Chapter Two
That afternoon, Sibyl returned home, hugging the book to her side. Her movements were small and dainty, but her sharp, angry steps echoed against the stone paths and uneven London cobblestones.
Sibyl’s lips pursed into a frown as she climbed up the small steps to her family’s townhouse and walked inside. That man, whoever he was, she thought. How dare he call it ‘tripe.’ The man was insufferable. He needed a good talking-to. A firm education in the arts, at the very least.
She wanted to know why a man like him was interested in reading a book of fairy tales, anyway, but she did not know his name and so couldn’t ask.
He was handsome, however. But, she thought with a sigh, she would probably never see him again.
London was a big, loud, busy place. She liked the gray skies, the sudden onslaught of rain that clattered on the rooftops and that could soak unprepared pedestrians within minutes, only to clear again minutes later and herald the sun.
She liked the narrow streets that took off in various directions, even the dirty alleyways, for they seemed like routes of wonder.
But she also knew that not all parts of the city were safe, and she possibly did spend too much time reading.
Nodding to her mother’s footman, she gritted her teeth and struggled to undo the buttons of her dark-blue Spencer with one hand and picked at the knot of her bonnet’s ribbon.
Her gloved fingers got hopelessly tangled, making her want to shout in frustration.
But good, well-bred young ladies did not do that, and so she took a deep breath, calmly laid the book down on a side table and slipped off her gloves, tearing into the tangled knot of ribbon beneath her chin that refused to obey.
Once freed from her Spencer and bonnet and having hung those on a peg inside the foyer, she collected her book, went past the small sitting room where her mother sat doing needlework, and greeted her.
Sibyl’s mother, a rosy-cheeked, busty woman with a head full of dark, glossy hair that was fading to gray, was as short and petite as her daughter, and looked up from her needlepoint. “Ah, there you are. I trust you took in some fresh air. Did you enjoy your walk with Isobel?”
“Yes.” Sibyl clasped her book tightly to her side.
“Good. Come, have a seat. We need to talk.”
Sibyl disliked her mother’s serious tone. She entered the pretty, white room with its patterned floral wallpaper and kept her right arm and book against her side, not moving. She sat facing her mother on the sofa.
“Sibyl, I’ve been thinking. You’re twenty-four, and… That’s not a book under your arm, is it?”
Sibyl blushed. “I, um…”
“Oh,” her mother tutted. “I should have known. You are the only young woman I know who goes out for some fresh air and returns with a book. Honestly, Sibyl. What do I do with you?”
“It’s only a small one. It’s short.” And it would be due in a week. “And I have to give it back. It won’t take up space for long.”
“It’s not the bookshelf space I’m worried about.” Her mother pushed a silky, dark strand of hair out of her eyes. “It’s your mind, dear. You’re a sweet girl, but you read far too many books. If your father were still alive—”
Sibyl’s hand gripped the book harder. “Mama…”
“Do not interrupt. Your father was instrumental in teaching you to read. I always thought it was sweet how he would bring you back a book from his travels or take you to booksellers and lending libraries. But this is too much.” Her mother’s eyes darted past her, in the direction of the room that had served as Sibyl’s father’s study, and also his personal library.
It was Sibyl’s favorite room in the entire house, and in her opinion, the most comfortable.
There was a grand wall full of books, a proper-sized, wide, dark-wooden desk with a chair that creaked when one sat in it, and another chair with cushions that one sank into, and if a person weren’t careful, they’d wake up an hour or so later and discover they’d spent the afternoon napping.
The space didn’t smell like her father anymore, but they kept the room fairly clean and in order, as it was still, in a way, his space.
Mrs. Clifton used it to organize her household accounts and managed things well but preferred a more ladylike place to work.
Now it was mostly Sibyl who sought out the room for its comfort and privacy.
The place had a little poky fireplace, dark-red walls, mostly faded with age, dark-brown-paneled bookshelves that were overloaded with books, and good lighting. Sibyl loved it.
“Your father would agree, you know.”
“What?” Sibyl turned back to her mother.
The older woman let out a small sigh. “Your father was very good about educating you girls, but I’m sure he would agree, it’s time to put down the storybooks and enter real life. And the reality is, dear heart, you need to find a husband.”
