop the locking mechanism of the abbey's library doors. She had only felt the smallest twinge of guilt as she stood on her knees and jimmied the pin until it had clicked. But she had asked Mrs. Hewitt to leave it unlocked and it was her library after all.

With a steaming cup of tea, warm lights casting shadows across the wood-paneled walls and a fire crackling in the marble fireplace, Ivy snuggled deeper into the plush velvet chair by the window. The battered copy of Little Women had been a gift from her mother, and Ivy could open it to any page and happily slip into the March sisters' lives. No ghostly footsteps or strange changes in the air, just books and the sound of wind racing across the heather outside. This had to be heaven, and it was all hers. Ivy hadn't needed to marry a man to gain her wealth or security. Besides, what man could have ever provided her with such a treasure as this?

Her reverie was interrupted by clipped footsteps and the clearing of a throat. She looked up from her book to find Mrs. Hewitt standing with clasped hands, a deep line of dismay etched into her temples.

"Good afternoon," Ivy said. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Mrs. Hewitt looked taken aback to be asked. "It's only that I noticed you are in the library," the housekeeper said, stating the obvious. "And what with the dark weather and the electric lights needed..." She trailed off, wringing her hands.

"Surely the wiring cannot be as bad as all that?"

"Unfortunately, it is, my lady," Mrs. Hewitt said.

"Oh dear, we can't have that. Perhaps we should have a man in to look at the wiring? Or, do you think Ralph would be able to? He seems awfully clever with automobiles and that sort of thing."

"My lady, I—"

"Mrs. Hewitt," Ivy said gently, stopping her. "I know that you worry, but this is my home now, and I intend to use the library. I'll ask Ralph tomorrow if he can look at the wiring, and if he can't, perhaps he can recommend someone in town who knows what they're doing. In the meantime, I'll be very careful, and turn off the lights at the first sign of trouble."

The housekeeper's neck went red and her lips tight, but she only gave a nod and then stalked out. Ivy had pulled rank, and Mrs. Hewitt had no choice but to fall in line.

True to her word, when dusk fell and the weak electric lights couldn't adequately penetrate the darkness, Ivy reluctantly turned off the lamps and brought her book upstairs with her. It was just as well; a powerful headache had taken hold, and her eyes were starting to go fuzzy. It was time for another lonely dinner in her room, with only the sound of rain for company. Ivy had never been able to muster much sympathy for rich people who complained of unhappiness or really much of anything at all, but as she spooned up her creamy soup and nibbled at the soft white bread, she could understand how loneliness could chip away at a soul, wealthy or not.

Ivy was not keen to track down Ralph and ask for his help with anything, not after their encounter in the rain the previous day. Everything about him prickled her sense of pride and independence, from the way he never seemed to be more than a few steps away, to the manner in which he regarded her from behind heavy lashes, as if cataloging her every movement. Never mind that he also seemed intent on driving her from her home with his strange warnings. But she was desperate to spend more time in the library, and Ralph was her best chance at addressing the problems with the wiring.

It was a cool, gray morning, still damp from the previous day's storm, and the smell of woodsmoke hung in the air, the distant bleating of sheep echoing across the moors. No motor engines, no honking buses, no street vendors hawking their wares. The quiet allowed Ivy to hear her own breath, and the crunch of gravel and leaves underfoot, reminding her that here in the countryside, she was more than just another face in a sea of humanity. Following the sound of an ax chopping wood, she found Ralph behind the stone barn, sleeves rolled to the elbow as he lifted an ax over his shoulder and let it fall, splitting a log neatly in two.

She cleared her throat, but he continued chopping. "Ralph?"

Each punishing chop sent splinters flying as he took some primal anger out on the wood. Edging her way around the gravel path, Ivy tried again to catch Ralph's attention.

Lifting his head for his next ax stroke, he caught her gaze and nearly lost his grip. There was something wild in his eyes, a fierceness that transcended mere concentration, or even anger. Then it passed and, cursing, he stumbled backward. "Don't sneak up on a man like that," Ralph snarled.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize—"

"I could have hurt you, killed you even," he said, giving voice to the flash of fear she'd felt coming upon him like that. Wiping the perspiration from his temple, he seemed to collect himself. "What are you doing out here?"

"I—I needed to ask you something."

Some of the wildness in his eyes dimmed, giving way to his usual guarded expression. Chest still heaving with exertion, he chucked the ax to the ground, either an invitation to continue, or a hint that she shouldn't bother him.

