An Unsuitable Bride Page 5

  The pleasant morning was suddenly spoiled, and he yanked his rod roughly from the water, bringing it up in a shower of glittering drops, the empty hook swinging.

  “That’s not like you, Perry,” Marcus observed cheerfully as he reeled in his own rod. “You’re usually the soul of patience.”

  Perry shook his head with a rueful smile. “Something disturbed my concentration.” He glanced around and saw that their companions were taking in their own rods, handing them over to the accompanying gamekeepers. The accumulated catch thrashed around in several large baskets.

  “Breakfast, gentlemen,” Stephen announced. “Fresh trout and good ale.”

  A chorus of agreement greeted this, and the men moved away towards the house, leaving the gamekeepers to bring up the rear with the morning’s spoils. Perry strolled at the back of the group, his mood still somewhat clouded by his earlier reflections.

  “You’ll be able to take a look at the Decameron this morning,” Marcus observed, falling in beside him. “Mistress Hathaway should be in the library by the time we get to the house.”

  “Ah.” Perry’s mood lightened instantly. “For a moment, I’d forgotten about that. I wonder if she’ll have time to show me some of the other rarities.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be happy to. She’s a woman of little conversation in general, but I’ve seen her eyes light up when the topic turns to any of her treasures, and she does seem to consider them to be hers.” Marcus chuckled. “Fortunately, Stephen’s not particularly possessive about the contents of his library. His main focus is what he can get for ’em. So the lady can live her fantasy possession to her heart’s content.”

  Perry nodded absently. Mistress Hathaway must have had a most unusual education in order to acquire such rarefied knowledge. What must it feel like to lavish love and care upon objects that you found precious knowing that their owner did not appreciate them? Frustrating, certainly, maybe even a little hurtful, he thought. And then he remembered that hastily suppressed gurgle of amusement the previous evening when he had snubbed Stephen, and he thought that perhaps Mistress Hathaway found her employer’s Philistine indifference to the beauty of the library something to despise rather than personally painful.

  The party tramped into the house through the gun room. A fire had been lit in the massive inglenook in the great hall, where a table groaned beneath sides of beef and ham, jugs of ale, and bread hot from the oven. The morning’s catch disappeared to the kitchen to make an appearance on the table very soon.

  Peregrine approached his host. “Would it be possible for me to see some of the rare volumes in your library, Sir Stephen? I own to a fascination with unusual acquisitions, and I’m told you have a magnificent collection.”

  “Oh, yes . . . yes, so I believe. Doesn’t mean much to me, don’t have time for much reading,” Stephen responded, taking a tankard of ale from a passing footman. “But they’re valuable, I’m told. I’m thinking of selling ’em. Not doing much good moldering away on those shelves.” He drank deeply. “But by all means, dear fellow, take a look. Crofton told me of your interest, and Mistress Hathaway’ll be glad to show you around. She knows what’s there.” He gestured with his free hand to the library towards the back of the house. “You’ll find her in there, I’ll be bound.”

  “Thank you.” Perry smiled his appreciation and made his way to the rear of the house. He opened the door very quietly and stepped into a large, dimly lit room.

  Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the walls, and a small fire burned in the grate. The windows looked out onto the rear gardens, which were in shadow at this time of day. A single lamp burned on a massive oak desk, where a woman sat intent on the sheet of parchment in front of her. She was so absorbed in her work that she didn’t at first notice her visitor, who stood by the door watching her. The light from the lamp caught shades of tawny gold and darker chestnut in the smoothly braided hair. As she worked, she moved an impatient hand up to brush aside a wisp of hair that was tickling her cheek.

  Something about the gesture struck Peregrine as strangely out of place, oddly youthful somehow. She was frowning slightly as she bent to her task, and then a slow smile spread across her face, a smile of naked triumph and satisfaction. She gave a low chuckle, light and melodious, and wrote briskly for a few seconds. When she reached across the desk for another sheet of parchment, the lamp illuminated her face, and Peregrine stared, startled. Her expression seemed to change the contours of her face, softened it, rounded it out in some way. It was an almost imperceptible change, and yet it made the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up and a little thrill of excitement course down his spine.

