The Punishment of Ivy Leavold (Markham Hall Book 3)

Copyright © 2015 Sierra Simone

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews.

This is a work of fiction. References to real people, places, organizations, events, and products are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real.

Cover by Date Book Designs 2015

She was gone.

She was really gone.

Ivy Leavold had left me—left me and Markham Hall and had gone to find the family I’d hidden from her—which was something I didn’t regret.

I only regretted not doing a better job.

I had tried to give her space as she packed and as Gareth had readied the carriage to take her to York. She wouldn’t hear of taking any money, she said that solicitor—damn him to hell—would help her, but I still folded two or three hundred pounds into her purse when she wasn’t looking. Then I walked to the library and locked the door, taking the entire decanter of Scotch into the window seat with me so I could drink as I watched her leave.

It felt like it took only seconds, even though it had taken almost an hour between her whispering
I’m leaving
and the carriage wheels rolling out of the courtyard. An hour between me sliding inside of her and her walking out of my life.

No,
our
life.

God was punishing me, I was sure of it. It wasn’t enough that I would burn after death. He wanted to punish me now—strip away the only thing that mattered to me. Three months ago, nothing mattered. Not my estate or my wealth. Even my friends weren’t enough to color the gray-washed days of my existence.

But then Ivy came, and I felt something again. Something that wasn’t anger or shame or the emptiness I’d begun to cultivate as carefully as a gardener cultivates his garden. I felt curiosity at first, along with the urge to shield her and take care of her. And then desire. And then love.

And now loss.

I drank until all the thoughts left my mind, stumbled to the sofa and knew no more.

I’d been to London twice as a girl with my parents, but nothing prepared me for the choking, bustling mess that greeted me when I alighted from the train platform. People swarmed around me, pushing and yelling, and I had to blink against the smoky air that pervaded every corner of the station.

“Miss Leavold?”

It was an older man, perhaps in his fifties, in a smartly pressed suit and with the officious air of a servant. I knew at once he must be the person my aunt Esther had sent to collect me.

I nodded.

“Good. Shall we proceed? Your trunk has been arranged for.”

With a last look at the train that had borne me all the way from Yorkshire and had been the recipient of many quiet tears, I nodded. This was my life right now. In a strange town with strange people.

Without Mr. Markham.

Esther Leavold lived in a small but fashionable house on Gilbert Street, barely a stone’s throw away from Grosvenor Square. It was hard not to be nervous as our carriage stopped and as the servant led me inside the front foyer. I didn’t know what to expect; I had never met this Esther Leavold and I couldn’t remember ever hearing of her, although since she had spent the last thirty or so years in India, I supposed it wasn’t inconceivable that she wouldn’t have been spoken of much by my parents. And Thomas barely spoke about anything at all, unless it was to chastise me for talking too much or for spending too much time out of doors.

Nevertheless, I walked into 27 Gilbert Street expecting an old woman and instead encountered someone who did not look so much older than myself.

She was petite and wildly curvy, with rounded breasts and hips and a small waist, with blonde hair twisted up into the fronted curls that seemed to be so fashionable here in London. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties, but this was only a hazarded guess, because her tiny bow mouth and bright blue eyes gave the impression of a child. And the energy with which she swept into the foyer and gathered me into an embrace—that seemed very childlike too.

“Hel-hello,” I said, my breath choked from her tight hug. “Thank you for—”

She let me go and waved a hand. “No, no. No thank yous, please. It’s bad enough to come to England and not know anyone, and even worse to discover that any relations you can presume upon for company are dead. You are doing me the favor by coming to stay with me. It’s quite lonely, you know, being unmarried at my age.”

I caught a glimpse of the silver dish on her table, filled to the brim with calling cards.
Not that lonely
, I thought as she led me into the parlor and rang for tea.

“Now, I know you must be exhausted from the journey, but I really must insist you take something to fortify yourself before you rest, and also we must make plans for tonight and tomorrow. The Lady Samantha Haverford has invited me to supper and I think I should bring you along. What a perfect place to introduce you to the important people here—and I know what you’re thinking, Ivy, you’re wondering how I can know since I’ve only come from Bombay eight weeks ago, but Lady Haverford was introduced to me by Colonel Barnes—a former beau, if you must know, but really a good man—and Barnes always has the best taste in refined company.” She stopped to a take a breath—possibly the first she’d taken since I walked in the door.