Assuming it was the former, Ivy hurried on. "Mrs. Hewitt said that there is bad wiring in the library, and that it isn't safe to have the lights on there. Is that something you would be able to look at?"

Ralph stared as if she were speaking a foreign language, his gray eyes boring through her. "The wiring?"

"Well, yes. It's faulty or old, I'm not certain the exact problem."

Squinting up at the clouds, Ralph ran a hand through his hair. "Aye."

Ivy waited for more. "What does—"

"I'll look at it," he said, cutting her off. Throwing a tarpaulin over the woodpile, he set off for the house.

It seemed Ivy was always running to catch up to him. "Right now?" she asked, hope mingled with confusion.

"Said I would, didn't I?"

Ivy bit her lip to keep from smiling, jogging to keep up. Ralph might have been as surly as a cat awakened from its nap, but she was beginning to think there might be something decidedly more agreeable under all that bite.

Mrs. Hewitt intercepted them in the hall, as if she had been watching them from the window. "Ralph, a word please?"

Ivy pretended not to listen as Mrs. Hewitt drew him aside for a conversation of hissed whispers. Whatever they were talking about, Mrs. Hewitt was adamant, but Ralph only nodded and then raised his shoulders in a shrug. He was a good head taller than the housekeeper, but Mrs. Hewitt was staring him down all the same, and Ivy was glad it wasn't her on the receiving end of the housekeeper's cutting lectures for once.

A moment later Ralph broke away and headed for the library. Ivy wasn't sure if he expected her to follow, but she didn't want to be left alone with the disapproving Mrs. Hewitt, so she took off after him again. But at the end of the hall, he turned to go downstairs instead of the library.

"Wait, where are you going?"

Ralph stopped, turning abruptly so that she nearly skidded into his chest. He still smelled of wood chips and exertion. "To get my tools. Is that all right with you, my lady?" he asked, a mocking edge of condescension in the last two words.

"Oh. Yes. I mean, of course."

Ivy fidgeted at the top of the stairs until Ralph returned with his toolbox, then she trailed after him like a lost puppy to the library. He got to work right away, taking out his tools and setting up a ladder against the wall. When it became clear that watching him wasn't going to make him work any faster, Ivy decided to do some work of her own by the light of the windows.

There should have been a catalog of the library's contents, but thus far she had not come across one. Who knew what treasures were hidden there? Creating one would not only benefit the library in the long run, but would be a way to keep busy, keep her mind from dwelling on the shadows of the past. She'd never really had a purpose before, or rather, she had but the world and society at large would not allow it. Her parents had never exactly told her outright that a university education was out of the question, but it was clear enough from the way her father's colleagues were all men—and besides, education, a good one, was a privilege of the wealthy. But now she had the time and the means to lose herself in her work, and the title and position so that no one could question her.

The shelves, at least, seemed to be arranged in some semblance of order. There were novels, natural histories, encyclopedias, and every manner of classical text. But the deeper she ventured into the library, the stranger some of the subjects became. Memoirs by people she'd never heard of, texts in unrecognizable languages. The bulk of the shelves lined the room, but there were also a handful of freestanding shelves tucked in the back corner, away from the windows. Wiping away a thick layer of dust, Ivy revealed a vast collection of the genealogy and biographical history of the Hayworth family, each labeled in a neat hand. Were the Radcliffes mentioned somewhere in a footnote? Or perhaps they had had their own straggly branch on the family tree? She was just pulling down a volume when Ralph's voice cut through the silence.

"There's your problem."

Ivy let the book slide back into place, and looked back to where Ralph was holding up a fistful of wires.

Wiping dust from her hands, she hurried over. "What is it? Can you fix it?"

"Mice—or something—chewed clean through these."

"Oh, well that's easy to fix, isn't it?"

Ralph nodded. "Will just take a trip into Munson to get the right parts."

Ivy watched as he carefully climbed down the ladder. "Do you think that you could go today?"

He gave her a long look, and she knew that she was trying his patience. But he just nodded. "Aye. I can go."

Perhaps Ralph wasn't so disagreeable after all, or perhaps he just wanted Ivy to stop pestering him. Whatever the reason, she knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. After she'd thanked him profusely amidst his grumbles, he left. Ivy hugged her arms to herself. It felt as if she'd been in a stand-off between herself and Mrs. Hewitt, and she had just scored a major victory.