  Abruptly, she looked up towards the door, only just aware of her audience. Her mouth formed a little oh of surprise, and uncertainty flashed across her face. Uncertainty and a degree of apprehension, Perry thought. What is she afraid of? But then it vanished, and he was bowing to the dowdy Mistress Hathaway, aware of a prickle of disappointment that the momentary appearance of someone else beneath the dowdy surface had merely been an illusion.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am, but Sir Stephen said I might disturb you at your work if you could spare a little time to assist me. I’m most anxious to see the Decameron . . . and any other treasures you could show me.”

  “Indeed, sir,” she responded rather distantly. How long had he been standing there watching her? It was so difficult to be on her guard when she was alone, and she could easily have betrayed herself with an unwary expression or a gesture not in keeping with the character of the downtrodden librarian. She overcame the flicker of fear with sheer effort of will and continued casually, “I am rather busy at the moment, but the shelves are at your disposal, of course. Please feel free to browse.” She bent her head to her papers once again.

  Peregrine frowned at this cool dismissal. It was not her place to refuse her assistance when her employer had promised it. “I don’t wish to interrupt your work, Mistress Hathaway, but . . .”

  She looked up at him again with a little sigh of exasperation that would not have been out of place on a vexed schoolmistress. For some perverse reason, it overcame his irritation. It just wasn’t convincing. He gestured to the shelves with a comically perplexed air. “Where am I to start? You must admit ’tis a daunting exercise if one doesn’t know how they are categorized. Are they alphabetical? If so, by title or author? Are they in order of rarity or shelved according to subject? I have even seen libraries where the books are arranged according to size.”

  “Surely not?” Mistress Hathaway exclaimed. “What barbarian would do something that idiotic?”

  He laughed. There was nothing of the schoolmistress about her now or, indeed, of the diffident librarian. Her indignation had brought a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to the gray eyes, quite at odds with the subdued mien Mistress Hathaway generally presented to the world. Her shoulders had straightened imperceptibly, and her chin was lifted in that slightly challenging manner he remembered glimpsing the previous evening. “A barbarian rather like our friend Sir Stephen, I imagine,” he observed lightly, giving no indication of his fascinated reflections. “I understand he’s interested in selling the collection.”

  Her expression darkened, and the fleeting impression of youthfulness vanished. “That is so. Are you in the market, sir?”

  He shook his head ruefully. “Alas, no. I have nothing like the necessary funds for such treasure. I may only gaze and admire at a distance.”

  She cast him a covert glance as if assessing the truth of what he said. “I am hoping to find a buyer who will appreciate what is here for itself rather than for its monetary value. Do you know of anyone, perhaps, whom I could approach privately before the collection goes to auction?”

  “I know plenty of men who would kill for this library, but none I know has the necessary funds to acquire it intact. Are you prepared to break it up?”

  Again, a look of distress crossed her face, and she turned aside for a moment before responding.
“I would not wish it, but I doubt Sir Stephen minds how it’s disposed of as long as it goes to the highest bidder.”

  Peregrine wandered across to the nearest row of shelves and glanced along them, fingering the leather spines. “I understand Sir Arthur Douglas and his father before him were responsible for the acquisitions. They must have been as shrewd as they were book lovers.”

  Something unreadable flashed again across her eyes, but her voice was flat, her face expressionless. “I wouldn’t know, sir. I work for Sir Stephen. My job is to catalogue the library and do what I can to secure the best price for it. That is my sole interest.”

  Peregrine looked at her in disbelief. “Oh, come now, ma’am, you can’t expect me to believe you get no personal pleasure out of being among these treasures.”

  “They don’t belong to me,” she said with an unmistakably bitter edge to her voice. “I cannot afford to have any personal feelings for the books.”