A supper party with London society sounded unbearable—especially given how close to tears I’d felt all day. It was impossible to entertain the idea. “I’m sorry, but I really am so tired,” I said, not trying to hide the warble in my voice. Let her think it was traveling exhaustion and not my broken heart.

She responded to me immediately, her face turning into a concerned pout. “Of course! You poor dear. We will wait until tomorrow then—the Hermanns from Vienna are having a garden party. Do you have a proper afternoon dress? No? I thought not. The solicitor who helped me find you told me about how my nephew gambled away all your money. Shameful. Not to worry though. I have plenty of money for the both of us, and we shall go shopping this week. Now, to your room! You must tell me if you like it, or if you would like anything changed, or even if you want to switch rooms—there are plenty in this house.”

The maid came into the room bearing tea, but Esther pushed past her, my need for fortification apparently forgotten. I didn’t mind much—the swaying motion of the train and the violent emotions I couldn’t suppress had left me feeling a little queasy.

We went upstairs, Esther chattering the whole way. I learned that she was the product of a late marriage between my grandfather and a diplomat’s daughter, whom he had met while traveling for business. When he’d died several years back, he’d directed that the shares of his company went to his daughter, and so Esther was quite the heiress. Perhaps a year ago, I would have felt resentful that my grandfather hadn’t thought to bequeath any money to the children from his first marriage, Violet’s father and my own. But now I hardly cared. After all, if things hadn’t happened they way they had, then I would have never gone to Markham Hall. I would have never fallen in love with Mr. Markham.

And I couldn’t regret any of that. Not yet.

Esther pointed me to a door and we entered what was to be my room. How Esther could ever imagine I could complain about it, I had no idea. If anything, it was too luxurious, hung with richly colored portraits and dominated by a massive canopy bed. Everything was upholstered in silks and damasks, all deep plums and vivid greens.

“I had it done up as soon as I bought the house, knowing that you would have to come live with me, circumstances being what they are. I did not know your taste, but I did my best and—darling,
is that a ring
?”

I had placed my hand on the back of the low sofa in front of the fireplace, and the sunlight pouring in from the window caught my engagement ring, sending gleams of light around the room. I had not made any effort to hide it; in fact, I had been under the impression that my aunt knew about my engagement.

“Yes,” I said, feeling a low flicker of amusement at Esther’s gaping mouth, a sort of joyless mirth that vanished immediately. “I thought perhaps Solicitor Wickes would have told you…?”

“Why, certainly not!” Color was rising in Esther’s cheeks. “Can you imagine? He knew and he didn’t tell me, when he knows I have not a soul in the world to lay claim on! But my dear, if you are engaged, when are you to be married? And when shall I meet this man? Tell me, is he quite handsome? And his figure—what is it like? I prefer the ones who are broad in the shoulder, the ones who can carry me, which let me tell you, is not every man.” She raised her eyebrows, tapping a small foot under her dress. “Answer me, my dear. When are you to be married?”

I had not answered because I found I couldn’t. There was a peculiar ball at the back of my throat, and if I spoke, it would turn all of my words into quavering tears. But I couldn’t stop them anyway, and they started to fall hot and fast down my cheeks.

“Oh my,” Esther clucked, coming toward me and folding me into another crushing hug. “What did he do, the cad? Did he reject you because of your poverty? Or lack of breeding? Or did he—” her eyes danced with pre-emptive righteous anger “—did he carry on with another woman? What a beastly scoundrel! Well, not to worry, my dear, you are here with me now, and I guarantee you that if I did not know of this engagement, then society does not know of it, and your reputation will come out unscathed. And you are so young and pretty and with me at your side—yes, we will find you a proper husband in no time.”

In a way, I liked how Esther didn’t need me to respond to her. I could allow her to do all the talking while I struggled against these unreasonable tears, these tears that refused to dissipate no matter how many of them I cried. But I had to tell her that it wasn’t what she thought. I had to defend Mr. Markham.

“He didn’t do anything like that,” I said, hating how sniffly my voice sounded. “He—I just. It’s complicated. I thought I could stay here for a while, you know, while I thought about things.”

Esther forced my head onto her shoulder. “You take as long as you need, you understand? You can stay right here, and I will take care of you.”

“Thank you,” I said into her dress. It felt wrong to be taken care of in this way.
It won’t last
, I promised myself. I’d make myself useful, or at the very least, self-sufficient.

Why hadn’t it felt wrong for Mr. Markham to take care of me, emotionally and sexually and in all the other ways I needed? Was that further evidence of how corrupted I was?