"My lady?" Hewitt stood at the door to the library. She had almost forgotten about the butler, so rarely did she see him around the abbey. "A parcel has arrived for you. Shall I bring it into the parlor?"

Had Susan sent her something already? Ivy couldn't imagine who else would have known where she was, let alone thought to send her something.

She followed Hewitt to the front door where two men in work coveralls were wheeling something large draped with burlap. Her curiosity built until one of the men removed the burlap and looked about the parlor. "Where would you like it, m'lady?"

The wireless radio was beautiful, encased in gleaming mahogany and embellished with an unfurling leaf motif where the sound came out. It was a far cry from the wireless which Ivy and her family had gathered around in their old flat, which had been broken and repaired so many times that it had been little more than a patched wooden box emitting distorted sounds. Hewitt sprang into action when it was clear that Ivy was too stunned to direct them.

"It came with this note, m'lady," the other man said, handing her an envelope.

Ivy fumbled to unfold the thick ivory paper and caught her breath.

A little welcome-to-Yorkshire gift. My hope is that this will fill your abbey with music and news from the outside world, dispelling any ghosts that might linger there. Warmest regards,

Your friend,

Arthur M.

If Ivy had any doubts about Arthur's intentions, this grand gesture certainly banished them. How on earth had he arranged for this to come so quickly? She watched as the men fit the wireless between the window alcoves, and went about fiddling with dials until it crackled to life and a lively foxtrot began playing. She hadn't realized how gloomy it was, how lonely, until music began pouring through the old house. Closing her eyes, Ivy let the music wash over her, her chest lighter, her breath easier. Dispelling any lingering ghosts, indeed.

True to his word, Ralph had gone to Munson and gotten the parts needed to fix the faulty wires in the library, and made quick work of repairing the lighting. But it seemed that the universe conspired against Ivy. Every time she sat down in the library, a terrible headache would come on, and her head would go fuzzy, her eyes unfocused. The mildew must have been worse than she'd first thought, or perhaps it was eye strain. More than once she even fancied that she was being watched as she tried to catalog the books. Was Mrs. Hewitt spying on her, disapprovingly watching from the upper gallery, or behind a shelf? Or had she enlisted Agnes to watch Ivy? The young maid was eager to please, and Ivy could imagine her being easily manipulated. Though whatever the staff thought they would find was beyond her.

Irritated beyond measure that another cozy day in the library had been thwarted, Ivy stalked off to find Ralph and ask him for a ride into the village. She would telephone Susan, and hearing her friend's voice would make her feel better, she was sure of it. Ivy would tell her about Arthur and how he was throwing everything she thought she knew about her inclination for solitude into chaos. As the golden-brown moors rolled by outside the automobile's window, Ivy's thoughts circled back to the library, and all the treasure that awaited her there once she had figured out the source of her headaches.

"Thank you for attending to the library wires so quickly," she told Ralph, breaking the silence.

A grunt was his only reply.

Ivy's irritation grew. No matter how hard she tried, Ralph was determined to be rude and distant. She'd been mistaken in thinking that he was kind and good underneath his gruff exterior.

"Maybe you could teach me how to drive? That way you wouldn't have to chauffeur me around all the time."

"I'm a chauffeur. That's my job," he said with infuriating evenness.

They had arrived in front of the post office, and Ralph turned off the engine. The truth was, though she and Ralph didn't get along, there was at least a pattern to their bickering, and there was comfort in that. Mrs. Hewitt and the rest of the staff treated her as if she were a different species from them entirely, and seemed to avoid her at all costs.

Sighing, Ivy allowed Ralph to open the door for her, and then got out. "Enjoy your nap," she told him.

"I always do."

The man behind the counter glanced up at the bell, then went back to his newspaper. "M'lady," he mumbled by way of a greeting.

"I have a letter to post to London," she told him, ignoring his inconvenienced tone. "And then I should like to use the telephone."

She half-held her breath as he heaved a sigh and pushed the telephone across the counter to her. "So long as you keep it short."

Ivy rang the operator and after a series of clicks and static, there was a ringing on the other end.

"Hello?" barked a familiar, if not unwelcome voice.

"Hello, Mrs. Beeton. This is Ivy Radcliffe calling for Susan."

Her old landlady grumbled something. "Susan!" she yelled. "Susan, I can hear you up there with that infernal music. Come down this instant and relieve me of this bloody chore!"

