Page 22 of The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
I picked up my skirts and hurried back to the house. I must have been gone longer than I’d thought because the windows on the ground floor were quite dark, though the upstairs windows held flickering lights, indicating that the guests had retired to their rooms. I entered the house as silently as ghost, not wanting to disturb people preparing for sleep, and crept through the rooms to make my way to the staircase, wondering how I would find Mr. Markham now. I didn’t even know where he kept his rooms, much less if he would be in them at the moment.
But my search ended when I heard the unmistakable sound of kissing coming from the drawing room. I froze, not wanting to be caught, listening to the heavy breaths, the soft noise of lips meeting and parting.
“Oh, Jules. You need to be put out of your misery.” It was Molly O’Flaherty’s voice.
“Please,” a voice groaned. A rough voice. Mr. Markham.
There was more rustling. “Are you sure?” Molly said, her voice teasing. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”
I didn’t stay to hear what he said in response. I hurried upstairs as quietly as I could, tears burning in my eyes as I shut the door and climbed fully clothed into bed.
I barely slept. What sleep I managed to steal consisted of vivid dreams of Mr. Markham and Molly together, twining and writhing together, and whenever I awoke from such a vision, a twisting pain in my chest made it impossible to fall back asleep.
My jealousy had been warranted. There was something between Molly and Mr. Markham, not just sex, but a history of sex. Of course, Mr. Markham had been with other women—nothing he or his friends had said would have led me to believe otherwise—but that he could be so physical with me, claim to want me so badly, and then share his body with Molly so soon afterwards—it stung. No, it was worse than stinging, it was a wound, packed with the venom of jealousy and insecurity and doubt.
By dawn, I was out of the house, possessed of a basket of food from Wispel’s kitchen. I was determined not to torment myself by watching Markham and Molly together at the breakfast table, and I was determined not to mope indoors. I walked further afield than I ever had, past the boundaries of Stokeleigh and into the slowly tumbling fields beyond the forest. By noon, I found the exercise had numbed me somewhat, anesthetizing my mind from the memory of Mr. Markham’s rough voice, the way he had beggedplease.
I had chosen a narrow lane to take back to the house, debating about staying outside for the remainder of the day, when I had to stop to make way for a small phaeton that was passing by. But the phaeton halted and none other than the rector’s wife, the gossiping Mrs. Harold, held the reins. It seemed precisely my luck.
“Oh my, Miss Leavold! How can you be out and about in all thisheat?”
I searched for a diplomatic answer, fumbling, my interior pain making normal discourse all but impossible. “I find walking to be quite enjoyable.”
“Are you walking back to Markham Hall now?Please, let me give you a ride!” She scooted over and tucked her skirts back, and feeling as if I had no choice, I climbed in beside her.
“Thank you,” I said.
“It’s nothing at all. Is that a new dress, Miss Leavold? You are done upquitewell today.”
Something told me she was mentally comparing today’s frock to the dress I’d been wearing when we first met in the village. Comparing, and mentally ticking away each yard of silk and lace. She had to know that Mr. Markham had furnished me with something like this; there was no way I could have afforded it myself. But I didn’t care that Mrs. Harold would inform the village of this sartorial charity and I didn’t care what they would think. Only my own opinion mattered.
And Mr. Markham’s.
Mrs. Harold took my silence for confirmation. “Now, please,” she said, snapping the reins. “You must tell me all about the party up at the hall. We saw those coaches rolling through the village yesterday, and the rumor is that Mr. Markham is hosting almosttwenty-fiveguests.”
“Thirteen,” I corrected.
Her eyes glinted at this fact. “And do you know all of their names?”
I allowed that I did.
“And where are they all from?”
I told her that they had come from London and had been friend’s of Mr. Markham’s when he had traveled abroad, but that I had went to bed early last night, and so my knowledge was still very limited. She nodded at this, filing away the little tidbits I’d given her, no doubt already expanding and speculating on them, readying them to be shared amongst her flock of village women.
“Is it true that Mary O’Flaherty is there?”
“You know her?”
“Of course not. She’sIrish, you know, by way of Liverpool. Do I look like someone who knows a lot of Irishwomen?” She didn’t give me time to answer, not that I would have volunteered one anyway. “But everyone knowsabouther. Her father owned one of the largest shipping companies in Liverpool. He died a few years ago, and instead of passing on the business to a male relative, she decided run itherself.” She shook her head, as if Molly had decided to parade naked through the streets instead of follow in her father’s footsteps.
“So she’s wealthy,” I said. Another thread of pain laced itself in my heart. Lovely and rich. I would never be able to compete with that.
Mrs. Harold didn’t notice my change in tone. “Oh yes. She has as much money as an aristocrat. They say she has quite the head for business, which shouldn’t be a woman’s purview, but onedoeshear that the Irish are of a baser sort. Maybe their women are more like men.”
Loath as I was to defend Molly in this moment, I felt a flash of ire. I’d heard whispers about my mother’s heritage all my life. Irish, Scotch, Welsh—God forbid any of usbasersorts pollute Britannia. I focused on breathing, on feeling the wheels rattle underneath me, before I said something I regretted.
She went on. “Anyway, Mr. Markham hasn’t had any guests—other thanyou—since his wife died. One might think it’s a little, well, not done, to have such a party when his wife is barely cold in her grave.”
