Chapter Three #2
She allowed herself to drift down the endless shelves, a maze of books threatening to swallow her up alive.
What a delightful thought, to wander forever in the endless sea of paper, pages and words.
There was every style of book one could imagine, tucked away haphazardly on the shelves.
Greek and Latin texts, ancient medieval manuscripts which ought to be stored and handled with much more care, philosophical works, history, the classics, modern novels, endless volumes of poetry, and even a few huge atlases and books of maps. Everything.
You could spend a lifetime in a place like this.
Standing up on her tiptoes, she pulled out a particular book from a shelf high above her head. It was a volume of Virgil that had been left askew. She opened the cover almost without thinking and saw a handwritten inscription in the front flyleaf.
To My Beloved Son, On Your 21st Birthday.
“Are you going to catalogue the books, Edith, or read them?”
She flinched, involuntarily closing the book with a slam and spinning around.
The Duke of Barendale stood there, eyeing her impassively.
“Your Grace,” she stammered. “You are up remarkably early.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Breakfast will be served soon.”
Jerking his chin, he gestured towards the window, and Edith saw that indeed the light had changed, a pale golden sunlight filtering through.
“Oh,” she managed weakly. “I fear Ι have lost count of the time. I could not sleep from the excitement, and since I remembered the way to the library, I thought I would come down here and take a look at everything. I hope you don’t mind. I thought it would spare Mrs. Reynolds a task.”
He grunted. “I have no objection. What drew you to that particular volume of Virgil?”
She glanced down at the book in her hand with a sigh. “It’s a beautiful book. Look at the binding, at the stitching. So fine! A pity that it’s been neglected so terribly.”
“And you can really read it?”
“Of course. I read Latin, I told you. And yet you do not believe me.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I do not meet many women who read Latin. Men learn it at school, reluctantly, then avoid reading it again. Cate had the opportunity to study Latin, if she’d wished, but chose against it.”
“Yes, Cate has no head for languages. Mathematics is where she shines.”
Was it her imagination, or did the corner of the duke’s mouth twitch, as though he wanted to smile?
Instead of speaking, he held out a hand.
She gave him the book, and he drew it protectively back to his chest. For a split second, their fingers brushed together, sending a spark of something she could not quite identify shooting up her spine.
The sensation retreated almost immediately, leaving her with a strange, shivery sensation.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, your Grace,” she murmured. “I saw the inscription, though. The book was a gift from your father, then?”
“It was a gift from Father, indeed, but not to me,” the duke murmured, a faint line appearing between his brows.
“To Cate? I thought it said to my son.”
“To my brother. To James.”
A sort of heavy weight followed the mention of James Barrington, the deceased Barrington sibling.
Edith felt once more as though she’d pried, but more deeply this time.
Abruptly, the duke stepped forward and around her, blocking out the sunlight from the window for just a moment, his wide-shouldered shadow falling around her.
“If we are not standing on ceremony,” he responded crisply, “then you had better call me Marcus. You call my sister Cate, and urge me to call you Edith. We shall all be informal together, then. There is no London Society here to show contempt.”
“It’s a weight off one’s shoulders, I think. Having Society at bay.”
“I’m inclined to agree. Tell me, then, what of Virgil’s famous quotes are your favourites?”
A smile tugged at the corners of Edith’s mouth.
“Fléctere si néqueo súperos Acheronta movebo,” she quoted, pleased that her tongue did not trip over the complex Latin words. How long had it been since she was able to use her Latin aloud, or her Greek?
The Duke glanced at her and gave a short laugh.
“If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise the underworld,” he translated, shaking his head with a smile. “A good quote.”
“I thought so. Tell me a little about this library, then. It was cared for, at one point. There are remnants of organisation here, of a cataloguing system. What happened?”
Marcus’ face darkened. “Several things happened. Perhaps you have heard the rumours. Or whispers of rumours, at least. The idea that something terrible happened here, something to scare off the locals. I did have a library assistant, but the man was an incompetent fool.”
