In post–World War I England, a young woman inherits a mysterious library and must untangle its powerful secrets…
We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Hester Fox’s The Last Heir to Blackwood Library, publishing with Graydon House on April 4th.
With the stroke of a pen, twenty-three-year-old Ivy Radcliffe becomes Lady Hayworth, owner of a sprawling estate on the Yorkshire moors. Ivy has never heard of Blackwood Abbey, or of the ancient bloodline from which she’s descended. With nothing to keep her in London since losing her brother in the Great War, she warily makes her way to her new home.
The abbey is foreboding, the servants reserved and suspicious. But there is a treasure waiting behind locked doors: a magnificent library. Despite cryptic warnings from the staff, Ivy feels irresistibly drawn to its dusty shelves, where familiar works mingle with strange, esoteric texts. And she senses something else in the library too, a presence that seems to have a will of its own.
Rumors swirl in the village about the abbey’s previous owners, about ghosts and curses, and an enigmatic manuscript at the center of it all. And as events grow more sinister, it will be up to Ivy to uncover the library’s mysteries in order to reclaim her own story—before it vanishes forever.
As easily as she could have fallen asleep on the soft bed after her journey, Ivy forced herself to get up and change into a fresh skirt and cardigan. She was certain Mrs. Hewitt had something else in mind when she’d suggested that she change, but Ivy was no grand lady, and these were her warmest clothes.
As promised, a few moments later there was a knock on the door and a dark-haired girl stuck her head in. “M’lady? I’ve brought tea,” she said in a broad Yorkshire accent. “May I come in?”
Ivy beckoned her inside. The girl wore a blue service dress with white pinafore and lace cap, the sort of outfit one would expect to see in a posh London tea house. Setting the tray carefully down on a table near the fire, she dropped a curtsy. “If that will be all, m’lady?”
“Yes, thank you.” The girl turned to leave, but Ivy changed her mind. “Sorry, that is, would you stay a moment, please?”
Darting an uncertain glance at the door, the girl returned to the tableside. “Yes, m’lady?”
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The Last Heir to Blackwood Library
Ivy bit back the urge to tell the girl she didn’t need to address her in such a fashion. “What’s your name? And what is your position at Blackwood?”
“My name?” The girl wrinkled her nose as if she’d never been asked such a question before. “Agnes Miller. I’m an all-about maid. I live in the village and come in for day work.”
So, some of the staff just came in for the day. That would make sense, given that up until recently there had only been one person living in the old house.
“Do you like it here?”
Agnes shifted her weight in her leather work shoes. Ivy had a pair just like that. “I like it well enough, I ’spose. Never saw the old Lord Hayworth, though he died just after I started here. During the war I came and helped look after the soldiers. The abbey ’as a bit of a reputation around the village, but aside from being dark and gloomy, it’s not bad.”
“What kind of reputation?” Ivy asked, intrigued.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Agnes said, shifting her gaze as if she was sharing confidential information. “The usual sort of stories about spooks that rise up from an old place like this.”
“Do we have a resident ghost, then? Or maybe more than one restless spirit?” She was half joking, but Agnes looked deathly serious.
“Bein’ as it used to be an abbey, there’s stories that the ghost of a monk haunts the house. Never seen anything of him missen, and I wouldn’t pay them no heed if I was you, m’lady.”
Ivy gave the young maid a smile. “I won’t. Thank you, Agnes.”
After Agnes had beat a hasty retreat, Ivy poured herself a cup of tea, and, wrapping her hands around the warm cup, ventured out to explore her new home.
Some of the doors along the corridor were locked, but most opened easily, revealing bedrooms with furniture draped in white dust sheets. When it became clear that most of the upstairs rooms were vacant, she made her way back downstairs to the great hall where she had first entered the house. Mrs. Hewitt had turned on the lamps, and even though it was still dark Ivy could see how the abbey could be a comfortable, even homelike place with the right touches. It still seemed surreal that she was the one responsible for those touches now. So many of these grand old estates seemed not to have survived the war, or had been converted into hotels as Mr. Duncan had said. The weight of the responsibility to keep the abbey running settled heavy on Ivy’s shoulders. Where would she even start to learn about the duties and protocols that guided her new station in life? She didn’t know the first thing about overseeing a staff or keeping accounts of a large estate.
