Page 13 of The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
“So what changed after they married?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know. It started slowly at first—not talking during dinner, spending afternoons apart, that sort of thing. All she wanted to do was go back to her old life in London; I think she thought that marriage would be the same as being single, except with more money and with a large house to her name.”
That sounded like Violet. “And what do you think Mr. Markham thought marriage would be like?”
“He had been married before, but only for a month. Who knows what he expected from Mrs. Markham?”
“And then the fights grew worse?”
“Loud. Messy. They’d say things to one another that would make you cringe to hear them. She’d pound her fists against his chest and lob whatever was near at him, and he wouldn’t hit her back, but he’d issue such cruel remarks that he might as well have struck her.” His voice went low and strange. “He didn’t understand her. He didn’t deserve her. She was caged in that house, she was lonely and deprived, and he wanted to keep her isolated and all to himself. And now she’ll never leave Yorkshire.”
His words made the summer air heavy and we walked the rest of the way in silence. We arrived in Stokeleigh ten minutes later, the small village I had been unable to admire on my ride through a few days ago. Charming and small, its three principal streets lined with snug cottages and one cluster of ancient timber and plaster shops, it was a cheerful place, seeming in its bright industry to be miles away from the brooding manor house rather than a short walk.
Gareth directed me to the post office, touched his cap and went off to complete his business. Bells tolled from the tiny stone church as I walked into the post office. After paying my penny, I went back outside, meaning to wait for Gareth at the edge of the village, but I was approached straight off by a prim-looking girl who seemed about my age. Her navy poplin, trimmed with lace and set off by a large brooch, spoke of modesty and wealth. Her wedding ring glinted in the sun.
“Hello,” she said, and somehow in one word, she managed to pack in both condescension and obsequiousness. She held out her hand. “I’m Mrs. Harold, therector’swife.” The emphasis onrectormade it clear exactly where she thought her place in the community was—at the very top.
I shook her hand, trying to discreetly search the street for any sign of Gareth. “Ivy Leavold,” I said, warily.
“Oh yes, we know who you are.” At thewe, she turned and looked knowingly at three women behind her whom I hadn’t noticed before. They looked as young and stiff and self-assured as Mrs. Harold did. Discomfort prickled at my neck and shoulders; I was always at sea with groups of people, especially well-dressed, judgmental groups of people. “Youare the new girl who’s come stay at Markham Hall.”
She seemed awfully gossipy for being married to a man of the cloth. The wheels turned and clicked in my mind, and I realized she was going to pump me for information, search me for all the juicy morsels of news she could carry and then disseminate around the community. I looked around for Gareth again.
“Is ittruethat you are Violet Markham’s cousin?” she asked.
“Yes.” I supplied nothing further.
“And that you hadnowhereto go after your brother died?”
I bit off the irritated remark that floated to mind. “Yes,” I said instead.
“And that they had to sell your family’s house to pay off your brother’sdebts?”
That stung. Of course, as advertised as the auction had been, it would be easily discoverable knowledge for anyone who wanted to know—but still. The thought of my snug home, nestled so close to the sea cliffs, now lived in by strangers…
“Yes,” I finally answered. “Yes, it was sold.”
She gave the others a satisfied look, as if pleased to prove that this piece of information was, in fact, correct. “You poor thing, you must be so grieved. If youeverneed someone to talk to, I am here. It is my job, you know, to help tend my husband’s flock.”
“Thank you for your offer,” I said. “It is so very kind.”
“Miss Leavold!”
Gareth. At last.
He hurried over, a sunny smile on his face, and the other women pretended not to notice him, stealing brief glances out from under their eyelashes. He was below them, a servant, and so to be ignored, but his good looks made it all but impossible not to notice him.
“Mrs. Harold,” he greeted. “Having a nice day?”
“Nice enough,” she said, her tone dismissive. But I saw that she noticed him too, although her look was wary rather than flirtatious.
“It was very pleasant to meet you all.” I said turned away before more invitations could be offered. Gareth touched his hat to the ladies, and then followed me up the street.
His smile faded the further we got from Stokeleigh. “I would avoid that Mrs. Harold,” he said. “Her husband, the new rector, is quite nice. Very young, very cheerful. But she grew up here, and she’s known to be a gossip. I wouldn’t trust a word she says, no matter how earnest it sounds coming out of her mouth.”
“I gathered that.”
“She’s worse than Wispel even. Her father has made a small fortune in negotiating land rights for the train companies. She seems to think all that money has made her better than everybody else.”