  Perry suddenly felt as if he was intruding on something very private. He didn’t know why he felt that, but he decided it was time to leave well enough alone for the moment. He said cheerfully, “Could you at least point me towards the Decameron, ma’am? I don’t wish to take up too much of your time.”

  Mistress Hathaway rose from her chair and came out from behind the desk. “ ’Tis over there, in the far corner.” She moved a tall library ladder to the shelf in question and climbed up, reaching to the top shelf.

  “May I help?” Perry asked, coming swiftly to her side. Ladies past their youth were usually not too agile when it came to ascending rickety ladders.

  “No, I have it, thank you.” She drew the volume from the shelf and jumped down from the top step of the ladder. “See how fine the binding is.” She walked swiftly to the desk and put the volume under the light. “This copy is from 1492.”

  Peregrine followed. Maybe years of practice had given Mistress Hathaway the ability to climb up steps and jump off them without giving a thought to the maneuver.

  And maybe it is snowing in Lucifer’s inferno.

  He stepped up beside her. Mistress Hathaway had drawn on a silk glove and was opening the volume with practiced skill, turning the pages with the utmost delicacy and a reverence that made nonsense of her earlier statement about taking no personal pleasure or interest in the books themselves. He became aware of her scent, a most delicate flowery fragrance that seemed to emanate from the back of her bent neck, where a heavy coil of gold-flecked hair lay against the very white column. He inhaled deeply, trying to identify the particular flower. A lemony scent, he thought. Very light and fresh, almost girlish.

  As if aware of his concentration, she looked up at him, her expression both puzzled and wary. “Is something the matter, sir?”

  “Not in the least.” He bent over the volume.

  Alexandra forgot her unease in the sheer joy of sharing this treasure with someone whose awe and reverence matched her own. Her delight bubbled in her voice as she showed him the illustrations. “Don’t you think Bacchus is delightfully mischievous here? He’s so often portrayed as rather malevolent, but this depiction shows a quite different interpretation. At least, I have always thought so.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Peregrine took the magnifying glass from her and peered closely at the illustration. “He does have a wicked look about him, and you’re right, ’tis not malevolent.”

  “You must see my fa—” Alex caught herself in time. She moved away from the desk. “Let me show you this edition of the Canterbury Tales. It was thought to be a first edition, but unfortunately, ’tis not. However, ’tis a very early one.” She hopped up the ladder again and came down as swiftly as before, bringing the volume to the desk, opening it with the same reverence.

  Perry examined the exquisitely illustrated volume with all the pleasure of a connoisseur, but he was aware that a significant part of his pleasure came from sharing it with his like-minded companion. There was something immensely appealing about the way her voice vibrated with enthusiasm when she talked about the finer points of the illustrations, the beautifully formed letters, and the ease with which she followed him when his thoughts were sidetracked to early printing methods and the different types of ink the monks would have used for different types of illustrations. It occurred to him with something of a shock that Mistress Hathaway knew at least as much as he did, if not more, about the intricacies of manuscript creation.

  Neither of them was aware of time passing until a discreet cough and the steward’s apologetic voice shocked them out of their absorption.

  “Sir Stephen was wondering if you’d be joining them for breakfast, Mr. Sullivan. The trout is fresh from the kitchen.”

  “Oh, yes . . . yes, of course.” Reluctantly, Perry raised his head from the book. “I hadn’t realized the time.” He stepped back and bowed to Mistress Hathaway. “Forgive me, ma’am, I have taken up too much of your time, but thank you for sharing these with me. May I visit you again? I’m sure there are treasures aplenty to view.”

  “Indeed there are, sir,” she said with a formal curtsy. “Of course, you should feel free to use the library whenever you wish. You are Sir Stephen’s guest.”

  Gone was the sparkle, gone the glow to her complexion. She was suddenly as plain, dull, and mousy as she had ever been. He nodded with a brief smile and left her to her papers and her volumes, returning to the lively gathering in the hall.

