Page 14 of The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
I detected a trace of bitterness. “Have you known her long?” I asked.
“Yes.” He turned his face away. “And we know each other still. A bit.”
We walked in silence the remainder of the way, and I contemplated Mrs. Harold. As the town busybody, she would know all about Violet’s death and investigation, and she wouldn’t hesitate to talk about it. Part of me felt certain that it was foolish to keep asking about it—if the law had been satisfied, surely I must be. And Violet and I had hardly been the best of friends. And Mr. Markham couldn’t be a murderer. The thought of someone so cultured and moneyed resorting to something so barbaric was unthinkable. And yet, there was a darkness in him. Hadn’t I seen it—thrilled at it even—when he had told me all of those things on his library floor?
Perhaps I would be paying Mrs. Harold a visit soon.
The next evening, there was a rap at my door, followed immediately by an attempt to turn the knob, which was stymied by the lock. The door rattled in its jamb for a moment before I heard Mr. Markham’s voice. “Miss Leavold. Let me in, please.”
I went to the door but did not open it. “Is it wise for me to open it to you?”
A short laugh. “I assure you, I am quite tame at the moment.”
I unlocked the door then stepped back. He opened it and strode in, looking around the room. “It is very gloomy in here,” he remarked.
“I think you would struggle to find a room in this house that is not.”
“And does that bother you?” he asked. “Coming from the sunny seaside as you did?”
“It does not,” I answered truthfully. “In fact, I very much like it here.”
He sat in an armchair by the window. “That is unexpected. Violet hated it here. I think she hated this house more than she hated anything in her life.”
“I am not Violet,” I said.
He looked at me. “No. No you are not.”
As he looked at me his fingers flexed and curled over and over again on the arm of the chair, and I wondered if they were remembering being inside me and remembering the soft sensation of quivering flesh, how they had brought me to such intense ecstasy.
“Pleasant memories?” he asked, and I realized he had caught me staring at his hand.
“I thought you were going to stay away from me,” I said instead of answering, hoping the warmth on my face wasn’t too obvious.
He grinned. “I was. I am. But I remembered in all the bustle of getting the house ready for the guests that you might not have everything you need.”
“I’m sure—”
“Let me see your dresses,” he interrupted. “All of them.”
My flush turned from one of desire to one of embarrassment. Though I knew that Mr. Markham had exchanged letters with Wickes and knew the precise details of my impoverishment, something about laying out my three outdated dresses was especially humiliating.
Seeming to understand the source of my hesitation, he said, “This is not to shame you. But in a few days, we will have many guests. There will be dinners and picnics and long evenings in the parlor—maybe even some dancing. You are under my care, and your material goods reflect on me. If we need to order you new dresses, then that’s what shall happen.”
There seemed no point to arguing the matter. Either he would see them now or he would see them when I wore them after the guests arrived. I brought out the three dresses—one nice black silk that I had worn to Thomas’s funeral, the faded green lawn, and a calico that I’d inherited from the curate’s sister back home. These, in addition to the dress I wore, were the only things I owned.
Mr. Markham surveyed the clothes. “Could your brother truly not afford to keep you better outfitted than this?”
As always, I felt the need to defend Thomas. “He was often traveling on business, and I didn’t like to bother him with such petty requests.”
“You mean he was away gambling and carousing.” Mr. Markham didn’t wait for me to respond. “I know all about your brother’s habits. Needless to say, if you had been in my care, I would have never so neglected your company or your upkeep. But regardless, you are in my care now, and I will see this rectified. Expect the seamstress tomorrow.”
He stood and I moved in front of him before he could walk to the door. “Mr. Markham. You have already been beyond generous by inviting me to stay with you. You know I can’t importune you any further, as I don’t foresee any way that I could ever hope to pay you back. If my wardrobe is an object of ridicule among your guests, then that is my problem, not yours. I assure you, I’m used to being poor.”
“It is my problem,” he said, “because you are under my roof and I have accepted responsibility for you.” He rubbed at his forehead, more agitated than he’d let on. “Under what domain will you allow me to contribute? We are family, are we not, through marriage? Or perhaps simply as your benefactor? I don’t care what you have to tell yourself to accept them, but you are wearing the dresses I order for you, if I have to come up here and lace you into them myself.”
“I’d like to see you try,” I shot back.
“Oh, wouldn’t you like that, wildcat? If I had to come up here every night and strip you down?” His hands found my arms. “If I had to wrestle you until you were subdued and willing?”
