Chapter Two #4
She glanced down at the book he proffered. The Woman in White. How odd, she had taken that title from the circulating library two days ago. Had even hauled it to the park, in case the other book she’d brought turned out to be less than engrossing. But her copy was safe in her handbag, wasn’t it?
She patted her handbag and it was, well, not empty exactly but most certainly devoid of full-length novels.
“Ah—yes, I believe that is mine. But I’ve no idea how I lost it.”
Surely it should have been in her bag all this time—nothing else seemed to have fled.
“Not a problem at all, miss.” The young man handed the book over. “An excellent reading choice, if I may say so.”
Livia forgot all about how The Woman in White had magically disappeared. “Do you think so, sir?”
She was sure of very few things in life.
And one of those few happened to be the types of books she enjoyed, none of which, alas, were the least bit improving.
Charlotte could at least defend her choice of reading as encyclopedic; Livia, well, all Livia wanted was a solid stretch of time away from her own life.
And she was surrounded by people who disapproved of such transport.
An excellent reading choice were words that she had never heard spoken in her direction, with regard to her reading choices.
“Oh, yes.” He grinned. His full beard made it difficult to gauge his age—he could be anywhere from twenty-two to thirty-two. The corners of his eyes crinkled but his skin was otherwise smooth and unlined. “I read it a while ago. Sat down and never got up till I was done.”
“That sounds promising.”
“Of course I sat down at about nine o’clock in the evening, you see, and intended to read only for a short while before bed. But the next thing I knew, it was dawn. And I had to get ready for the day!”
“Oh, dear!”
“I know, but I don’t regret it. There’s nothing like the pleasure of a book that pulls you in by the lapels and doesn’t let go until The End. God gives us only one life. But with good books, we can live a hundred, even a thousand lives in the time we are allotted on this earth.”
Livia was not prone to feeling such things, but she could kiss the young man for the sentiments he’d so eloquently expressed.
“And what about this one then?” Eagerly she showed him the book in her lap, which she’d only just started. “It’s by the same author.”
“Moonstone? I liked that one, too, but it wouldn’t have kept me up all night reading.” She must have appeared disappointed, for he held up a finger. “However, a good friend of mine prefers Moonstone to The Woman in White.”
“Oh, how fortunate that you know someone who enjoys the same books you do. My father only reads history and my sister only things that impart knowledge. I pestered her for a long time to read Jane Eyre, and she did, finally, but I don’t think she much cared for it.”
Charlotte had little use for fiction: She would rather not deal with people altogether if she didn’t have to, real or imaginary.
Livia, on the other hand, actively preferred literary characters to real-life acquaintances: Tom Sawyer stayed forever young, Viola always retained her spunk, and Mr. Darcy could never turn out to be a hypocrite who was also disappointing in bed.
“Well, I thought Jane Eyre was splendid,” said the young man. “What an indomitable spirit in our Miss Eyre. And it turned out all right for her, too!”
“Precisely. I told my sister she needed to be more grateful that such a book exists. So many novels about women either feature stupid women who make bad choices and then commit suicide when it all goes awry, or subject virtuous women to terrible misfortunes and then, to add insult to injury, have them die of consumption anyway.”
He laughed. He had lively brows and warm, dark eyes. “Goodness, I’ve never thought of it that way, but you are absolutely right.”
Livia could only be glad that she was already sitting down—her knees would have buckled otherwise. Nobody, but nobody had ever told her that she was “absolutely right.”
About anything.
And the sensation zipping along all her nerve endings—as if she were taking on solidity and existence for the first time, as if until now she had been an apparition, drifting in the shadows, a mere shimmer under the sun.
From the other end of the bench, her mother snorted.
Lady Holmes and Livia had come to the park together.
Lady Holmes, her penchant for laudanum tippling more pronounced than ever in the wake of Charlotte’s scandal, had quickly slipped into open-jawed slumber, her cheeks slack, her parasol listing hard to the right, like the headsail on a capsized sloop.
Don’t wake up. Don’t wake up!
Lady Holmes snorted again and drew a few agitated breaths. Then her entire person slumped further. Livia exhaled, relieved to be spared her mother’s suspicions, thrilled that she wouldn’t drive the young man away with her unpleasantness.
“I mustn’t impose any longer, miss,” said he, inclining his head. “I hope you enjoy both of Mr. Collins’s books. A very good afternoon to you.”