Page 8 of The Education of Ivy Leavold
At least, it had been some comfort.
He stepped out the door, then turned. “And pet?”
“Yes?”
“I will know if you’ve touched yourself. Don’t.”
I closed my eyes with frustration, but I nodded after a minute.
Fine.Fine.
I stomped around my room for a couple moments after he left, gathering up some odds and ends for our sudden trip—hair combs, a spare set of gloves, a small copy of Rob Roy that I’d been reading at night. I could barely process that we were going to York—everything was a faded blur next to my need to be satisfied. I yanked my purse off the vanity, swearing under my breath when I knocked the hair comb and brush onto the floor.
It was when I knelt to retrieve them that I saw it—a jagged scratch in the silk wallpaper that extended from beyond the vanity by about an inch. It was thin and barely noticeable unless you were close to the wall, as I was now. I squinted at it, curious. It was not only thin, but straight—not the crack of plaster settling, not the accidental gouge from moving furniture. I gave the vanity an experimental tug and succeeded in pulling it away from the wall enough to see how the scratch extended into a series of scratches, long and connected. It was a word. No—two words.
Help me.
I stepped back, my heart thudding no longer from lust but from fear.Help me.
Who had written this? And why? And when?
“She did it, you know. Not long before she died.”
I started, adrenaline sluicing through me, turning to see Brightmore framed in the doorway like a malevolent ghost, as if summoned by my silent questions.
“Mrs. Brightmore, you frightened me—”
“She slept in here most nights,” Brightmore continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Like she was afraid of the master. I caught her carving this into the wall with her letter opener one night.” Her nostrils flared. “Awful trash. How dare she touch this house? She wasn’t even fit to step foot in it.”
I had come to terms with Violet’s unpopularity—felt the same way about her myself—but Brightmore’s naked hatred and jealousy of my relative irked me. But I wanted answers more than I wanted to defend Violet at that moment, so I swallowed my anger and asked, “Do you know why she would carve something like that?”
“She was deranged,” the housekeeper said coldly. “How should I know why a madwoman does what she does?”
“She wasn’t mad,” I said, more to myself than to Brightmore. Violet had been many things—tempestuous and difficult and loose even—but not insane.
“She couldn’t face Mr. Markham,” Brightmore said abruptly, taking a step toward me. “She couldn’t accept him. She couldn’t understand him. And I cleaned up his messes as I always do.” She was very close to me now; my neck prickled. “I have to take care of him, because no one else truly can.”
I hated the idea that she and Mr. Markham had any sort of relationship at all. I resolved to ask him about it later. But it was the subtext of her words that disturbed me. I kept my voice collected. “What did you do?”
She narrowed her eyes at me. And then she made a noise between a hiss and a scoff, a noise that saidyou are not worthy to know. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re asking. But I told the master how to handle a wayward wife. And he did.”
“Miss Ivy, the carriage—” Gareth’s voice was sunny as he came into the room, but he froze as he took in the two of us, only two feet apart, hatred heating the air. He quickly recovered. “Um, the carriage is ready. Mr. Markham took the liberty of packing you a trunk last night and it is already loaded, but I’ll be happy to carry anything else out that you need.”
Brightmore glared at him, but Gareth refused to leave. He stood resolutely inside the room until she finally swept away, leaving only her dark words and the scratches behind the vanity to fester in my mind. I stared at the scratches a moment more, then made to push the table back against the wall. Gareth came over to help me, then straightened as he saw the words.
“What is that?” he asked, his voice strange. “Did you…?”
I shook my head. “Brightmore said it was Violet. She caught her doing it.”
Gareth’s knuckles were white around the edges of the table, and I remembered the rumors. Poor Gareth. I shouldn’t feel sympathy for the man who’d been entangled in my cousin’s adultery—especially since I was about to wed the husband who’d been hurt by it. But I did, because in that moment, I saw a thousand seas of grief pooling in Gareth’s eyes.
“I didn’t know she was that unhappy,” he said, pushing the vanity back and then going back to the door. He kept his face from me.
“I thought it was common knowledge that she was unhappy with Mr. Markham.”
“I think maybe this was about something else,” Gareth said, but he offered no explanation for his cryptic analysis and refused to talk any more as he ushered me down to the courtyard.
Mr. Markham had indeed arranged for a small trunk to be packed with enough effects to last me for a few days, and also procured refreshments for the hours-long journey, and then we were off. The minute the wheels left the paving stones of the drive and hit the smooth dirt track to Stokeleigh, Mr. Markham drew the shades and beckoned me over.
