Page 29 of The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
I woke early that next day, before the sun, before any of the guests—some of whom were still in the parlor, sleeping in a tangled mess of limbs and silk. My heart pulled remembering last night; it had been both delicious and painful.
I only knew one thing—I had to see Mr. Markham. I had to talk to him, had to touch him. He’d invaded my dreams and my waking mind—a thought would arise, only to be chased away by the memory of his lips on my skin, of his hardness slowly pressing inside of me. It was like a disease, falling in love with him, and it made me apathetic and anxious all at the same time.
I went down to the kitchen to find an early breakfast. Wispel was grumbling around a table, gathering eggs and onions into bowls. “No doubt going to sleep late again, not so much as a hint as to when they’ll want breakfast, and I’m not a magician, I can’t pull a full breakfast out of thin air at a whim.”
Whether she was complaining to me or I had simply arrived in the middle of an ongoing soliloquy, I didn’t know.
“Would it be okay if I had something to take with me for breakfast? I’m thinking of going outdoors to eat.”
Wispel shook her head. “You and the master, both up hours before the others, both wanting separate meals. There’s only one of me, you know, at least until the village girls get here to help with luncheon and supper.”
“Mr. Markham is already awake?” My heart jumped. I might be able to see him, alone and apart from any of the others. “Is he still in the house?”
“He also wanted to be outside. I think he had a letter to post in the village. Couldn’t get his valet to do it, like a normal master, oh no.” And despite her grumbling, Wispel pulled together a bundle of warm bread and hard cheese and two hardboiled eggs.
I took the bundle gratefully, eager to get outside and find Mr. Markham. Wispel must have noticed, because she kept her hand on the food for a moment. “It does not do to follow men about,” she warned me. “The late mistress was much the same way before she married, and it only sowed unhappiness for her.”
For whatever reason, I didn’t feel defensive or chagrined—Wispel seemed kind enough in her intentions. I did, however, remember my conversation with Mrs. Harold yesterday—the one where she’d accused Mr. Markham of killing not one, but two wives.
“Thank you,” I told her, and then left the kitchens, my thoughts floating away from kisses in the dark and floating towards sabotaged saddles and gravestones. And so I turned my feet toward the village, knowing now where I’d go.
The lingering shadows seemed to hug the village church longer than any other building, and so the churchyard still had an air of night about it, even though the main street was now washed with the rosy oranges of dawn.
I walked through the sagging wooden lych-gate into the graveyard, picking my way around sunken graves and crooked gravestones, looking for a newer grave. I wanted to find Violet. It was something I should have done as soon as I’d come, but my thoughts and energy had been so occupied with her widower that I hadn’t. That surely made me a terrible cousin, but if she’d been alive, she might not have minded. Violet herself had always put men first.
The graveyard wrapped around the church, the grass impossibly green and the stones speckled with moss and lichen, and then I found Violet’s grave without even needing to scan the headstones. Mr. Markham was standing beside it, his eyes fixed on the stone, his hands behind his back.
I was unsure whether to approach or not, but then he said, without looking over at me, “Join me, Miss Leavold.”
I did, all the while thinking of Mrs. Harold and Wispel and their stories. Even though I craved his presence and his touch, I came around the other side of the grave, keeping my eyes on Mr. Markham.
“You look at me so warily,” he said, again keeping his eyes fixed on the stone. He gave the impression of someone who could see everything. “Are you worried I’m going to bite?”
I didn’t answer at first. It was strange having Violet’s grave actually before me, actually between us, it was strange and terrifying but it felt inevitable as well. That if he were to kiss me again, we should be here in this gloomy place, staring at her name carved so cleanly into the white marble. Atop the plinth was a pale angel, her hands covering her face, her head bent, perhaps in sorrow or perhaps in shame.
Whose sorrow? Whose shame?
“Did you really laugh when you found her?” I asked Mr. Markham. “When you found Violet dead?”
He finally looked up, his face serious. “What are you talking about?”
“After Violet died, and you were the first to find her—I heard that you laughed.”
“No,” he said softly.
“No, you didn’t laugh?”
“No, I wasn’t the first to find her.”
The breeze blew through the yard and I shivered. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that there were footprints in the frost. Someone found her first and left her body there, without going to find help from anybody else.”
“And then you laughed?”
His eyes flashed. “What are you implying? That I was happy when Violet died? That’s a very sinister accusation, Miss Leavold.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” I said.
