The Awakening of Ivy Leavold

by Sierra Simone

  “I’m not sure that qualifies as a certain evidence of homicide,” I said, but inside I wondered…could Violet have really carried on an affair with Gareth? There was a possessiveness to Mr. Markham; perhaps he would be very angry indeed if he discovered his wife had been unfaithful. And our childhood curate had always said that sexual immorality bred other types of sin—perhaps a man so rife with the vice of lust would be rife with others…

  “Certain evidence?” Mrs. Harold said. “How about this? The night before she died, they had a dinner party, and of course, my husband and I were invited. They were in rare form that night, fighting from the moment the meal started until the guests started leaving late that night. At one point, he pulled her out of the room, but we could still hear them quite clearly. He told her he’d have no shame divorcing her, and then she told him that she would never submit to a divorce and that he’d have to kill her if he wanted free. The next morning, she was cold in the field. And do you know what Mr. Markham did when he found her body? He laughed. He threw his head back and laughed.”

  This last comment gave me pause. The thought of him laughing next to Violet’s corpse, shrouded in the fog, her neck at an unnatural angle—it made me deeply uncomfortable. It made me doubt whatever surety I’d felt about Mr. Markham’s innocence. Who could laugh next to the body of his dead wife?

  “How do you know?” I asked. “That he laughed?”

  She pursed her lips, and a quick glance told me that I had struck upon something unexpected—information that Mrs. Harold was reluctant to share. “I spent the night at Markham Hall that night,” she said. “I had taken ill shortly after dinner, and Mr. Markham extended his hospitality until I was recovered enough to journey home. That morning, I heard the servants talking about it.”

  “So the servants saw him in the field with Violet’s body?”

  “Yes,” was the hesitant, cagey answer.

  She was lying about something, or at least omitting part of the truth. But why?

  We rolled up on Markham Hall, shaded and stony even in the bright sunlight, and I was surprised to see Mr. Markham striding towards us before Mrs. Harold had stopped the carriage. In the speckled light that drifted into the courtyard, I could see the faint highlights of gold hidden in his dark hair. He came up beside the carriage and, without a word, slid his hands around my waist and lifted me from the phaeton. He deposited me on the ground, keeping one arm firmly around me.

  “Thank you for returning our Miss Leavold,” he said, his voice clipped. “I’m much in your debt.”

  “Of course, Mr. Markham. Although she seemed to have wandered from the fold quite willingly.” I couldn’t quite decipher her tone—half-teasing, half-challenging, laced through with something else. Bitterness?

  I looked at her as she squirmed under Mr. Markham’s piercing gaze. It was the town gossip confronted with one of her subjects, the gossip feeling both shame and judgment, I decided. Of course, he wouldn’t be unaware of the things she said about him.

  Mr. Markham’s arm tightened around me. “I’ll have to keep a better eye on her in the future. Thank you again.”

  I knew the polite thing would be to invite Mrs. Harold inside for refreshments, but that didn’t seem to be on Mr. Markham’s agenda. He gave Mrs. Harold a short bow and then turned away, taking me with him and leaving her to drive herself home alone.

  “What exactly did you think you were doing, wandering off alone? I had no idea where you were—”

  “What I do with my day is none of your business.” I shook off the arm that was still wrapped around my waist. We were in the foyer now, which was several degrees cooler than the outside, and much darker. A portrait of some indeterminate ancestor stared at us moodily, and a low murmur of conversation and laughter told me that the guests were in the drawing room nearby. Which meant that Molly would be nearby. I took a breath and lowered my voice. “I prefer not to spend the entire day indoors. Not in the summer. And you didn’t seem to mind my exploring earlier in the week.”

  He softened. “You’re right. I don’t expect you to conform your day to my presence. But I woke up expecting you to be around and you weren’t.” He stepped closer. “I am just so used to getting what I want that when it doesn’t happen, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

  “I think it’s a little unfair to want me to linger around you all day when…” I trailed off. He didn’t know that I had overheard him and Molly last night and maybe it was better to keep it that way.

