Chapter 4 Afternoon Visits to a Library
Afternoon Visits to a Library
Prudence stood in what had once been her sanctuary, tears sliding down her cheeks. The library was empty, every shelf bare, even the smell of leather and paper gone.
Father had sold everything. The Shakespeare she’d received for her sixteenth birthday. Her grandmother’s annotated Milton. Even Mother’s horrid novels they’d giggled over on rainy afternoons. All gone to a book dealer for ready cash that would keep them afloat another fortnight.
She wiped her face and straightened her spine. Crying wouldn’t bring back the books, their solvency, or the life she’d taken for granted.
A throat cleared behind her.
“Begging your pardon, my lady.” Mary stood in the doorway, holding a letter. “This just came for you.”
Prudence studied the seal: the Cartwright arms pressed into dark blue wax. Her stomach performed a flip as she broke it open.
Lady Prudence,
I understand your father’s library has been dispersed.
While I cannot presume to replace such a personal collection, I would like to offer you the use of mine at your convenience.
You may come and go as you please, with your companion of course.
Hobson has been informed and will ensure you have privacy and whatever refreshments you require.
I have recently acquired Malthus’ new edition and Ricardo’s complete correspondence that might interest you.
I will understand if you choose to maintain your distance. Our families’ history and recent events make such a choice entirely reasonable. But books should be read and minds like yours should not be deprived of sustenance.
I am rarely at home during the afternoon hours.
E. Cartwright, Duke of St. Albans
Prudence read it twice, then a third time. The postscript about his afternoon absence was clearly meant to reassure her she wouldn’t encounter him. Or was he insinuating he didn’t wish to encounter her? She wasn’t sure.
She was also desperately tempted.
Malthus’ new edition. Ricardo’s correspondence. Books she’d never be able to afford, never see unless she accepted his offer.
“Bad news, my lady?” Mary peered at her with concern.
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Prudence folded the letter carefully. “The Duke of St. Albans has invited me to use his library.”
Mary’s eyebrows rose to her cap. “The duke? But isn’t he the enemy?”
“Of a sort, yes.” Prudence moved to the window, staring out at their overgrown garden. They’d dismissed the gardeners last month. “I shouldn’t go.”
“Why not, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Because it’s his house. Because our families despise each other. Because…” Because he said we cannot be friends, and sitting in his library pretending otherwise would be torture.
“Because nothing, seems to me,” Mary said practically. “You need books like you need air, my lady. And it’s not as if anyone needs to know.”
That was true. No harm could come from a few afternoon visits to a library, could it?
And once she married, she might never have such access again. Mr. Thornbridge didn’t believe in educating females. Lord Hutton thought books gave women devilish ideas. Even Mr. Whitman had mentioned that his late wife had been “pleasantly illiterate.”
“Fetch your sewing,” Prudence said suddenly. “We’re going out.”
“To the duke’s, my lady?”
“To use a library. The fact that it happens to be the duke’s is immaterial.”
Mary hid a smile. “Of course, my lady. Entirely immaterial.”
Twenty minutes later, they stood before the imposing entrance of St. Albans House. Prudence had walked past it countless times but had never imagined entering. Well, not through the front door. The last Dover to cross this threshold had been her grandfather, and that had ended in a duel.
Hobson answered immediately, as if he’d been waiting. “Lady Prudence. We’ve been expecting you.”
They have? But the butler was already leading them through marble halls lined with portraits of disapproving Cartwright ancestors.
“His Grace has instructed that you’re to have complete access to the library,” Hobson said, opening massive oak doors. “Refreshments will be brought in an hour, and whenever else you require them.”
The library took Prudence’s breath away. Three stories of books, with a spiral staircase and gallery level. Reading stands positioned to catch the best light. And the smell: leather and paper and beeswax and that indefinable scent that meant knowledge lived here.
“His Grace also instructed,” Hobson continued, his tone carefully neutral, “that you are welcome to read anything you wish but asked that no volumes leave the library.”
The words hit like cold water. He didn’t trust her to return them. His words rang in her ears. We cannot be friends.
“Naturally,” she said stiffly. “I wouldn’t dare presume. I’m surprised he doesn’t require an inventory when I leave to ensure I haven’t hidden anything in my skirts.”
To his credit, Hobson’s expression didn’t change. “Will there be anything else, my lady?”
“No. Thank you.”
He bowed and withdrew, leaving Prudence and Mary alone.
“Oh, my lady,” Mary breathed, looking around in wonder. “It’s magnificent.”
It was. Grudgingly, Prudence had to admit the Dukes of St. Albans had exquisite taste in both books and their housing.
The organization was logical yet creative: philosophy flowing into political theory, economics alongside agricultural studies, poetry mixed with classical literature as if the genres were in conversation.
She found Ricardo’s correspondence nestled between Smith and Malthus. Her fingers trembled as she pulled it free. When had she last held a new book? Months ago.
“I’ll just be over here with my needlework,” Mary said, settling into a chair by the window. “You take your time, my lady.”
Prudence curled into a leather wingchair that was positioned perfectly: good light, clear view of the door. She opened Ricardo’s letters and was immediately lost.
She surfaced only when Hobson appeared with tea, setting the tray down silently before withdrawing. Mary poured for them both, and they sat in companionable quiet while the afternoon sun tracked across the floor.
Despite her focus on the book, however, every time a door closed somewhere in the house, Prudence looked up. Every footstep in the hall made her heartbeat quicken. But true to his word, His Grace didn’t appear.
She told herself she was relieved.
She was lying.
After three hours, she reluctantly closed the book. “We should go.”
“Already, my lady? You’ve barely started.”
“I can come back tomorrow.” She caught herself. “That is, if…”
“His Grace did say you could come and go as you pleased,” Mary reminded her.
As they prepared to leave, Prudence carefully reshelved the Ricardo. Her fingers lingered on the spine. Tomorrow she could continue. Tomorrow she could pretend, for a few hours, that her world wasn’t collapsing.
“Lady Prudence.” Hobson appeared. “His Grace wanted me to inform you that the library received a delivery of new titles this afternoon. They’re on the central table, should they be of interest.”
Prudence glanced at the table she’d ignored, focused as she’d been on Ricardo. A stack of new books sat there, their spines gleaming. The top one made her gasp—A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft, the revised edition she’d been trying to find for two years.
“How did he—?” She stopped. It didn’t matter how he knew.
“Will we see you tomorrow, my lady?” Hobson asked.
“I… yes. If that’s acceptable.”
“His Grace has made it clear you’re always welcome.” The butler paused. “He also mentioned you prefer Ceylon tea and that you take two sugars.”
He remembered. During that absurd tea party on his balcony, he’d noticed how she took her tea.
“Thank you, Hobson.”
As they returned home, Mary chattering about village gossip, Prudence touched the letter in her pocket and silently mouthed “Edmund.” His name felt wonderful on her tongue. Edmund had offered her sanctuary, even after she’d failed to convince him, even after telling her they couldn’t be friends.
Perhaps they couldn’t be. But he’d bought her Wollstonecraft. He’d remembered her tea preference. He’d made sure she could read in peace.
If it wasn’t friendship, it was pretty close.
And for now, that was enough.