Page 1 of The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
“Almost to Stokeleigh,” the driver told me. “Markham Hall isn’t far beyond that.”
The clatter of hooves and wheels on the road prevented me from answering. Instead, I continued to watch the landscape roll by outside, thick woods and shallow vales punctuated by narrow streams and low stone bridges. Dusk fell quickly; by the time I had marked the long shadows and impenetrable murk growing between the trees, dark orange and purple streaked the sky. And by the time the carriage rolled through the small hamlet, it was almost completely dark. Only the faintest lavender remained in the night sky—the last breath of daylight—and against it was the silhouette of a house, large and tall, with a square tower at one end. It sat on a hill high above the vale of Stokeleigh, the only space cleared of trees for as far as the eye could see.
“Markham Hall,” the driver shouted. I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me.
I busied myself with straightening the pleats on my skirt and checking my hair. I’d never been to Markham Hall, and it had been many years since I’d been to any house as fine as this. Seven years, in fact.
The carriage stopped and the driver hopped down to open the door. I climbed out with his help, and a servant emerged from the house, helping the driver unload my single trunk and bag.
“Is this all?” the servant grunted.
“Appears that way,” said the driver.
Seven years without parents had taught me to accept frugality, to be proud of it in a strange way, but now that my brother was also dead, I was in the strange position of being poor and at the mercy of strangers. When my cheeks burned, they burned not for the single battered trunk, but for the entirety of this situation. If the solicitor responsible for dispensing my brother’s meager estate hadn’t been able to track down Mr. Markham, my late cousin’s husband, I would have been forced to apply for a position as a governess with some family or another. Solicitor Wickes had made the owner of Markham Hall sound like the proper old country gentleman, twice widowed and mourning the loss of his young wife, but that didn’t make the prospect of accepting his kindness any less daunting. I may have been frugal, but I was also proud and used to being solitary, to claiming my time as my own. Lodging with a lonely old man sounded like its own kind of work.
“This way,” the servant said, and I followed him to the entrance, a massive stone arch set with two ancient-looking doors. Black bands of iron bound the door together and the knocker was a snarling bear of tarnished brass. “Inside,” he said.
The entranceway was nearly as black as the outdoors—more so, for there were no stars here. I blinked owlishly while the servant manhandled the door shut again. The driver spoke softly to the horses and the carriage rattled away.
Wait!I wanted to shout.Don’t leave me here!
But it was too late. The carriage was gone, the door closed and I was alone in the dark. I heard the grunt and shuffle of the servant lugging my trunk somewhere.
“Where should I—”
“The housekeeper will come for you. Soon.”
So, I waited in the dark, shifting my weight from foot to cold foot, suppressing my irritation at being made to wait like a stranger and at the overall lack of hospitality Markham Hall seemed to present in general.You’re onlytechnicallyfamily, I reminded myself.Be grateful that Mr. Markham offered you a roof over your head at all…
A dim glow appeared—a bobbing, flickering glow—and as it came closer, it was clear that it was attached to a rather severe figure dressed in black. The telltale ring of keys jangled at her hip.
“You must be Miss Leavold.”
I made a low curtsey and was about to deliver my prepared speech of gratitude, but she was already turning away, shoes clicking sharply on the floor. A spike of indignation at her rudeness shot through me, but like my brother had always implored, I kept my mouth shut. Silently, I followed her.
The lamp she carried only illuminated the barest glimpses of the house. A grim tapestry here, a frowning portrait there. We climbed the wide staircase.
“I’m sorry for the lack of light,” she said, not sounding sorry at all. “When Mr. Markham is away, we generally keep early hours. We are not used to having guests so late.”
“I apologize for my lateness too. Though we set off before dawn, it’s still a long drive.” I was keenly aware that I didn’t sound sorry, but I did not care. I didn’t see how the hour of my arrival was any more my fault than the hour of the sun setting.
She unlocked a room and led me inside. No fire had been lit and from the damp smell, I supposed it hadn’t been aired out either. I certainly didn’t mind diminished conditions—it appeared to be my lot in life, after all—but one glance at the housekeeper’s pinched face told me that this discomfort had been deliberately calculated.
Determined to undermine whatever trap she had laid, I declared as cheerfully as I could, “What a lovely room. I am so grateful for your care and effort.”
She made a noise that indicated nothing other than an acknowledgement that I’d spoken. “Owain brought your things up already. We’ve long since supped, but if you feel it necessary, you can rouse the cook from her bed to tend to you.”
Of course, that wasn’t a real option. I made a demurring sound.
She continued. “Breakfast is early here, perhaps around six-thirty, although Mr. Markham generally eats later, perhaps around ten. Isupposethere might be a chance that you are asked to dine with him.” She sniffed, letting me know what she thought of this supposition. “He is away frequently, and I am very busy tending to the house. There are no other residents here, so you will need to occupy yourself or walk to Stokeleigh if you cannot.”
She didn’t know of the years I’d spent alone in my dead parents’ house, with no one except the servants to keep me company, while my brother gambled away the last of our money in London. Years spent roaming the countryside, sitting by the sea, reading all the ancient books in the library. And besides, at nineteen I was no longer a child.
“I will endeavor to amuse myself,” I said. “As I have done since I reached adolescence.”
Another sniff. “Well. Good night then.”
“Good night, Mrs…?”