“But…” The words died on Sibyl’s lips. The idea of being a spinster, alone forever, sharing meals with her mother until they both died of old age, sounded rather dull. She wanted something more from life. She just didn’t know what that was.
Sibyl’s thoughts drifted back to the gentleman in the olive coat at the lending library. His face, with his firm, round chin, dark eyes, and solid gaze. Even when they had stood staring at each other, she’d almost felt… something.
“All right, Mama.”
“Really? Oh, good. I thought you’d fight me on this.”
“No.” If she had to marry, then she would.
Dying an old maid sounded rather miserable and lonely.
And maybe the man might be a fellow reader.
She wondered what books he might like. But then, she didn’t even know if he was married.
With his looks and clearly an income, if he was able to go around to circulating libraries, not to mention his fine clothes…
Sibyl did wonder. She was curious about him.
It was rare to meet a fellow reader, especially one who would talk about books with her.
But did she really want to make the acquaintance of a man who was rude at times and looked down upon her taste in books?
That did make her pause. She would take a chance and obey her mother’s plan.
“Good. I’ll start making plans.” Mrs. Clifton rubbed her hands together.
And so it began. Days of making social calls at friends’ homes in the hopes of meeting eligible gentlemen and attending dinners.
But the only men to whom she was introduced were unsuitable.
The men present at these social outings were either old, married, or in some cases recently widowed and grieving, or they were on leave after having gone to fight with the army and navy overseas.
Perhaps worst of all, it seemed that none of the young men who were present were readers.
These young men, next to whom she was not so subtly placed to sit at dinner, seemed pleasant enough at first. But almost as soon as she began to speak about her hobbies and interests, and the subject turned to books, their eyes soon glazed over in boredom.
Did no man read for pleasure? There was poetry, plays, novels, and Gothic literature, and yet she could not find a single man at these soirees who shared her interest. At one particularly odious party, where she had stood on the sidelines of the small room where couples danced, she’d felt overlooked and did not speak to anyone for half an hour. And no one ventured to speak to her.
Her mother stood by her, a proud matron, and would lean over and hiss, “Smile,” whenever a man walked by. But after so many parties of this, Sibyl’s mouth ached from smiling so much, and when she got home, she would find herself massaging the corners of her lips and jaw.
At one such evening, Sibyl had had enough. She was currently stuck at an evening party and was bored. She would leave. No one cared for her there, anyway. And the men present were deplorable. How could she marry and spend her life with a man who did not read?
Sibyl turned and, in her dark, forest-green dress, headed toward the host’s library, the only place she felt comfortable.
Almost as soon as she’d entered the room, she let out a soft sigh.
It was empty. She could be herself, for a moment.
There was no one to try to smile at or impress.
A tension left her, and she lowered her shoulders, not even realizing they were slightly hunched up.
She let out a soft sigh and began to trace her hands over the tomes of books on the bookshelves and coughed. Her fingers were coated with dust. She stared at the specks of dust on her gloved hands’ fingertips.
“You’re likely the first person to have touched those books in months. Maybe years,” a familiar voice said behind her.
“That is a shame. I was hoping to find something,” she said, distracted by the titles.
“Something good, or just less dusty?” the voice asked.
“Both. Anything would be better. Even a dusty, old tome would be better than having to socialize out there,” she said idly, facing the books.
“And why is that?” the voice asked.
She realized then that she was talking with a stranger. She turned around and jumped. It was him. The man from the bookseller’s shop in Borough Market. But now he wasn’t wearing a distinctive olive-green coat.
His clothing tonight arrested her eyes. He wore light-tan breeches, white, silk socks, and smart dancing shoes.
Above that, he wore a light-green waistcoat with smart buttons, a frippily tied white cravat, and a dark-green overcoat that looked so dark as to be almost black.
But that wasn’t what made her breath catch in her throat.
His head was full of dark hair, and in the dim lighting of the library, he stood like a handsome shadow in the well-lit hallway. But his dark eyes sought hers, and there was an arrogant curve to his smile that riled her.
“You,” she said.
“Me.” He leaned against the doorframe, looking as comfortable as a luxuriating cat. “Enjoying the Brothers Grimm?”
She bowed her head.