  His eyes narrowed. “When what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Ivy…”

  The sound of my Christian name on his lips was intimate, proprietorial. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to hear him say it, over and over again.

  “Ah, hello you two,” Silas said, exiting the drawing room. “Miss Leavold, I’m glad to see you’ve returned to us.”

  He took my hand and made to kiss it, but Mr. Markham stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. “That’s enough.”

  “Enough what? I’m only being polite!” But his protestations were belied by his wide grin.

  Mr. Markham merely shook his head and steered me into the drawing room. I didn’t want to go, didn’t want to see Molly O’Flaherty’s pretty befreckled face after having heard her with Mr. Markham, but his hand was so warm on my back and the desire to be near him so urgent and overwhelming that I was doing as he bid even before I knew I was doing it.

  The day passed in the warm torpor of the wealthily bored. There were half-hearted games of cards and suggested picnics or outings, a lazy lunch that dragged on for hours, lots of needlework that was picked up only to be immediately thrown to the side. And all the while, I made a point to avoid Molly and Mr. Markham, to avoid even looking at them, because I could not look at Mr. Markham’s face without imagining what it looked like last night. Were his eyes closed when Molly kissed him? His cheeks flushed?

  I felt my own face warm whenever these thoughts intruded, and finally, an hour or so before dinner, I claimed a headache and went to my room. I tried to read, I tried to pace, nothing helped rid me of the twin burdens of desire and jealousy. One fed the other until I was entirely consumed by both.

  A few hours passed and there was a knock at the door. Adrenaline shot through me—eagerness and fear—and I walked to the door as calmly as I could force myself, only to open it and find one of the lady’s maids there. She handed me a note, curtsied and left.

  It was from Mr. Markham. I sat down and unfolded it with slightly shaking hands.

  I expect you to come down after dinner.

  —J M

  A thrill shot through me at this confirmation that he wanted my company, but at the same time, I felt a stab of irritation. I wasn’t going to be at his beck and call, answering his every whim, not when he had Molly O’Flaherty to do it for him. And besides, I still felt somewhat outside of the group, left out of their jokes and their shared stories, a novice when it came to their libertine games.

  I would go down, I decided, but not right away. I would put in an appearance later—sneak into the room while they were in the middle of some raucous diversion—and then leave shortly thereafter. As twistingly painful as it was to have witnessed Mr. Markham’s—I couldn’t say betrayal because I was not his to betray—interlude, then, I still needed to be around him. I hungered for just one glance, just one word…one semi-accidental brush of hands or shoulders.

  I chose a sapphire satin with a slightly fuller skirt and a neckline so low that I suspected if I were Catholic, I would need to be shriven after wearing it. I wore the black ribbon again since I owned no necklace or brooch to ornament the ensemble, made sure my hair was still adequately pinned, and then sat down to wait. I calculated that dinner would last at least a half hour more, and then it would be another half hour or hour after that when the men joined the ladies in the parlor.

  A knock at the door interrupted my calculations. Probably another note reminding me that I needed to come down. I unlocked the
door and opened it, finding not a maid but Mr. Markham himself. I stepped back in surprise but not before he stepped inside.

  “I couldn’t wait to see you. And I see you are already dressed,” he said, pleased. “I like this one. Turn, please.”

  “I am not a mannequin in a shop window. You must contrive of ways to admire my figure discreetly, as other men must do.”

  “There’s very little about me that is discreet, Miss Leavold,” he said. “Suppose I were to make you turn.” He placed his hands on my bare shoulders and spun me around, once slowly and then faster and faster.

  There was dizziness and the beautiful dress swirling around my feet and the warmth of his hands on my shoulders, and a soft laugh escaped from me. When I finally came to a stop, I saw that Mr. Markham was smiling too, but once he saw my face, his expression stilled into something serious.

