Chapter Thirteen
“I do know that for the sympathy of one living being, I would make peace with all. I have love in me the likes of which you can scarcely imagine and rage the likes of which you would not believe. If I cannot satisfy the one, I will indulge the other.” – Frankenstein, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
Oh, for goodness’ sake. The library should not be this hard to find, Ursula thought desperately.
Margaret had gone back to her own home after breakfast, thankfully, but she would be returning somewhere in the afternoon to prepare for the arrival of Lord and Lady Thornfield, and their wretched daughter.
Ursula was glad to see the back of her mother-in-law.
Any hopes of a pseudo mother-daughter relationship had been swiftly dashed.
It was clear that Margaret did not like her and did not approve of the match.
She could do naught about it now but her disapproval, of that there was no question, would certainly be apparent.
Ursula found herself in a most undesirable position, with little enthusiasm for the approaching evening's entertainment. This only added to her current low spirits due to the lingering sting of Graham's rejection from the previous night.
I shouldn’t be too hard on him, Ursula thought. He defended me against his mother. Many men would not so as much.
Richards had told her that the library was impossible to miss, in his words, with large, double mahogany doors with round brass doorknobs.
Truth be told, she had opened no less than five such doors and discovered nothing but more morning-rooms and unused parlours behind each one.
Why do we even have so many rooms? We could house a dozen families in this house, and none of us would ever run into each other.
She opened another door and found a kind of storage space beyond, full of white-swathed furniture. Groaning aloud, Ursula slammed the door shut and continued on her pilgrimage.
The hallway seemed to stretch out forever. Ursula trudged grimly down it. She was determined to find the library.
This is my house. Mine. I will learn to act like the mistress of this house, sooner rather than later.
The prospect of entertaining the Thornfield family was horrifying. Ursula was vaguely acquainted with Lady Annabella and did not seek further acquaintance.
It seems that it matters little what I want, however.
It wasn’t customary at all for newlyweds to entertain so soon after their wedding. Margaret had made quite a faux pas in arranging the supper, but cancelling the invitation would give the Thornfields a chance to complain.
I shall start as I mean to go on, Ursula thought. I shall be a proper viscountess.
Her mother’s warnings about being a proper wife and a good host rang in her mind.
Start as you mean to go on, she thought, opening one last door.
This, finally, was the correct one. The door opened onto a wide, airy space, with bookshelves lining the walls. She stepped inside, taking in all of it.
The library back home was considerably smaller, and darker, too.
Papa had many valuable books, and while he never read them, he had a horror of them being exposed to sunlight.
Not content with simply keeping his books away from the windows, he insisted upon heavy velvet curtains being closed over the windows at all times, day or not.
Mama, who did not enjoy reading, begrudged the overuse of candles in the library “A room which no body uses and no body enters,” she’d said once and so the room was doomed to be gloomy even at high noon.
However, this was not the case with this room. Light poured into the room, along with a sweet and refreshing breeze. She stepped inside, allowing the door to close behind her.
A sudden movement caught her eye on the mezzanine rounding the room. Flinching, Ursula spotted none other than her brand-new husband standing there, watching her.
At once, her newfound peace filtered away, and Ursula’s heart sank.
“Oh, forgive me,” she stammered. “I did not realize that you were here. I shall leave at once.”
I shan’t trouble him with my presence any longer. He clearly does not wish it, and so…
“Not at all,” Graham said at once, tucking a small, leather-bound notebook into his pocket and hurrying towards the steps of the mezzanine. “There is plenty of room in here for us both, and if you desire solitude, then allow me to be the one who leaves.”
Ursula chewed her lower lip, eyeing him. “That won’t be necessary, I’m sure.”
He reached the bottom of the steps and paused, hesitant.
“I must apologise for my mother’s abrupt entrance. She’s accustomed to visiting me whenever she wishes and not concerning herself with invitations. It will take her some time to comprehend that she is not the only Lady Sinclair to consider. I shall speak with her, I give you my word.”
Ursula twisted her fingers together, resisting the urge to stare at the floor. She was a grown woman, a wedded woman, a viscountess, and she was determined to act like it.