Clattering, a muttered curse, and then the sound of footsteps and a muffled exchange ensued on the other end. "Hello?"

Ivy closed her eyes, the silky sound of Susan's voice wrapping around her like a warm blanket, even through the tinny connection. "Susan? I can't believe I'm finally talking to you."

"No thanks to Mrs. Beeton. That old bag is standing around the corner of the hall staring daggers at me—I can see you, Mrs. B!"

Ivy could just see the old boardinghouse's hall in her mind's eye, the dusty carpet and cracked plaster walls. The inexplicable presence of a three-legged tabby cat that no one seemed to feed, yet was always lounging in the doorway. "I miss you. I miss London," she told her friend.

"I miss you too. But don't be silly—you don't really miss it here. You're a grand lady with a grand house now. You have to tell me everything."

Ivy glanced around at the nearly empty post office, then lowered her voice. "I met someone."

Silence on the other end, then: "Someone, as in, a man?"

The bell over the door tinkled, and a woman came in, a parcel in her arms. "Look, I'll have to ring you back. I'm going to see if I can't have a telephone installed at the abbey."

"How is it that Vera Beeton of Bethnal Green has a telephone, but Lady Hayworth doesn't?"

"Mysteries of the universe abound."

"All right," Susan said with a laugh. "Take care of yourself, will you?"

"I will. And write me back. You have no idea how much I need news of the outside world."

"Goodbye, darling."

Ivy stood a little longer with the receiver still in her hand, until the operator's voice came on and she handed it back to the postman.

One peek through the car window told her Ralph was still sleeping in his seat, so she took a walk around the town green and the old stone church. The cemeteries and churchyards of the East End were higgledy-piggledy affairs, her mother's burial place overrun with ivy and rats, and the occasional vagrant. The rich, of course, had marble residences in burial grounds almost as grand as the streets of Mayfair. But the small churchyard in Blackwood was neat and well tended, with potted red geraniums dotting the tidy graves.

So this was where all the Hayworths were buried. Walking along the crosses and old headstones, Ivy let her fingers trace the inscriptions. Autumn leaves lay scattered on the grass and shafts of warm afternoon light fell across the marble stones. Birds sang, dipping on the breeze. It was peaceful, calm. Cemeteries held no discomfort or fear for Ivy. They were a luxury, something her brother and father had been denied. It was as Arthur had said: everyone deserved to have their name remembered, a prayer recited for them. She stopped at a gleaming marble cenotaph, the engraved name jumping out at her. The late Lord Hayworth, Richard Barry.

Her predecessor. Ivy was surprised to see that he had only been forty-eight when he had died. She had envisioned an old, gray man enfeebled from age. Mrs. Hewitt had said that he had suffered from dementia, but he seemed far too young to have succumbed to such a disease. The portrait Ivy had seen of him had been of a man of middling years, and she had assumed that it had been painted years before his death. But perhaps it was done toward the end of his life, or even posthumously.

What would Lord Hayworth have thought about a young, single woman inheriting his title and his home? Was he spinning in his grave beneath her feet? Or had he been forward-thinking, a progressive like her father, who would have applauded her unconventional ascent?

"Paying your respects?"

Ivy spun around to find Ralph leaning against a stone, his coat slung over his shoulder. He was still tall and broad of shoulder, but in the afternoon sunlight, he didn't look quite as unapproachable as he did in the misty gloom of the abbey grounds. She gave a shrug, trying to appear indifferent despite the sudden racing of her heart. "I thought Lord Hayworth was old when he died," she said, nodding at the stone.

Ralph came to stand beside her, just close enough that his scent of leather and woodsmoke mingled with the warm autumn air. "He wasn't young," he said.

"Still, the way everyone talked, I just assumed."

They stood in silence. He must have known Lord Hayworth, but like any good servant, he kept his opinions about his employer to himself.

"The car is ready, my lady," Ralph finally said. A light touch on her elbow and she looked down to find his hand on her sleeve, as if he would escort her away. Her gaze snapped up to Ralph's face and he quickly dropped his hand. "Excuse me," he murmured in gruff tones, and stalked off ahead of her.

Her arm still warm from his touch, Ivy watched his long, uneven strides, an unexpected twinge of compassion running through her. What had that all been about? She threw one last glance at the gravestone glowing in the afternoon light, then hurried to follow Ralph out of the churchyard.