Chapter 4
The schoolroom had the air of a chamber seldom used.
It smelled faintly of chalk and old wood polish, the long table worn smooth in places, scratched and ink-stained in others, a history of restless pupils carved into its surface.
A globe leaned on its stand in the corner, its seas faded to a dull green, its continents mapped with boundaries long since shifted by war.
Beside it, a cabinet of neglected primers sat under a film of dust. Margaret had darted off to fetch her doll, leaving Jane alone with the housekeeper.
Mrs. Blythe, her stout figure bound in black bombazine, moved about the room with the air of one conducting a tour. “This will be where you do your work with Lady Margaret, Miss Ansley. You will find slates and chalk in that cupboard, copy-books here.”
Jane nodded, clasping the neat packet of notes she had already prepared.
She could not contain her eagerness. “I had thought it best, Mrs. Blythe, to begin with letters and reading, of course—but also with simple verses, perhaps a fable or two. It will strengthen her memory as well as her comprehension. I had even prepared a plan to show Her Grace, so she might—”
Mrs. Blythe cut her off, spectacles glinting.
“That will not be necessary. Her Grace has more important matters to attend to than reviewing schoolroom notes. It is your place to decide such things, and if Her Grace wishes to interfere, rest assured she will make it plain. Until then, you must use your own judgment.”
Jane inclined her head, though the rebuke stung. Mrs. Blythe pressed on. “As for what is needed: reading and writing will suffice for now. In time, perhaps a little French, some embroidery, the pianoforte. A lady’s true learning lies in her manners and accomplishments, not in books.”
Jane allowed herself the faintest smile. “French, madam? We are at war with France—and have been, I think, for most of our history. From Joan of Arc to Bonaparte.”
Mrs. Blythe’s mouth hardened.
Jane lowered her eyes, gentling her tone. “But of course, I shall follow the direction given me. Only—” she gestured gently to the shelves “—I had hoped I might have access to the library. It would give me better material to set before Lady Margaret.”
The housekeeper’s face tightened. “I told you: what is here will suffice. Still, if you insist, I will ask Her Grace. Though I doubt the need.”
At that moment, the door—left ajar despite the chill of the late October afternoon—carried the sound of footsteps.
Charlotte paused at the threshold, amusement lighting her face.
“My dear Mrs. Blythe, must everything wait upon Her Grace? Surely the library is not such a dangerous place. Miss Ansley may use it as she pleases.” Her gaze flicked to Jane, cool and wry.
“I am sure you will find Sermons to Young Women on one of the shelves. Do enjoy it.”
Mrs. Blythe bobbed a stiff curtsy and withdrew, skirts whispering over the floor.
Jane blinked, unsure whether thanks were expected. She knew Fordyce’s sermons well enough—her father had often pressed them upon her—but Charlotte’s tone had not been one of approval. Why should she mock a work so widely praised for its virtue?
Charlotte only lingered a moment longer, her expression unreadable. “Enjoy your lessons, Miss Ansley,” she said lightly. “And do not let Mrs. Blythe frighten you into embroidery too soon.”
With that, she was gone, leaving Jane in the silent schoolroom with her notes, her doubts, and the echo of a jest she could not understand.
* * *
Later that afternoon, Jane came at last to where she had most longed to be since her arrival.
She hovered near the threshold of the library, overcome.
A hush seemed to fall about her as she stepped inside, the kind of silence one found only in churches—alive, expectant, filled with an unseen presence.
The very air carried the faint incense of vellum and leather bindings, as though time itself had left an offering here.
The room stretched on like a gallery, lined floor to ceiling with towering bookcases, their latticed doors gleaming with gilt fittings.
In the spaces between, portraits of solemn dukes and powdered duchesses looked down, as though each generation watched over the legacy of words they had amassed.
Every Duke of Westford, it seemed, had considered it his sacred duty to leave behind more than land and titles: to enrich this trove of knowledge, to adorn it with the best of every age.
Jane’s steps faltered. Awe pressed against her chest until she could scarcely breathe.
To stand within these walls was to feel humbled, diminished, as though she had stumbled into the presence of the divine.
More than ten thousand books—and yet each seemed to lean toward her, waiting to be opened, to speak.
She felt her father’s absence and his presence all at once; he would have revered this place, a temple of learning as sacred to him as any chapel.
She moved slowly at first, as though afraid a hurried step might break the spell.
Her fingertips drifted across the carved woodwork of the cases, brushing the brass handles as if they were relics.
A catalog lay open on a lectern midway down the room, its thick, yellowed pages ruled with neat columns of titles and authors, the whole library mapped with clerical precision.
Jane bent over it, her pulse quickening.
She traced the entries with care, marveling at the sweep of thought contained here: philosophers of Greece and Rome, poets and dramatists, divines and moralists, even modern voices she had only heard named in passing.
It was like gazing upon a chart of the heavens, each book a star burning with its own light.
And then her hand stilled. Ansley, Reverend Sebastian. Line after line. Nearly two dozen titles, each one his, preserved here as though he had never been lost. For a moment she could not move. The breath seemed pressed from her body.
She followed the catalog’s direction with shaking hands until at last she stood before the case.
There they were—his works, row upon row, the bindings sober and worn, the lettering dim but still proud.
Her gaze fell upon one in particular: The Moral Mirror of Antiquity. Her heart gave a sudden, painful leap.
It was the same volume she had kept hidden all this time, the one keepsake she had managed to save when her mother, forced by need, had sold the rest. The pages of her copy were softened by use, the margins filled with her father’s notes, the ink almost faded from her own touch.
And here it stood again, not lost but enshrined, a twin to the one she guarded like a talisman.
Her fingers closed around it. She lifted the book free, the weight of it almost unbearable.
Tears welled unchecked as she pressed it to her breast. In this vast cathedral of words, amid voices of ages long gone, her father’s voice endured.
Not extinguished, not forgotten. Preserved among the watchful eyes of dukes of old, his sermons on ancient virtue and Christian truth had found a permanence he had been denied.
She bowed her head and whispered, almost a prayer: “Papa.”