Leaving the hall behind, Ivy chose the right-hand corridor, following a wide hallway lined with more paintings and empty vases until she came to the dining room. Generations of Hayworths peered down at her from their heavy gilded frames, some in fancy ruff collars, others in romantic gowns with windswept landscapes behind them. She shivered under their haughty gazes. So, this is the girl to whom our all of our fortunes have led, they seemed to say as they looked down their noses at her. Hugging her tea, Ivy tried to imagine the cold room once boasting great feasts and parties, glittering with crystal and filled with lively conversation. Now the chairs were covered in dust sheets and pushed up around the edges of the room, no longer needed for entertaining on a grand scale.
Retracing her steps to the hall, this time she took the corridor branching off to the left. This was where she had seen Mrs. Hewitt disappear. The hall came to an abrupt end, with only two options leading off of it; one was a narrow staircase that presumably led down to the kitchen and cellar, and the other was a heavy set of double doors.
There was a low humming emanating from behind them, as if a machine were running, or perhaps it was the buzzing of electricity. She tried both handles of the ornately carved doors, but they were locked fast. Pressing her ear against the wood, Ivy strained to hear better. It was so faint, just the suggestion of sound, that she wasn’t certain if she were really hearing something at all, or if it was just the heightened buzzing of silence. She shook the handles again, putting all her weight into it. They didn’t budge. She would have to ask Mrs. Hewitt for all of the house keys if she wanted free run of her new home.
Downstairs, Ivy followed the sound of voices to the kitchen, where she found Mrs. Hewitt, Ralph, and an older man sitting around a long, rough-hewn table all drinking tea. Mrs. Hewitt was knitting, her needles flashing fast and sharp. At Ivy’s entrance, they all bolted up, Ralph taking a little longer to get to his feet.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t interrupt your tea.”
“Quite all right, my lady,” Mrs. Hewitt said with a tight smile. “I was just going to fetch you, but it seems that you’ve already taken it upon yourself to explore.”
“Yes, I was anxious to have a look around.”
“I was just leaving,” Ralph announced, more to Mrs. Hewitt and the man than to Ivy. “There’s wood needs chopping out back.”
Ivy stepped aside from the doorway as Ralph’s sleeve brushed her on his way out. He gave her a nod and then was gone.
Mrs. Hewitt turned to the man, a hand on his arm. “My lady, this is Hewitt, head butler of Blackwood Abbey.”
The spare, graying man gave a short bow from the waist. He had a neat mustache, and impeccable posture, the picture of British dignity and comportment. “A pleasure, my lady. I hope you will let us know if there is anything we can do to make you feel more at home here at Blackwood.”
So, the butler and head maid were married. Ivy wasn’t sure if that was standard practice in a house like this, but she liked the idea of it. Mrs. Hewitt was far from welcoming, but Hewitt had a certain warmth about him, and for the first time since setting foot in the old abbey, she allowed herself to feel as if this might really be her home.
“Thank you, I certainly will,” she told the butler.
He gave her another short bow, and then excused himself, leaving Ivy with Mrs. Hewitt and the remnants of the servants’ tea.
“Since you are here now, would you care for a cup of tea?”
Ivy looked down, realizing she was still clasping her cup, the contents now cold. She nodded. “A top-off would be lovely.”
She seated herself at the table, and Mrs. Hewitt poured her a fresh cup. A clock in the corner ticked, and somewhere outside a rooster crowed. Though the kitchen was large, it felt cozy, a far cry from the damp, echoing house above it. Through the small ground-level window she could see Ralph heading out onto the grounds, an ax in hand. Ivy nodded toward the retreating figure. “I didn’t realize Ralph did more than just driving.”
“We all do more than strictly our roles, otherwise nothing would get done,” Mrs. Hewitt said. Her tone made Ivy feel as if she didn’t understand what a hard day’s work entailed. “Ralph drives, tends the horses, and does most of the groundwork. He’s a good lad,” Mrs. Hewitt added, her eyes softening.