  “Your eyes are sparkling,” he said. “I wish you could see them as I see them right now. They are truly arresting.”

  I said nothing, and I couldn’t have spoken even if I knew what to say because my breathing stuttered and my pulse raced.

  His hands grew tight on my shoulders. “Ivy—”

  “Well, aren’t you a pair of lovebirds,” Molly said from the doorway. I realized, too late, that we’d left the door open. Her voice was teasing but her eyes were—not hostile exactly—but sharply observant.

  “Miss O’Flaherty.” Mr. Markham’s voice was cold. He released my shoulders with a stern admonition to come downstairs and then left the room, leaving Molly and me together.

  She studied me, her eyes raking up and down my form in a manner no less lascivious than Mr. Markham’s. She licked her lips. “You do look a treat tonight, Ivy. No wonder he couldn’t keep his hands off you.”

  The jealousy unfolded in her presence, making itself larger and stronger and stifling my thoughts. “The dresses were his to choose,” I managed to say politely enough. “It’s only natural that they would be to his liking.”

  “Oh, but it’s you that is to his liking, angel.” Molly stepped forward and drew a lazy finger across my cleavage. Gooseflesh pebbled along my skin. “Yes, quite nice,” she said. “You know, dear old Jules asked us to stay away from you, said you’d had a hard enough life without us corrupting you. But you know what? I think you’ve earned a little fun after the life you’ve had. And besides—you are too tempting to resist.”

  And then she leaned forward and brushed her lips against my neck. I should have stepped back, should have pushed her away—the memory of her voice in the dark last night made my hands itch with the temptation—but then the sensation of her mouth on my skin was so delightful, so soft and entrancing, that I didn’t. Her fingers continued to trace circles on my chest. “He wants you, you know.”

  “I know,” I said. It was difficult to sound calm and collected while her tongue flicked unknowable patterns on my skin.

  “He’s saving you for himself. Selfish.” She nipped at my collarbone and a noise escaped my throat. I could feel her lips curl into a smile, and she nipped again.

  She pulled away and looked at me. I knew I was flushed, that my breath was coming faster, that my body didn’t want her to stop.

  “He’ll have his way with you, you know. Eventually. He’ll tease you and woo you and fuck you, and for a brief time, you’ll be his, totally and completely. Until he grows bored.”

  There was bitterness in her voice. “Is that what happened to you?” I asked.

  “Oh no, poppet. I left him. See, no one leaves Molly O’Flaherty. Not even the handsome, tortured, impossibly rich Julian Markham. Not even him.”

  But what about last night? I wondered, but thought it best to keep pretending that I didn’t know. “And how do you know I won’t be the same?”

  She looked at me a moment, cocking her head, blinking her jewel-bright eyes like a bird. “Interesting,” she murmured. “I suppose I don’t. See you downstairs then.”

  I did exactly as I had planned. I went downstairs and sat in the back of the parlor, barely noticed by anyone save Mr. Markham. Tonight they played Blind Man’s Buff, taking turns being blindfolded and groping their way across the room, trying to bump into people and then guess their identity. Silas was dipping the people he caught into deep kisses, regardless of their gender, to the delight and merriment of all. Mr. Markham came near. “Will you have a turn?”

  “Maybe later,” I hedged, knowing I would escape before then and I very nearly did, making my way out of the parlor some twenty minutes later. But Mr. Markham followed me.

  “You are not enjoying yourself,” he said.

  “I am,” I said. “I’m merely tired.”

  He bit his lip, looking very young for a moment. “Molly said that she talked to you upstairs. About me.”

  There was no point in denying it. “Yes.”

  “You know, I am denying myself—denying them—because I feel like I should protect you.”

  “Protect me from what?” I demanded. “I have no future, I have no family. I no longer have a home. What consequence could my behavior possibly have at this point? You must know that I will never marry, not without money or any connections.” I pressed my hands against his chest and he breathed in. “My body belongs only to me now. And I want to do with it what I will.”

