Read Online The Punishment of Ivy Leavold (Markham Hall Book 3) by Sierra Simone - Free Book Online
Authors: Sierra Simone
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destination that next morning. After Esther’s carriage stopped in front, having just pushed its way through the interminably slow traffic around Belgrave Square, I exited the cab and found myself in a swarm of suits and cigar fumes. There was a cacophony of muttered pardons and cleared throats and half-hearted offers to help me up the stairs, but I managed to dodge all of them and reach the front door, where I rang the bell.
I was bade to sit in the front parlor while the butler went to inquire if the mistress was available. As I did whenever I was trapped indoors and participating in an empty social ritual, I fantasized about running away. Simply disappearing and avoiding all of the subtle pits and traps of polite conversation, finding some more useful and productive way to occupy my time. But this morning was different. This morning I had woken up with Mr. Markham’s words still looping in my mind, and I knew that he was right. He was right about my preconceived notions of what was natural and what wasn’t, and he was right about my needing to be ready.
I had realized, as I had tried to go back to sleep, that what I wanted more than anything was somebody to talk honestly to about all this. I wanted to lay all of my fears and ecstasies in front of someone and not have them gasp in scandalized shock. Of course, this eliminated most of the people I knew. Esther was out of the question, not the least because I didn’t want to shatter her fledging respect for Mr. Markham by telling her about some of his more particular tastes.
Our peculiar tastes.
There was always Silas, but although I knew he would be able to comfort me and convince me that all would be well if I went back to Mr. Markham, that wasn’t necessarily what I wanted today. Today I wanted honesty. I wanted the truth with all its serrated edges and cold surfaces. I wanted someone who had loved Julian Markham and lived to tell about it.
Which was why I was at the London residence of Molly O’Flaherty, a woman I’d met early this summer at the same time I had met Silas. She was also a former lover of Mr. Markham’s, and even though I knew they were no longer together, part of me was still fantastically jealous of her.
As if summoned by my envy, she appeared in the doorway, talking to a man as she walked in. “And send a letter to Gibbs straight away. If the board makes a move, it won’t be without every lawyer in the city knowing about it. Hello, Ivy.”
I knew that it would be appropriate to stand and drop a small curtsy, but Molly and I were beyond that. Beyond being falsely courteous to each other. She seemed to think so as well, because after dismissing her servant, she sank into the chair across from me without so much as a handshake.
“Why are you here?” she asked bluntly.
“I wanted to talk.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you did. Is it about Mr. Markham? No, don’t answer, of course it is.” She leaned back in the chair, and the change in light illumined the red lining her eyelids. She’s been crying , I realized. I hadn’t thought Molly was capable of tears, but when I looked at her closely, I could see the way her nose was chafed, as if by repeated swiping with a handkerchief. I could see the way her sapphire gown had uncharacteristic wrinkles in the silk, as if she’d been wringing her skirt under a desk or a table where no one could see.
It wasn’t my place to say anything, but she really did seem upset. “Is everything okay?”
I expected her to snap at me or to ignore me. Who was I, after all, to ask her about her life? It had been clear to me since this summer that we would never be friends.
But to my surprise, she answered honestly. “No. No, nothing is okay.”
She stood and walked over to a low credenza, where she unstoppered a decanter of whiskey. The habit was so like Mr. Markham’s that I felt another pang of jealousy. They were such a good match in so many ways…
She poured herself a glass and then
I was bade to sit in the front parlor while the butler went to inquire if the mistress was available. As I did whenever I was trapped indoors and participating in an empty social ritual, I fantasized about running away. Simply disappearing and avoiding all of the subtle pits and traps of polite conversation, finding some more useful and productive way to occupy my time. But this morning was different. This morning I had woken up with Mr. Markham’s words still looping in my mind, and I knew that he was right. He was right about my preconceived notions of what was natural and what wasn’t, and he was right about my needing to be ready.
I had realized, as I had tried to go back to sleep, that what I wanted more than anything was somebody to talk honestly to about all this. I wanted to lay all of my fears and ecstasies in front of someone and not have them gasp in scandalized shock. Of course, this eliminated most of the people I knew. Esther was out of the question, not the least because I didn’t want to shatter her fledging respect for Mr. Markham by telling her about some of his more particular tastes.
Our peculiar tastes.
There was always Silas, but although I knew he would be able to comfort me and convince me that all would be well if I went back to Mr. Markham, that wasn’t necessarily what I wanted today. Today I wanted honesty. I wanted the truth with all its serrated edges and cold surfaces. I wanted someone who had loved Julian Markham and lived to tell about it.
Which was why I was at the London residence of Molly O’Flaherty, a woman I’d met early this summer at the same time I had met Silas. She was also a former lover of Mr. Markham’s, and even though I knew they were no longer together, part of me was still fantastically jealous of her.
As if summoned by my envy, she appeared in the doorway, talking to a man as she walked in. “And send a letter to Gibbs straight away. If the board makes a move, it won’t be without every lawyer in the city knowing about it. Hello, Ivy.”
I knew that it would be appropriate to stand and drop a small curtsy, but Molly and I were beyond that. Beyond being falsely courteous to each other. She seemed to think so as well, because after dismissing her servant, she sank into the chair across from me without so much as a handshake.
“Why are you here?” she asked bluntly.
“I wanted to talk.”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course you did. Is it about Mr. Markham? No, don’t answer, of course it is.” She leaned back in the chair, and the change in light illumined the red lining her eyelids. She’s been crying , I realized. I hadn’t thought Molly was capable of tears, but when I looked at her closely, I could see the way her nose was chafed, as if by repeated swiping with a handkerchief. I could see the way her sapphire gown had uncharacteristic wrinkles in the silk, as if she’d been wringing her skirt under a desk or a table where no one could see.
It wasn’t my place to say anything, but she really did seem upset. “Is everything okay?”
I expected her to snap at me or to ignore me. Who was I, after all, to ask her about her life? It had been clear to me since this summer that we would never be friends.
But to my surprise, she answered honestly. “No. No, nothing is okay.”
She stood and walked over to a low credenza, where she unstoppered a decanter of whiskey. The habit was so like Mr. Markham’s that I felt another pang of jealousy. They were such a good match in so many ways…
She poured herself a glass and then
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