Ivy thought of the way that he had rebuffed her help, and then his concern when he assumed she was a widow, and shame flushed through her anew. “He fought, didn’t he?”
Mrs. Hewitt, her back already plank-straight, seemed to stiffen further. “Yes,” she said shortly. “He did.”
“Where did he serve? How was he injured?” She knew she was overstepping polite conventions, but in the absence of answers about her own family, every story, every anecdote helped her understand what James and her father had gone through. It felt like they had all been in a story together, a book, but her father and brother had gotten to the ending without her, and she needed to fill in the blank pages.
A long moment stretched out before Mrs. Hewitt finally answered. “The Somme,” she said. “And he was injured by a mine. But never ask him about it,” she hurried to add. “He doesn’t remember, and it would only serve to upset him.”
“Of course not,” Ivy murmured. “Mrs. Hewitt,” she asked suddenly, “is there a telephone here I might use? I’d like to make a call.”
The housekeeper looked surprised. “Telephone? Of course not. Whatever need would we have for a telephone?”
Ivy could think of quite a few things, but decided to keep them to herself. She had so badly wanted to hear Susan’s voice, to let her know that she had arrived safely. “Do you know where I might find one?”
“I believe the post office in town has one.”
So another car ride to the village would be required. The sky was already darkening; it would have to wait until tomorrow. “Very well. Would you be kind enough to show me about the abbey now?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Hewitt said, rising stiffly. “If you will follow me.”
Mrs. Hewitt gave her a cursory tour below stairs, including the old servants’ quarters and an empty wine cellar. “There is no need for you to plan menus or advise on meals. We have a plain cook from the village come every morning and make a hot breakfast and prepare a simple luncheon. Dinners are prepared by myself,” Mrs. Hewitt told Ivy over her shoulder as they made their way up the stairs. “We have simple fare here, however, it is your prerogative as lady of the house to change something if it isn’t to your liking.”
“I’m sure it’s all wonderful,” Ivy murmured, just grateful that she didn’t need to ever worry about where her next meal would come from. At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Hewitt made to go straight, but Ivy stopped.
“What room is behind those doors?” she asked, gesturing to the double doors ahead of them. “I thought I heard something in there.”
“Nothing of interest,” Mrs. Hewitt said without turning. “You must have imagined it. It was used as an infirmary during the war. If you will follow me this way, we’ll pass through the main hall and go to the dining room.”
The infirmaries in London had been overcrowded, soldiers lying on the ground when no bed was available, and diseases tearing through the wards with horrifying efficiency. Ivy could only imagine what the infirmaries on the continent had looked like. No, she really didn’t want to imagine them.
“What soldiers came here?” she asked. “I mean, how were they chosen?”
“Heavens, how should I know,” Mrs. Hewitt said. “Come along this way, if you will.”
A shiver ran down her spine. Luxurious or not, it had still been an infirmary and it was possible that men had died behind those doors. With one last lingering look, Ivy fell into step behind Mrs. Hewitt who was setting a brisk pace.
“The original structure dates back to the thirteenth century, when it was founded as a nunnery and then a Cistercian abbey, and is listed in the Domesday Book. After the dissolution of the monasteries, King Henry VIII bestowed it upon the Hayworth family.”
They arrived in the great hall, and Mrs. Hewitt pointed out some of the more notable portraits.
“Where is the late Lord Hayworth?” Ivy asked her. She was more than a little curious about her predecessor, the man who supposedly provided her delicate link to this illustrious family.
Mrs. Hewitt led her to a modestly sized portrait of an average-looking man with graying hair and a receding chin, perhaps in his middle forties. Nothing about him looked particularly aristocratic, and there was certainly no family resemblance to the Radcliffes.
“How did he die?” she asked.
After a heavy moment of silence, Mrs. Hewitt began walking again. “Dementia,” she said. “Now, over here we have the Bordeaux tapestries. These tapestries have been in the abbey since Sir Gerald Hugh Hayworth brought them back from a campaign in the seventeenth century. I don’t suppose you care much about the history, so I won’t bore you with the particulars.”
“On the contrary—I am very interested in medieval history,” Ivy told her, excitement bubbling up. “My father was a professor and I find this all terribly interesting.”