  I expected him to reply, but instead he lifted me and placed me on a low table against the wall, pressing his lips against mine. They tasted sweet, of dessert wine and cloves, and when he made to part my lips with his, I allowed him, relishing his warmth and his taste. But the noises we made, the breathing and the soft whisper of lips parting and meeting—it sounded too much like last night. Something stabbed in my chest.

  “You and Molly—”

  He froze and pulled back. “What else did she say to you?” he demanded.

  “Nothing—”

  “Tell me,” he said, and his voice had lost any warmth it might have had. It was a command, and suddenly I pictured how it would sound to him, me being hurt over something that was his prerogative and none of my business.

  “Molly said you would make me yours and then abandon me,” I said instead.

  He looked hard at me. “She doesn’t—”

  I pressed a finger against his lips. “What I’m saying is that I don’t care. I want you, no matter what happens to me afterwards.”

  “Molly doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he said. “I would never abandon you. And regardless, we will never need to find out. I will restrain myself.” He pushed himself away from me, eyes full of resolve.

  “But that’s not fair!” I cried. “You touch me, you make me want things only you can give, and now you withdraw yourself completely? What about me? What about what I want?”

  He sighed. “I’m trying to help you.”

  I glanced around the hallway to make sure we were alone then I reached down with one hand and pulled up the silk dress and the petticoats underneath and spread my legs. Mr. Markham’s eyes darkened with lust. I took his hand and slid it up my thigh. “Then help me. I want you all the time. I think of you all the time. My body burns and aches and…”

  “And you are so wet,” Mr. Markham growled, sliding a finger inside of me. His thumb began pressing against my clit. “Look at us, Ivy. I could fuck you on this table right now.”

  He was right. I looked down and saw that his pelvis was perfectly aligned with mine. If he drew himself out of his pants, he’d have only to part my folds with his cock and push in…the thought made my pulse pound.

  “But I won’t,” he finished, pulling his finger out of me.

  I practically wilted.

  He closed his eyes a moment. “You are right that your body is your own. And perhaps Molly is right that you should be included in their games. She’s been trying to persuade me ever since she got here that there was no sense in denying you. Perhaps as long as things do not go too far…would you like to play with the others?”

  “Play?”

  He opened his eyes. “Wh
at they were playing earlier. Blind Man’s Buff.”

  I hardly saw how that would alleviate my current discomfort, but I said, “If that is what you would like.”

  “I think you’ll find that it is what you would like.”

  “Miss Leavold is going to play with us,” Mr. Markham announced as we entered the room once more.

  The girls clapped their hands delightedly.

  “But I must set down some rules,” he continued.

  The girls pouted. He gave them a stern look.

  “Gather round. No, not you Miss Leavold. Wait over there.”

  They clustered around Mr. Markham, talking in low murmurs, while I stood uncomfortably by myself, feeling excluded from their conference and also feeling trepidatious about the contents of it at the same time. He had said we were going to play Blind Man’s Buff—what could there be to talk about?

  The group dispersed and Ned came over to tie the blindfold around my head, knotting it securely. I could hear the people moving about the room, finding hiding spots behind furniture and curtains.

  A cool glass pressed against my mouth. “It’s only wine,” Ned said. “To help you relax.”

  That didn’t sound so bad. I parted my lips and drank as Ned held the glass for me.

  “Have you ever played before?” he asked.

  “As a child.”

  I could hear the smile in his voice. “Our rules are a little different. You’ll see. But the premise is the same—search for the others. If you can name the person you’ve captured, then they are out of the game. If you cannot name them, then they are free to escape. Are you ready?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Well then. Best of luck, Miss Leavold.” And Ned’s warm presence was gone.

  With the blindfold obscuring my sight, my other senses heightened. I could still taste the wine on my lips, feel the heat from the nearby fire on my back. Shoes shuffled on the carpet as I took a tentative step forward. I could hear the rustling of gowns, the occasional giggle and the ensuing shh.