  Alexandra sat for a long time behind the desk, staring into the middle distance. She was unnerved, unsettled, uneasy. Afraid she had let something slip in her pleasure in sharing her passion. And what a pleasure it had been. She could still feel the sense of his body as they had stood so close together turning the pages. She could still smell the faint aroma of lavender from his shirt, the slight tang of fresh sweat on his skin, the morning’s freshness on his cheek.

  Sweet heaven, she hadn’t thought it would be so difficult to maintain the charade. And indeed, it hadn’t been until the Honorable Peregrine Sullivan had walked into the house.

  She had anticipated many of the difficulties with this game she was playing and had thought she was ready to deal with anything that came up. But she hadn’t anticipated the loneliness. She could never let down her guard long enough for any meaningful contacts with the people around her. Everything had to be superficial; she could permit herself only the most banal of conversational exchanges, revealing nothing at all about herself, not even her likes and dislikes, in case she slipped up. As a result, she felt as if she were living in solitary confinement, locked inside her own head.

  She missed Sylvia dreadfully. She and her sister had been inseparable companions from earliest childhood. Only eleven months separated them, and in many ways, they were more like twins than regular siblings. Their mother paid little attention to them even when she was in residence, and soon after Sylvia’s birth, she had started on her series of romantic escapades that had culminated in the elopement with the mysterious Italian count.

  Alexandra still vividly remembered one fight she had overheard between her parents, soon after Sylvia’s ninth birthday. Their mother had just reappeared after three months’ absence, laden as always with gifts for her “precious girls,” as she insisted upon calling them. And on this occasion, her husband had received her with open anger instead of his usual apparent indifference.

  Alex had been curled in her habitual corner of the library sofa, struggling with a book of Latin verse. At first, she had felt a frisson of guilty excitement at eavesdropping on her parents, but as their voices had risen and the angry, hurtful words buzzed like wasps in the usually tranquil room, she had become alarmed and then terrified that they might discover her.

  Their mother had made it clear that she couldn’t stand the peace of the countryside, absolutely refused to become pregnant again—pregnancy and childbirth had nearly ruined her body. She needed the attention she could still command, and who would deny her the right to take what life offered her? She could still inflame a man, and no one could blame
her for taking advantage of her gifts, since her husband had no interest in them. All he wanted was a brood mare and a housekeeper, and she had no intention of servicing him in either capacity.

  At the time, Alex hadn’t understood all of this, but she had understood that somehow she and Sylvia were responsible for their mother’s frequent absences and their father’s growing distance. From that moment, she and her sister had become all and everything to each other, sharing confidences, hopes, and fears, trusting only each other.

  Alexandra sighed and reached for her quill again. She had heard that sometimes when a limb was lost, the person felt it aching like a phantom limb. Her sister’s absence from her life was just like that. Sometimes she caught herself turning to say something, share some thought, only to realize that there was no one there. If she could just spend an hour with Sylvia now and again, she wouldn’t mind the loneliness the rest of the time, but her sister was a day’s journey away in the neighboring county, and there was no way Alex could engineer such an absence, let alone find a way to get there.

  Letters were their only means of communication, and Sylvia was a faithful correspondent, but they had both agreed that it would be too dangerous for her to write about anything except the most innocuous subjects in any letter coming into Combe Abbey. Alex would have dearly loved her sister’s advice, her sympathetic ear, her delicious sense of humor, which would make light of some of the trials and tribulations of this charade. But Sylvia allowed herself only the most oblique and seemingly anodyne comments. Alex took her own letters to the post herself, so she had greater freedom of expression. No one in the house knew to whom her letters were addressed. Letters coming into the house were left in plain sight on the table in the great hall to be picked up by the intended recipient, and while it was far-fetched to imagine anyone breaking the seal on something addressed to the librarian, the risk was not worth taking.