Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
That evening, after the supper dishes had been washed and put away, Madeline ventured into Adam’s study to take a look at his books. It would do her good, she thought, to immerse herself in an intriguing story for the next few days, to help pass the time.
Candelabra in hand, she made her way down the dark center hall, the heels of her shoes tapping lightly over the wood floor. The door to Adam’s den was open, but inside, the room was black, the curtains drawn and keeping out the moonlight.
She carried her candles to the tall bookcase on the far side of the fireplace and held the light up to the spines of all the books, delighted by the simple pleasure of smelling them.
There were so many. Surely every one of Shakespeare’s plays. She had not yet read King Lear. Perhaps she would begin with that one.
As she knelt down and let her fingers graze over others closer to the floor, she found new temptations—Homer, Hobbs, Norton, Milton, as well as a number of other authors whose names she did not recognize.
She pulled out something by Samuel Richardson—a thick novel called Clarissa, or The History of a Young Lady.
Madeline set her candles on the floor and opened it to the first page.
Just then, the sound of footsteps entered the room.
She stood quickly, stepping sideways in a panicky effort not to singe her skirts on the candles.
Carrying his own candelabra, Adam slowly approached and bent to pick up hers. He set it in a safer place upon the desk.
“Did you think I was a ghost?” he asked.
She smiled. “I wasn’t sure. You surprised me.”
“I apologize. I thought I heard you come in here. Have you found something that interests you?”
Heart still racing, Madeline cleared her throat to speak. “I was just about to look at this one.”
He moved to stand next to her and held his candles over the book she held. “Clarissa. Are you sure? I believe it’s the longest novel in the English language.”
Madeline laughed.
Her reaction seemed to amuse him. With a smile, he said, “It’s no joke, my dear,” and furtively slid the book out of her hands. His were large and strong, yet graceful as he ran his fingers over the lettering. “Do you know anything about it?”
“No, nothing.”
“Well…The characterization is magnificently sustained, but it’s very tragic. I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone. It depends upon your tastes.”
“I’m open to anything if it’s well written. I’ve read my share of tragedies.” I’ve lived my share, too.
“Well, do not let me influence what you choose. Taste in literature is very personal.”
He handed Clarissa back to her. Their hands touched briefly, but he shied away, as if her fingers were hot to the touch.
Madeline thought of their conversation in the kitchen that morning and colored fiercely.
Did he regret confiding in her, and had he been uncomfortable with the way she had held his hand?
Perhaps this was his way of telling her that he knew she was attracted to him, and he intended to discourage her.
She was relieved that she would be leaving soon.
Madeline put Clarissa back where she found it. “Can you recommend something else? Perhaps something shorter?”
Adam held his candles up to the titles on a higher shelf. Madeline stared at the strong line of his jaw in the flickering candlelight and wished she could reach out and run her fingers along the shadow of stubble.
He looked over the spines for a few seconds. He seemed intimately familiar with where everything was. “Have you read any Shakespeare?” Then he smiled down at her. “Of course you have.”
She returned his smile. “Yes, but not everything.”
“What about Measure for Measure?”
“Yes, I’ve read that one.”
“What did you think?”
“I thought the ending was hurried.”
He continued to look over the titles on the spines, tilting his head to the side to read them, running his fingers over the embossed lettering. “I thought so, too.”
Madeline stood back, watching, enjoying these precious moments of conversation with him, talking about books.
She realized now that she had come to understand him on a deeper level these past weeks—staying up late to talk about the marshlands and what he wished to accomplish, in order to ensure their survival.
She now felt a certain compatibility with him, for she, too, valued good land, and knew how important it was to nurture and maintain it.
All her life, she’d toiled in her own garden at home, proud of her accomplishments, always delighted to see the green shoots sprouting out of the dirt.
The feel of the soil under her fingernails—even though Diana had badgered her for being so irresponsible about her hands—had always provided her a secret pleasure.
“What about Twelfth Night?” Adam asked, bringing her thoughts back to the present.
“I’ve read it.”
“Did you like it?”
“Very much. It was hilariously complicated.”
He smiled at her and nodded in agreement. Then his attention went back to the books.
“What about The Merchant of Venice?”