“He must be. Some books were placed directly in sunlight, and I have seen water damage in places, too.”
“That does not surprise me. The man has been dead, though, for these past six months. Apoplexy, nothing to do with this place, but I believe that it was said in town that he had been cursed.”
“Oh, ridiculous,” she huffed. “Cursed?”
Marcus took a few steps alongside a shelf, trailing long fingers along the spines.
“My father died a madman,” he said at last, almost conversationally. “People of course assume that I am mad like him.”
“You don’t seem mad.”
“I am not. But that does not stop the rumours. And of course, once a story like that has taken root, it is the easiest thing in the world for other stories to spring up around it. It has been said that I drove my brother to death through cruelty, and that my sister will shortly follow. I am dangerous, half-wild, mostly mad, entirely unpredictable, and a man to avoid. They call me Beast, and tell each other quite firmly that I am a monster. What do you think of that, Edith Hayton?”
He turned to face her, cool blue eyes seeking out hers. He was waiting for her response, almost daring her.
She lifted her chin, refusing to glance away.
“I think that I am not in the habit of giving credence to village rumours, and I don’t intend to start now.
I am an academic, your Grace. Marcus. They called me a bluestocking in London, and I would rather take it as a compliment.
I prefer to form judgements based on hard evidence and on my own observations, not on gossip. ”
He missed a beat, blinking. “Do you mean to say that you don’t listen to any gossip, then?”
“I didn’t say that. There is a grain of truth in everything, is there not?
But I shan’t be letting such gossip form my opinions of you.
Besides, if you leave me to work undisturbed, I shall be perfectly happy.
We shall suit each other exceedingly well.
I am not interested in you, your Grace, or in your personal life. I only care about these.”
She lifted her hands, gesturing to encompass the whole of the library, especially the books. Something glinted in his eyes when his gaze drifted over those shelves.
He loves the books, too.
Well, the man had to have one redeeming quality, did he not?
A long silence stretched out between them. Edith let her hands drop to her side, and she stared at him, waiting for a response.
“Just as I had hoped,” Marcus said at last. “As you say, we shall suit each other. Well, you may continue, then. If you require anything, you should inform Mrs. Reynolds. She will supply you with whatever you need, and will speak to me on your behalf if need be. As I said, I expect detailed notes, recommendations, and damage assessments. For example, your plan to revive the water-damaged books, or how we might save the world-weary Virgil volumes. Work methodically, and spare no detail.”
He turned to leave, not bothering to wait and see whether Edith agreed with him. She supposed that her agreement was taken as read, since the moment she accepted this post and came here.
I am an employee, after all. Not a guest, no matter how much Cate might wish I were one.
He strode to the door, long fingers stretching out to clasp the doorknob. Hesitating, he wavered, fingers inches from the dulled brass. As if on impulse, he turned to face her, seeking out her eye.
“My grandfather began this collection,” he said at last. “My father was the one who brought it to its lofty heights, collecting at least half of the volumes. When he was lucid, of course. After that, he found that he could not read. The words jumped about, he said, crawled off the page and skittered after him on inky paws. I should say that nearly a quarter of these books are of my own contribution, although I do not read much these days. I continued to collect books until about two years ago, when…” he broke off abruptly, shaking his head tightly as if he had walked unexpectedly into a cobweb.
Clearing his throat, he gave a short smile.
“That is irrelevant, I suppose. What I am trying to say is that this library is the only thing in this cursed house I still care about. This library and these books are the only things worth preserving. So, I should like them to be preserved. Not just catalogued and organised but preserved. And that, my dear girl, is why you are here.”
Edith swallowed. “You say that the books are the only things in this house worth saving. Do you mean…”
“I do not include my sister in that sweeping statement, nor the household.”
“And do you include yourself?”
He blinked, as if taken aback by the question. For a moment, she thought he was really going to respond. Then he turned on his heel and yanked open the door.
“Get to work, Edith,” he called, voice already echoing in the hallway outside. “You have a great deal to do.”