The Awakening of Ivy Leavold Read online

  “You do look a bit like her,” the cook said at last.

  “Like who?” And then I realized. Violet. She could only mean Violet.

  “Different coloring, of course. You look a bit gypsy, if you don’t mind me saying, but you could just as easily claim Italian. But the face—I can see something of her there.” She nodded. “But you’ve got a good heart, I can see it in your eyes. A good open heart. Not like her.”

  “I’m sure Violet—”

  Her expression tightened. “We don’t speak the names of the dead here. Too close to the churchyard. It will waken them, make them restless.”

  This must be some sort of Northern tradition we didn’t have in the south. “Sorry,” I said. “I mean, I’m sure she didn’t mean to give the impression of having a bad heart. I remember her as very energetic and happy.”

  “She only lived for pleasure,” the cook said, crooking a finger at me, as if Violet’s Epicureanism had been my fault. “And that always turns a heart rotten, like fruit left too long in the sun.”

  She trundled over to the table and gestured to the boy. He pulled a fresh loaf of bread from the oven while she unwrapped a wedge of cheese. “Mind you, she was right unhappy in the end. Like you, sneaking down for her meals so she wouldn’t have to eat with her husband. Claiming she was too hungry to wait for regular mealtimes. And the rows they’d have; I’d hear her cries coming from his bedroom at night, shattering glass from the parlor…it weren’t no surprise when the constable had to ask Mr. Markham all those questions.”

  “There was an investigation into her death?” This was the first I’d heard of it. I’d been under the assumption that everybody had accepted the tragic nature of her accident.

  The cook nodded, slicing off a thick hunk of cheese and setting it next to the bread. “The saddle had been ruined in some way—cut partially, so that it might tear, especially if the rider was riding at a gallop or at a canter, like she often did. Of course, the constable didn’t have much leeway—it’s difficult to accuse a man like Mr. Markham, you see. In the end, they called it an accident. But the village knows what really happened. Mr. Markham’s been such a cold, unknowable person, ever since he was a young man. Cold and peculiar. When his father died, he was only seventeen, and rather than take on his duties and settle down as he should, he went off to Europe. And the stories that came back…”

  I accepted the bundle of bread and cheese; at the last moment, she reached over and placed a shiny red apple on top. “What kind of stories?” I asked.

  “Not the kind a young lady should hear.” But she glanced over at the child. I made a note that she might speak more if she were only in adult company. Extrapolating from our conversation now, I surmised that she wasn’t the kind to hesitate to share her opinions.

  “You speak rather freely of your employer,” I remarked.

  She eyed me, again without animosity. “I’ve worked in this house since I was younger than that one.” She used the cheese knife to point at the child. “Any loyalty I had died with the old missus and master. And the young master knows that, just as he knows he won’t find a better cook anywhere in Yorkshire.”

  “Sounds like a tenable arrangement,” I said. “Thank you for the food.”

  She snorted. “It was nothing. I’m always happy to feed you, but don’t let that Brightmore woman drive you away from the table. You’re a lady and you live here now. She doesn’t know her place. Thinks just because Mr. Markham brought her in as a maid from another big house and raised her up to the level of housekeeper that she’s better than service and better than all of us here. I wouldn’t be surprised if she cherished the hope that the master will fall in love with her, like in those awful novels everybody seems to read these days.”

  I was on the stairs when the cook called after me once more.

  “Be careful, Miss Leavold.”

  On my walk? “What do you mean?”

  “Markham Hall already has two dead young women to its name,” she said.

  “Accidental deaths,” I pointed out.

  But she simply shrugged and turned back to her chopping, not bothering to elaborate or explain, and I was left unsettled.

  It was past dawn outside, yet the sun stayed behind the clouds; fog filled the grounds and the space between the trees, making the world silver and strange. I walked down the path, thinking to eat by the stream again, unnerved at how quickly the world behind me was swallowed up by the mist. It swirled around my boots and skirts, clung damply to my hair and dress, and it was only the lonely sound of the stream that gave me any sense of distance at all.