“That won’t be necessary. I don’t wish your mother to feel as if she cannot visit her only son. As for her invitation to the Thornfields…”
“Now, that I will speak to her about,” Graham interrupted firmly. “She cannot invite people to my home, to our home without our permission. That, at least, she will understand.”
Ursula wasn’t sure she agreed, but she nodded and smiled anyway.
“Of course.”
Perhaps now would be a good time to slip past him and begin browsing the shelves. Surely conversation was not agreeable to either of them.
She was about to move but stopped as Graham spoke again.
“What books are you hoping to find here?”
She glanced up at him, wavering. There was something earnest in his voice, something direct in his gaze which gave her the impression that he wanted to speak to her.
Perhaps all is not lost between us. Perhaps he does not despise me, after all.
“Novels and poetry, I hope,” Ursula said. “I was looking for a quiet place to read my book. However, I have begun Frankenstein.”
He brightened. “Oh? And what are your thoughts until now?”
Ursula paused, thinking. “Well, I have not finished the story yet. However, I am not particularly fond of the tale.”
“Victor Frankenstein?”
“Yes, there is a weakness about him. An inability to accept responsibility for what he has done. He creates a living thing, and then believes he is within his rights to simply turn his back on his creation, repulsed by the form that he created it. The creature reaches out its arms to Victor when it first comes alive, and yet he turns his back. How dare he? What cruelty. What injustice!”
Perhaps she was too impassioned. Mama had often warned Ursula to avoid high emotions or strong opinions around gentlemen. Gentlemen did not particularly like it, she’d said.
Graham, however, brightened, and took a step towards her.
“I do believe you are correct .I would propose that Victor is not the hero of the story, but the creature itself is.”
“Intriguing,” she murmured, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “I look forward to completing the story. I’m sure I’ll learn a good deal.”
Graham nodded, watching her with a strange look in his eyes. Ursula could not quite interpret it. What did it mean? What was he thinking?
I never know what he is thinking, she reminded herself wryly. I am not quite so astute in reading people as I believed I was. My own husband remains a mystery to me.
There was no time to reflect on the irony of that.
Graham began to speak, guiding her around the vast library.
It was well arranged, with everything in its place.
There was fiction, naturally, comprising of the silliest novels silly did not necessarily mean dull, of course all the way along to properly improving books of history and science.
“And poetry, of course,” Graham added, pausing before a large section of bookshelves. He placed his hand reverently on one shelf, letting his fingers trail across the spines. “We have all the popular poets Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Shelley, Byron, Sappho, and many more.”
“You seem to enjoy poetry most of all.”
Graham shot her a quick, searching look. “Some people believe that poetry should not be a gentleman’s domain. Or a lady’s, really.”
“They are fools, then,” Ursula responded curtly. “Some of the most beautiful lines ever were written as lines of poetry. Who could argue against the genius of Shakespeare, for example?”
Graham shrugged. “Those who don’t understand it, I suppose.”
She eyed him for a moment, drawing her lower lip in between her teeth.
“When I came in, you seemed to be writing something in a notebook,” Ursula found herself saying. “May I ask what it was?”
Graham hesitated, glancing sharply at her. “I… If you must know, it was a poem. I like to write poetry of my own.”
She brightened. “Oh, how exciting! May I read a line or two?”
Graham cleared his throat, glancing aside. “Perhaps later. The poem is really not finished. Not yet.”
To her surprise, Ursula felt a flare of disappointment. She realised that she wanted to read his poetry. No, it was more than that. She wanted to prolong the encounter, she wanted to stay here with Graham.
“Forgive me,” Ursula managed at last. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
He gave a faint smile. “You didn’t pry. Don’t apologise, please.”
On impulse, Ursula extended her hand frankly for a handshake.
“We should be friends,” she said at last. “I shall need all the help I can get to manage Lord and Lady Thornbridge, to say nothing of Lady Annabella.”
Graham gave an amused huff. He took her hand but did not shake it. Instead, he leaned forward over her hand, pressing a hasty, warm kiss to her knuckles.
The touch sent tingles running down her arm, warmth curling in her chest. He released her hand almost at once and threw a wry smile her way.
“I shall leave you to your reflections, then,” he finished. “I imagine I shall see you at dinner, Ursula.”
With that, he was gone, hurrying out of the library and leaving Ursula alone and somewhat baffled.