“I’ve read it.”
“The Merry Wives of Windsor?”
“Read that, too.”
He smiled down at her and said good-naturedly, “Perhaps it should be you doing the recommending, instead of me.”
She laughed. “Are there any books here, Adam, that you haven’t read yet?”
“Only a few. I read most of them in Yorkshire, when Jane was alive. I needed a distraction, I suppose.”
Madeline found herself gazing into Adam’s eyes in the candlelight, wanting to fill in all the years he had been absent from her life. In a moment of abandon, she chose to ignore her resolve to keep her emotional distance, and she began asking questions she had no business asking.
“Tell me more, Adam. Tell me about the day you decided to leave Yorkshire.”
He set his candelabra on a table. “Surely you wouldn’t want me to bore you with that.”
“I wouldn’t be bored. Please tell me why you left your home when you had spent your entire life there.”
Somewhat reluctantly, he began. “Well, knowing that I would spend the rest of my life working someone else’s land, and earning nothing to pass to my children, weighed heavily on me.
I was tired of seeing my hard work go to support my landlord’s mistress’s apartments and baubles.
Then one afternoon, his agent came by to discuss the harvest, and Mrs. Dalton served him tea in Jane’s best china—china we had received as a wedding gift from my family.
The agent took one look at his teacup and the silver teapot, and said that if we could afford china like that, we could afford to have our rent raised. ”
Madeline’s temper flared. “Poor Mrs. Dalton. I hope she didn’t blame herself.”
He gave Madeline a look that told her otherwise. “It was only a few weeks later that the lieutenant-governor of Nova Scotia came to recruit families to emigrate, and I was more than ready to hear him out. We came here on the very first ship and made a fresh start.”
“And now, you are a landowner.”
“Sometimes I pinch myself.”
Madeline thought of what it must have been like, for Adam to sell everything, uproot his family and venture across an ocean toward unfamiliar lands, when his children were so young.
Penelope would have been only five years old.
And Adam—without a wife to support his decision, or keep him company during the lonely years settling into a strange place—must have often questioned his decision and worried for his children’s futures.
Madeline smiled warmly. “You have done well for your family, Adam. You should be proud.”
He nodded and let his gaze linger upon her eyes for a second or two, then he raised his left hand to look at it. “You know…I think it’s time I take this off.”
“Your wedding ring?”
He nodded. “Yes. Lately, I’ve been feeling less burdened by what has been keeping it on my finger.
” He pulled it off and placed it inside one of his desk drawers.
“I have you to thank for that, Madeline. You are a very positive and sensible person. I admire how you always look to the future with such confidence and optimism. How can I ever repay you for your kindness?”
Even in the candlelight, Madeline could see his face go pale. He spoke awkwardly, and looked down at the desk drawer, which was now closed.
“And I suppose it would have been bad form for me to still be wearing the ring when Diana arrived. Thank you,” he said again, clearing his throat.
Madeline simply nodded to hide the fact that her own cheeks had lost their color, or had flushed with pink.
She wasn’t sure what they were doing, only that her cheeks were burning—for she had a dozen ideas about how Adam could repay her for her so-called kindness.
One of them involved changing his mind about Diana.
Adam regained his composure. “So, I have told you why I left Yorkshire. What about you? Why were you so eager to leave your homeland to marry a man you barely knew?”
She stared at him blankly.
“Good heavens, Madeline, that was terribly crass of me. I apologize.”
“It’s all right, Adam. You are absolutely right. I acted hastily, knowing nothing about where I was going or who I was going to. I was just so happy to be leaving Yorkshire, I suppose I stuck my head in the sand.”
Maybe she fudged the truth a little, leaving out the part about wanting to marry him because he was the man of her dreams, but she couldn’t very well admit to that. Not now.
“Why would you be so happy to leave?” Adam asked. “Was your father that much of a tyrant?”
Odd, that Madeline had come to the New World to escape and hide from the scandal that had ruined her—to bury it in her past forever—yet suddenly she found herself wanting nothing more than to revisit it again and confess everything.
She supposed she wanted to feel closer to Adam, even though she knew it was wrong and foolish. Heaven help her when Diana arrived.