  I continued, walking further than I had yesterday, stopping finally at a place where the stream widened into a glassy and shallow pool. I ate my still warm bread and cheese, thinking of all the cook had told me. Did she really suspect Mr. Markham of murder? Or did she only say such a thing because it dovetailed nicely with her opinions of his behavior as a younger man? Had the constable really investigated him for Violet’s death?

  And what about Violet? I could imagine her being unhappy in a marriage. She had been friendly—too friendly—wanting to talk to anyone who would listen to her giggle and flirt…which had been everyone who met her. Shut up in this dark house, so far away from London and Brighton and her other favorite places, with someone as remote and mercurial as her husband, I could easily see her suffocating. And Violet had never kept quiet about a single iota of unhappiness in her life. Every imagined slight, every small boredom, became a pain too intolerable to be endured and everybody within earshot heard about it.

  Yes, yes. An unhappy Violet would fight, would cry and yell and hurl glasses.

  But that she would avoid her husband, sneak into the kitchens…that seemed so unlike her.

  Could she have been genuinely afraid of her own husband? Afraid for her own life?

  The water rippled, churning into one end of the pool and then spilling out the other. On impulse, even though it was not warm by any means, I began to take off my boots and stockings, wanting to be in the water. With a glance around the fog-draped banks to make sure I was still alone, I also took off my dress, corset and petticoat so that my long chemise was all that remained.

  I stepped in the water, cool but pleasant, feeling the smooth river rocks beneath my feet. My arms and chest erupted in goose bumps and everything seemed to tighten and contract in the cool water. I waded in until I reached the deepest spot and the water lapped against my navel. Without giving myself too much time to think, I dropped underneath the surface and swam in a small tight circle, loving the feeling of the cool water on my scalp, loving the way it filled every crease and fold of my body. It was freedom. From gravity, from noise, from breathing itself.

  I emerged, gasping for air and sweeping my hair back from my face, and that’s when I saw him: Mr. Markham, once again watching me as I played in the water.

  This time, I did nothing. I neither spoke nor splashed, and I waited as silently as he did, watching fog wisp across the pool, my heart pounding madly in my chest.

  Without a word, he stepped into the stream, boots and breeches and all, coming towards me with long, assured strides, even in the water. The mist between us danced and eddied until it vanished, only to reassemble in his wake. We were now together in the center of the pool, completely surrounded by fog. It felt as if we were in our own small world, as if we’d been transported to Avalon and we were the only two living mortals there.

  I expected him to speak and to address last night when I had bitten him, or before, when I’d splashed him with water. I expected him to chide me once more for being wild.

  But normal rules didn’t apply here, not on otherworldly mornings in the middle of a forest.

  He reached one arm out, and I thought he meant to take my hand, but instead, it snaked around my waist, pulling me tight against him. I could feel the warmth of him through his clothes, warmth that reminded me of how chilled I was. He pressed his forehead against mine, his eyes closed.

 
“You were supposed to be a charity case,” he said. “Or a houseguest. Or family. I can’t remember any more.”

  “I am happy to be anything you need,” I said. “I am grateful—”

  He continued on as if I hadn’t spoke. “I got the letter from Solicitor Wickes the day after she died. He’d addressed it to her, of course, not knowing she was dead. And the thing was that I felt by helping you, maybe I’d be helping myself. Erasing a black mark from my record. Although the Lord knows there are too many marks to ever hope to be clear of them all.”

  “How can I help you then?” I said. His face, so close to mine, touching mine, made it impossible to breathe or even think normally. “Please tell me.”

  Our noses touched and my breath hitched. That knot deep within me was burning and twisting, and I wanted to press closer to him, to touch him and slide my fingers against his wet skin.

  He pulled back. “You can’t help me,” he said. “You can’t be what I need. Nobody can. I’ve learned that the hard way.”