Mrs. Hewitt’s lips pressed into what Ivy was beginning to suspect was the only line of defense against some rather cutting words. “Of course you do,” she said, as they continued to the dining room.
“Is this where Lord Hayworth took his meals?”
“He took his meals in his room toward the end of his life,” Mrs. Hewitt told her. “Of course, you are free to do the same if you choose. Hewitt will be happy to arrange it.”
Grateful that she wasn’t expected to eat by herself in the echoing room, Ivy murmured her assent.
“This has always been the family’s preferred sitting room,” Mrs. Hewitt said, leading her into the parlor through the sliding door. It was comfortable enough, with a large fireplace lined with bookshelves, and heavy red velvet drapes. Yet Ivy couldn’t see herself sitting in one of the overstuffed chairs on a rainy evening, reading or composing a letter. It was still larger than any single place she had ever lived, and it would just be her, alone.
“Is there a gramophone or wireless?” she asked hopefully.
“I believe there’s a gramophone somewhere, but it hasn’t been used for years,” Mrs. Hewitt answered. “There is no wireless.”
“Maybe we could purchase one.” The idea of living in the great abbey with no music, no friends, no sound other than the driving of the rain and howling wind was becoming increasingly disheartening.
Mrs. Hewitt turned to Ivy, her face etched in hard lines. “You will find that I run a very tight ship here, my lady. We operate on a threadbare budget, and are happy to do so, but there is no room for frivolous purchases. If you are interested in making improvements, might I suggest flower arranging or perhaps reupholstering some of the furniture.”
Brought back down to earth, and by her housekeeper no less, Ivy kept quiet for the rest of the tour. After a time, all the endless halls and empty rooms blurred together, and she was fairly certain that she would never remember how to get anywhere in the abbey. They ended back by the great stairs, and Mrs. Hewitt stood with her hands clasped in front of her waist. “I hope that you will be comfortable here, my lady, and that you will be satisfied by the service of myself and the rest of the staff. If you need anything, you may always ring for one of us. Now, I must get back downstairs to see about dinner. I will have Agnes bring you up a tray at eight.”
Before Ivy had a chance to thank her, Mrs. Hewitt turned on her heels and clicked away down the hall.
Slowly, Ivy made her way back upstairs to her room. The tour, rather than making her feel at ease in her new home, had overwhelmed and somehow disappointed her all at once. How was she supposed to fill her time now that she not only didn’t have to work, but was expected to live a life of leisure? She didn’t care for the blood sports that the aristocracy seemed to favor, and she had no friends here with which to host gatherings. She didn’t like the feeling of being watched, whether it was from the portraits or empty suits of armor, and she didn’t like feeling as if she was simply the latest tenant to an indifferent landlord. She was mistress of her own house—and not just any house, an abbey—so why did she feel instead as if she was a prisoner?
A tap at the door, and Ivy eagerly went to answer it. Maybe it was Agnes, she would keep her company. But when she opened the door, there was no one there. She stood, staring out into the empty hall.
“Hello?”
There was no answer, but there was a heaviness in the air, as if someone were just out of sight, watching her.
Ivy gave the empty hall one more sweeping gaze, then quickly closed the door and threw her body weight against it as if that would keep out whoever had knocked. It had probably just been one of the servants moving about in a room down the hall.
Then came an icy gust sweeping across her skin.
Every hair along her neck lifted, and in the stillness that followed she was hyperaware of the texture of the carpet, the condensation gathering on the windowpanes. For a moment everything stood still, the air charged with quavering energy. Something was wrong, very wrong. She knew it the way a roe deer knows when it is in a rifle’s cross hair before a shot is even fired.
Then in the time it took her to blink an eye, a hairbrush flew off the vanity, whizzing past her ear and slamming into the wall. It clattered to the ground, the silver handle glinting as it rocked back and forth gently until it came to a complete stop.
Heart pounding loud and hot in her ears, Ivy yanked the door back open and threw herself into the hallway, running at breakneck speed.
Excerpted from The Last Heir to Blackwood Library © 2023 by Hester Fox, used with permission by Graydon House Books.
