Chapter 5
Rowan
Every small town ought to have a proper bookshop.
Inkwell Books Etc. was proving to be a delightful way to pass the time.
While the majority of books were for sale, the proprietor, Mr. Wordsworth, showed me a selection on a shelf near the back that belonged to his lending library.
The book I had selected yesterday had been my sole companion for the entire evening, and I had crafted a half-page synopsis along with my opinion of the work to be printed in the Quarterly Review.
I had been writing reviews since my second term at Oxford, and for some insane reason beyond me, people enjoyed reading my thoughts on various works of literature.
Publishers had begun sending me presentation copies of newly released works so I could bring attention to their books with my reviews.
If only I had more time in Quillsbury, I had a feeling I would find another gem or two in this bookshop to share about.
But as my carriage would be ready soon, my present goal was to return my book and part ways with the quaint little town.
Finding my way to the shelf of worn spines, I searched for the alphabetical spot for Samuel Richardson’s novel. A thick volume shifted on the other side of the shelf, opening a window of space between the books. A most beautiful face appeared in the gap, capturing my complete attention.
I grinned. “We meet again, Miss Page.”
Miss Page’s pretty smile, along with her head and shoulders, was framed perfectly between the rows of books. “Good morning, Mr. Prologue. How are your carriage repairs coming?”
“Excellent. The smith should have it ready at the turn of the hour.”
She shifted a book in her arms. “I am so pleased for you. Where do your travels take you next?”
“Sadly, a place that cannot compare to Quillsbury.”
“It is delightful here, is it not?” She set her arm on the shelf and casually dropped her chin on it.
I stepped closer without invitation. “Yes, the people here are . . .” I paused, wondering if I dared describe her. “Charming,” I finished.
A blush colored the tips of Miss Page’s ivory cheeks lightly dotted with freckles. “Surely, you appreciate the books as well. This is the second time we have met in this very place.”
“Indeed, I always appreciate good books.” At the moment, I also very much appreciated the lovely vision in front of me.
She wasn’t an exceptional beauty that men would trip over to be near, but I found her fine features to be just to my taste.
Her bright, intelligent eyes to the round curves of her lips . . .
The thought of her mouth pulled me back to reality like a splash of cold water to the face.
I was loyal to Miss Delafield, even if our engagement was not yet finalized.
Since that fateful day on the ship, I had kept myself aloof from other women because of my promise.
Never had I felt such a powerful pull of temptation to do otherwise.
I cleared my throat and shifted my thoughts and our conversation to safer ground.
“Unfortunately, the book I borrowed did not live up to my expectations.” I lifted the copy of The History of Sir Charles Grandison so she might see it. “Have you read it?”
“Oh, yes. I thought it was quite good. Why did you not care for it?”
I shouldn’t have been surprised that she had read it too. I frowned at the black cover with gold script. “I liked the epistolary form well enough, but Sir Charles is too perfect to be realistic.”
“There is nothing wrong with a virtuous hero,” she argued.
I shook my head. “The problem is that there is nothing wrong with him. It is in our flaws that we are unique and relatable.” I made a mental note to add that to my review.
She scoffed. “I must disagree. Sir Charles would be the paragon of a husband. The only part of the book that was unrealistic is Harriet Byron’s constant mooning over him.”
I chuckled, surprised and pleased to have a woman speak her mind without simpering about. “And here I thought mooning was in a woman’s nature.” Though I did not expect Miss Delafield to do so, part of me wished this woman in front of me would.
Miss Page scrunched up her nose. “For some, perhaps. But you must remember it was a man who wrote this story.”
A devilish grin crossed my face. “A fair point indeed.”
She gave a delicate shrug. “I suppose a man would want a woman who is obsessed with him.”
My rebuttal shot from my mouth. “And a woman would want a perfect husband.”
Miss Page laughed, and not in a soft, demure way. “You are right. It is not a very realistic book, is it?”
I shook my head, quite enthralled with our conversation—indeed, quite enthralled with Miss Page herself.
“No, but your opinion is enlightening. I might have taken the text too seriously and forgotten the element of entertainment. Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me.” My friends were not voracious readers as I was, and it was rare I had someone to discuss books with.
It was why I had begun to write my book reviews to begin with.
Perhaps that’s why speaking to someone who appreciated literary analysis and spoke with such candor was so thoroughly enjoyable.
“You are most welcome,” she said.
I reminded myself of the man she hoped to marry to keep my thoughts firmly in place. “I do hope your intended enjoys books as much as you do.”
“He is partial to art.” Miss Page’s smile dimmed. “But he is of the gentle type and will allow me to read to my heart’s content.”
I could not interpret her expression. Did this please or disappoint her?
With a woman as passionate as Miss Page, I could at least conclude that she would have a love match.
How could someone not fall in love with her?
She was nearly as perfect as the fictional Sir Charles, but with a spirited personality that made her unique and desirable.
“Then have you secured his proposal?” My stomach tightened while I anticipated her response. I wasn’t staying in Quillsbury beyond the hour, and I would never see Miss Page again, but the selfish devil in me did not want her to answer yes.
“I am invited to dinner tonight at his home with my sister and her husband. He never entertains company, so I hope a proposal is imminent.”
“Congratulations,” I whispered. I did not mean the words enough to utter them any louder.
“It is all thanks to you,” she said. “I focused on his interests, like you advised.”
“So no bribery?” I teased.
Her cheeks took on a pink hue again. “Not quite.”
Of course, she did not have to bribe him. Any sensible man of his acquaintance would be overjoyed to learn they had secured Miss Page’s regard.
“Haven’t you selected a book yet?” a feminine voice at the end of Miss Page’s side of the bookshelf called to her. “I secured the poems Miss Peterson recommended, hidden on a bottom shelf, and my nose is itching abominably.”
Miss Page gave a compassionate frown to the woman just beyond my sight. “Forgive me. I am ready.”
The woman sneezed. “Good. I will wait outside.”
When she passed by my side of the shelf, I glanced her way. There was something vaguely familiar about her profile, but I did not have a decent look to identify her.
“I must go,” Miss Page said, her reluctant tone pulling at me. “My sister is waiting.”
Ah! Her sister. That must’ve been why she seemed so familiar. She resembled Miss Page.
Miss Page offered me a parting smile. “I wish you a safe journey, Mr. Prologue.”
“Thank you.” The silly nickname repeated in my mind.
Prologue.
Was that all I was ever meant to be to someone?
Days ago, I was not just content with a future of that nature, but I had planned on it.
With every step Miss Page took to the door, I felt an invisible thread between us being pulled taut.
I had to grip the shelf beside me to keep from chasing after her and insisting she consider me instead of that fool she was chasing.
For the first time in six years, I questioned my life plan.
When I married Miss Delafield, she wouldn’t care to know anything about me beyond what she already knew, let alone my thoughts on books I read—not after the vexing memories of our youth together.
When the door shut behind Miss Page, breaking the thread between us forever, I sighed in bitter disgust.
I suddenly wished I had never come to Quillsbury. I had never felt more dissatisfied.