  He glanced down, and to my surprise, he groaned. I looked down too, only now realizing that my swim had made my chemise completely transparent and that my erect nipples were dark and hard under the thin fabric. For the first time, I was completely aware of how violently inappropriate this all was—me standing nearly naked, allowing myself to be embraced by a man who’d only been widowed a month. Every aspect of this violated those rules my parents and Thomas had attempted to ingrain within me.

  I should feel ashamed. I should feel compromised.

  But I did not. I only felt that tightness low in my belly, those urges, and when he slowly bent his head and took my cold nipple in his mouth, my cry of pleasure was unsullied by any other feeling. He sucked me through the thin cotton of the chemise, and it was so warm, the only warm thing touching my body. He nibbled and teased and pulled with a fervor that was arousing in and of itself, as if this small act were the only thing he wanted to do, not just now, but for the rest of his life.

  My other nipple tightened, and my core muscles clenched, and all those dirty words that Violet had taught me as a girl flashed through my mind.

  Cock.

  Cunt.

  Fuck.

  Abruptly, he stopped and straightened. The absence of his mouth on my breast was akin to physical pain; the delicate area between my legs throbbed with need.

  “Please,” I whispered. “More.”

  His eyes were once again shuttered, once again remote. Without another word, he climbed out of the pool and left, the fog swallowing him up before he’d even reached the path.

  “Mr. Markham has sent me to request that you dine with him.” Mrs. Brightmore’s voice left no doubt as to how she felt about this, even through the thick wood of my door, and I wondered if the cook was right, if she fancied herself in love and waiting tragically for a man who could never marry her. I wondered if he had ever touched his housekeeper like he had touched me. Certainly not recently, but perhaps when she was younger? She had high cheekbones and thick hair, large eyes and a delicate jawline. It was easy to see where she had once been beautiful, where hard work and loneliness and resentment had eaten away at a fine face. The thought made me surprisingly jealous, even though I knew such things were not uncommon, servants being with masters.

  You have no claim on him. You barely know him.

  But still.

  I started to change into a nicer dress, my stomach somersaulting as I contemplated going downstairs. I’d spent the day in my room, pacing, unable to stop fixating on the memory of Mr. Markham’s dark head at my breast. I could recall every minute detail of the moment: the soft abrasion of the fabric against my skin, the heat of his mouth, the movements of his tongue. And I found that as I thought, my hands drifted to my breasts, trying to recreate the sensations, the tight web of desire forming at the base of my spine once more.

  I paused my dressing. I sat on the bed and spread my legs, ignoring the faint voices telling me that such a thing was not done, too shocking for a girl of good birth to even think about. I pulled the gown up to my waist and let my hand drift towards my center. Where was this loudly clamoring need located? That knot of desire? I felt as if I could unravel it, as if I should, because seeing Mr. Markham with it throbbing inside of me would surely compromise my ability to be collected and calm.

  My hands found my folds, which were slick, and then I found the small bundle of nerves at the top. This too Violet had told me about, although I’d never tried touching it as she had once gigglingly suggested.

  I rubbed experimentally and a jolt of pleasure shot straight through me. I rubbed again, unconsciously pressing against myself, rocking my hips back and forth, wondering what it would look like to see Mr. Markham’s hands down there, stroking and sinking into me—

  A knock at the door.

  “Miss Leavold?”

  I slid off the bed, cheeks flaming. It was Mr. Markham. Thank God he hadn’t let himself in unannounced.

  “Yes?” I managed.

  “I just wanted to make sure Mrs. Brightmore passed along my express wish that you be in the dining room with me tonight.” His voice left no room for argument. Even if I hadn’t already agreed, I would feel compelled to acquiesce now.

  “Yes, of course. I’ll be there in only a minute.”

  His footsteps echoed down the hall, and I hurriedly dressed, hoping nothing about my face or behavior would betray what I’d just done.

