Page 39 of The Awakening of Ivy Leavold
The difficulty of it was that I wasn’t sure if I was concerned about Violet’s murder because I cared about the value of her life and her unborn child’s. The concern emerged from a more selfish, a more ancient part of my mind—the one designated for self-preservation. Like a wolf catching the alien scent of lead and steel on the wind, like a rabbit catching sight of the fox, my very body trembled with the need to flee my hunter.
Or fight him.
Or fuck him, a dark voice whispered in my mind.
The problem was that I knew of very few prey who had the third reaction. So did that make me stupid? Or strong?
There was a knock at the door. Adrenaline surged through me, tensing my muscles and making my pulse race. I turned to see Gareth coming inside the room.
Gareth. Not Mr. Markham.
“Hello,” I said, struggling to tamp down the manic energy that now coursed through my veins.
“Miss Leavold,” he said. “Do you need anything? More light perhaps?”
“A fire would be nice,” I managed, “but only if it’s no trouble.”
“Of course not.” He set to it right away, but his mannerisms were slow and thoughtful, as if he were trying to find a way to introduce a topic. I had no guess as to what that topic might be, and I didn’t care. My thoughts only touched around three points: Mr. Markham, Violet, the baby.
Mr. Markham, Violet, the baby. Mr. Markham, Violet, the baby. Mr. Markham—
“I let Raven loose,” Gareth blurted.
I stared at him as if he were speaking Icelandic. “What?”
“Raven. Last night. I was the one who let the horse out.”
“Oh.” Last night’s events filtered through my thoughts, piercing the murk of fear and lust and doubt.
He was talking fast now. “I knew you had gone up to Mr. Markham’s rooms, and I know what happened when his guests were here, I mean, I saw you on the parlor floor with them and their hands all over you, and I didn’t know if you needed help or not. Although, I did know, because I know what kind of man my master is and I’m only sorry that I let the horse out too late—I had hoped to distract him and save you from his advances altogether.”
It all finally processed—the fact that Gareth had seen me while I had been laid so intimately bare the night I played Blind Man’s Buff, his misguided help, the risk he had taken in order to “save” me. I almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it in the face of what I had learned from Mr. Mayhew today. Who could care about saving my maidenhead when my very life was at stake?
But it would not do to be so blunt, Thomas would say. “Gareth, you shouldn’t have.”
“It was worth it,” he said. “I…I wasn’t able to help Violet. I wanted to help you.”
Oh. That put a different frame on things. I wished that he had been able to help Violet too.
I searched for a way to explain myself without sounding ungrateful. “Gareth, I wasn’t coerced into anything by Mr. Markham. I wanted to be in his rooms. I wanted to be on the parlor floor. I asked for all of that.”
Realization dawned on his face, and he turned back to the stacked logs, face aflame. “Oh.”
“Thank you—”
“No, no, I understand,” he mumbled, standing up. Fire now crackled on the andiron, making his fair hair orange. “My mistake.”
“I do appreciate the sentiment,” I said, a little pleadingly. I didn’t want to lose his goodwill when I had so little of it in this new life of mine.
He nodded. “It was nothing,” he said, eyes still downcast, and then he left.
Frustrated, I turned back to Arabella’s portrait, angry with Gareth and angry with myself and angry with Mr. Markham. Why had Gareth done something so presumptive? So potentially employment-threatening? He seemed so good-natured that I hadn’t thought of him as the compulsive type. And all for the memory of his master’s dead wife?
And—selfish as I knew it was to think—how could anybody expect me to exhibit gratitude now? Tonight? When all I wanted to do was roar and slash and howl, to run until I was insensate to everything except the breath stinging in and out of my lungs?
“Ivy.”
The sound took all of the air out of the room. I had no idea how long Mr. Markham been standing there and watching me think my half-crazed thoughts. But before I could ask or explain, he’d crossed the room and pressed his lips to mine.
