Page 12 of The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
But what Mr. Markham had done to me last night hadn’t felt wrong. Nothing had felt more right—as if he and he alone were created to touch my body. I decided to ignore the clergyman and the dusty tracts. What did it matter, really? Mr. Markham spoke of a future husband, but surely a smart man like him could see that a husband was unlikely for a girl as poor and unconnected as I was. No, in all likelihood, I would spend the remainder of my days alone, at the mercy of others, and it wouldn’t matter how pure I’d been.
Knowing that Mrs. Brightmore would judge me for lying in, I decided to make every effort to avoid her today. After dressing and putting up my hair, I settled on a walk to Stokeleigh to post a letter to Solicitor Wickes thanking him for all of his help in securing me a place to stay.
My plan was ruined when I encountered Mrs. Brightmore on the staircase, me with my letter in hand and her with a bucket of steaming water.
“Pardon.”
“Out of my way,” she snapped.
I’d only been here a few days, but I’d never seen her attend to any of the drudgery work herself. “Do you need any help?” I asked tentatively.
“You’d probably just muck everything up,” she said and pushed past me, slopping hot water onto my dress.
I came the rest of the way down the stairs, hot with anger, and was met by Gareth carrying a cord of firewood. He stopped, but behind him I saw a few other servants moving in and out of rooms, carrying rugs to be beaten and mattresses to be aired.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“I’m perfectly fine,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow, and I realized that my fists were clenched, crumpling my letter in the process. I took a deep breath and relaxed my fingers. “What’s all the bustle about?” I asked him.
“Ah, that.” He shifted the firewood so that he could brush some of the blond hair out of his eyes. “Mr. Markham has invited a party of his acquaintances to come stay a while. Several men and women. Markham Hall hasn’t had visitors since I can remember—Mr. Markham prefers to go off to see his friends—so there is quite a lot of work to be done.”
Visitors? I wondered why and why now, so soon after Violet’s death. And then I felt a sharp pang of disappointment. Despite what Mr. Markham had said about not touching me again, I still wanted to see him and talk to him. I wanted him all to myself. I didn’t want to share his company with a party of his friends and risk him ignoring me. I knew I was being unreasonable, that I was only the orphaned girl kept out of some distant sense of duty and charity, and that I’d only known him for a few days, but I didn’t care. I would tear this house apart, stone by stone, if it meant we could share another night like last night. And besides, I didn’t like large crowds of refined people. Making strained polite conversation and pretending to laugh at stale witticisms exhausted me. I’d much rather hide in the library or escape outdoors.
“Are you going into town?” Gareth asked, nodding at my letter.
“Yes,” I said, forcing myself back into the present. “To the post office.”
“Could I escort you? Mrs. Brightmore wants me to requisition more help for the house.”
I agreed, and after he finished with the firewood, we started off together, down the winding sun-dappled lane to Stokeleigh. Birds sang and animals chittered as we walked; summer felt as if it was poised to explode into heat and growth any second. The more we walked and the further away from Markham Hall we got, the less my thoughts centered on last night and the more they alighted on more troubling matters.
“Gareth,” I asked after we’d been walking in companionable silence for several minutes. “The cook said something to me yesterday that I’ve been thinking over. She said that the constable had investigated Violet’s death as if it had been a murder. Is that true?”
“She told you that, did she?” Gareth scratched his face. The gesture was oddly endearing, as if he were a young man just growing his first beard. “You shouldn’t listen to old Wispel. She likes nothing more than to tell stories.”
“But is it true? She’d said that the saddle cinches had been cut.”
He rubbed at his face again, clearly uncomfortable. “Her death was investigated,” he admitted. “But they found no cause to suspect Mr. Markham. They ruled it an accident.”
“No cause? Or they didn’t want to accuse a man as powerful as Mr. Markham?”
Gareth stopped, his blue eyes pained in the happy light of the forest lane. “I know she’s your cousin and so you feel the need to know the truth and that’s why you are asking. So please believe me when I say, from the bottom of my heart, that no one in the world would ever lift a hand to hurt her.”
“But that’s not entirely true either, is it? Mrs. Wispel said Mr. Markham and Violet fought—violently even.”
He hesitated. “It’s true that they did not get along well after they married. But if you could have seen him while they courted—he was a man entranced. He took me along with him to London—usually he hires a valet from whichever city he’s staying in—but I think this time he wasn’t planning on staying long. Just a day or two. And then he met her at a ball. He came back to the hotel that night, vowing to win her hand. And he did. It took months, but he did.”
“How romantic.”
“I suppose. Mr. Markham began bringing me more frequently on those trips and I got to see their courtship firsthand.” He paused again, as if unsure how to phrase his words. “Your cousin was very pretty and very well-liked, but there were rumors…”
I nodded. “I knew Violet’s temperament. It doesn’t shock me. Continue.”
“Rumors that she was more than flirtatious.Carnalrumors.” There was a color to his cheeks now, although his expression wasn’t suggestive of bashful innocence. Growing up with older brother had taught me what young men liked to joke about, and I could easily picture Gareth listening and sharing those same rumors. The coloring came from guilt, I decided, from indulging in the salacious tales surrounding the newly dead.
“I’m sure there was nothing to them, of course,” he continued, “but there were some who said she would not be a proper wife. This didn’t bother Mr. Markham at all—he seemed almost excited by her reputation, as if it presented a challenge. And there were many who thought that if any man could bring her to heel, it would be Mr. Markham.”