  Dinner was almost entirely silent, save for the clanking and clinking of dishes and silverware. I could think of nothing to say to him that I could say with Gareth waiting on us, and whenever I looked at him to try and find an innocent topic of conversation, my gaze zeroed in on his mouth, sensual and curved as he ate and drank, and on his hands, which I had just imagined doing such wicked things.

  “Miss Leavold, will you join me in the library?”

  “Yes,” I murmured, feeling Gareth’s eyes on my back as I pushed my chair back and left the dining room.

  A warm fire had been lit and so had the heavy chandelier, so the room seemed less shadowed than it had last night.

  “Port, Miss Leavold?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He poured two small glasses and handed mine to me, our fingers touching briefly as he did. A small shudder of delight raced through me. He noticed.

  He walked over to the fire, and I arranged myself on a nearby sofa, wondering what safe subject I could broach; I found myself both terrified that he would talk about this morning and terrified that he wouldn’t.

  “I am so sorry that I didn’t get to see Violet again. Before she died.” The moment the words left me, I noticed that Mr. Markham’s mouth had parted, as if he were about to speak himself. But at my statement, his lips pressed together again and he gave a nod.

  “Yes. Yes, I imagine you are.”

  I was reminded of the cook’s suspicious rumblings and I wanted to ask about the screaming and the shattered glass. About the investigation into her death. But even I knew better—even I could see how rude such a line of questioning would be.

  His face was turned to the fire. “You are the first good thing to happen in this house since she died. Or since we married.”

  I waited for him to continue.

  He didn’t.

  Instead, he went over the library door and turned the lock, coming back to the sofa. He sat, his leg pressed against mine, and I imagined I could feel how muscular it was, even through the layers and layers of clothing that separated us.

  His posture was casual as he drank his port, and I followed his example, setting my glass down on a nearby table when I’d finished. I felt warmer, happier somehow. More relaxed. More daring. Perhaps I could talk to him about what happened today. I turned toward him.

  “Mr. Markham, about today…”

  “Yes?” His tone betrayed nothing but polite interest. I could have been asking him about the weather or the latest levy on carriage wheels.

  I continued, fortified by the wine. “I
don’t want you to take an unfavorable impression of me from it.”

  He laughed. “I intrude upon you in a private moment, take advantage of you, and you don’t want me to think badly of you?”

  “I guess I hadn’t thought of it in those terms,” I said, frowning.

  His laughter faded away, replaced by a serious expression. “I’ve been thinking of it all day.” His fingers trailed against my hand and up my sleeve, until they came to rest against the bodice of my dress. “What are you?” he asked. “Some kind of spirit sent to tempt me?”

  “I could ask you the same question.” And I couldn’t help myself. I had to touch him. I ran my fingers along the stubble on his jaw, marveling at the roughness of it, how scratchy it was and yet how soft the skin underneath. My hand dropped to his thigh, where I felt how right I had been—his legs were muscular and firm.

  He jumped off the couch, running a hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea what you are doing to me?” he demanded.

  My heart jumped. He was just as affected by me as I was by him, and that realization thrilled me beyond measure. “Sir—”

  “I told you not to call me that.”

  “I am sorry for causing you distress—”

  “Distress,” he stated flatly. “Yes, you are causing me immense distress.” He came to a stop in front of me. “Have you ever even kissed a man?”

  I felt a little insulted. Despite what had happened here at Markham Hall, despite my admittedly untraditional upbringing, I had never done anything of the sort. I may have been wild, but I wasn’t loose. “Of course not,” I said. I’d meant to sound indignant that he’d even asked, but my voice betrayed something else: longing.

  “You see? You are completely virginal, though Lord knows those lips and eyes don’t look the part.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “You have all of these firsts—kisses and caresses and more—left in front of you. You are completely fresh to the world of grown men and women.”

  He took hold of my hands and helped me stand to my feet. “I think it’s best if we keep our distance from one another,” he said. My whole body wilted in disappointment. I wanted nothing less.