Chapter Thirteen #3
“You are welcome to borrow any of my gowns, as we are of similar height and build, if you need to stay for an extended period of time,” Diana noted as she glanced down at Petra’s gown.
“That is very kind of you, thank you.” Petra had never met people like them and she wished had more words to express her gratitude.
However, the thought quickly left her head as she walked through the entrance, which again had a coziness and charm her father’s townhouse sorely lacked.
As she encountered a rather recent painting on the wall of a woman in a pond, she recalled that moment in Pride and Prejudice in which Lizzy falls in love with Darcy when viewing Pemberley.
Not that she loved Julian, she reminded herself quickly as Diana led her to a room to refresh herself.
After splashing some cool water on her face, Petra glanced out the sash window. Still no sign of Jaspen. Of course, this did not mean he did not know where she had gone. He could be informing her father of her whereabouts at any moment.
Reasoning with herself that there was nothing she could do in the moment, Petra went down to the sitting room to take tea with Julian’s aunt as his uncle had needed to rest for his rheumatism. Despite their earlier camaraderie, she felt rather shy under Diana’s steady gaze.
“May I ask, how bad is it? What does he need to do?” Diana asked, quite directly.
Petra paused in the motion of drinking. “What does who need to do?”
“Julian, how badly did he mess up? Does he need to grovel? Because I have on good authority that he will grovel if necessary.”
Releasing a puff of nervous laughter, Petra responded before she tried her tea. “I…I do not know. He has not apprised you of what happened between us?”
Diana shook her head. “Only that he trapped you and that he is ashamed of his actions.”
“I hope you understand, I will keep that matter between us. I would not want you to think…ill of him.” She could not quite explain this fierce protectiveness that came over her, only that she did not want to sully Julian’s name with his beloved aunt.
Diana took a long sip of tea. “I see. You do not wish me to think ill of him.” The corner of her mouth twitched.
“While I deplore that he hurt you, I could never think ill of him. I know the heart of that boy and it is pure gold. It may have been tarnished by that monster of a father of his who tried to mold it into something in his own image, but deep down, he stayed true. He just got lost along the way. You wouldn’t know anything about monstrous fathers, would you? ”
Petra stared down at her tea as she felt that door she had shut inside of her rattling again, unsure of whether she should open that door or nail it shut.
“Yet, you should not judge a man solely on his apologies or his words, but his actions. May I show you something?” Diana rose and held out a hand to Petra, who could think of no reason not to follow the woman.
Leading her down a warm hallway, Diana opened the door to a room of deep mahogany bookshelves from floor to ceiling, and the wonderful smell of a library filled Petra’s senses.
The flames of the hearth reminded her of another moment in a library and Petra steeled herself as she thought again of Pemberley.
You cannot fall in love with a man merely because of his library, she chided herself.
While the chamber itself served as a masterclass in order and balance, a massive writing desk stood in striking defiance of the room’s prevailing symmetry, encumbered by a chaotic and haphazard accumulation of books.
Upon venturing nearer, Petra perceived that these volumes were teeming with slips of parchment, each bearing a multitude of annotations in a faint graphite hand.
Finding her curiosity thoroughly ignited, she cast a questioning glance toward Diana, who merely bestowed a silent gesture of invitation for her to be seated at the desk.
“But I cannot.”
“I think you need to see this, Lady Petra.” Diana said firmly, and the power of the petite woman’s voice moved her to sit.
One leather-bound collection was open to a particular story and Petra read the title:
The Murders at the Rue Morgue.
A small ping shot through Petra as this brought back an unclear memory.
Why was this title so familiar? Turning a few pages, Petra began to read.
Once the main character was described, an analytical sort, a note on a separate piece of paper appeared in the text that read “Would P like this detective?” That small ping transformed into a heaviness in her chest and a dampness behind her eyes.
What was this note? She kept reading and throughout the short story, she found other notes, ones such as “What would P predict here? Would P be surprised?” until she reached the end of the tale.
While the culprit surprised her, that surprise paled next to the tide of wonder that flowed throughout her as she noticed the stack of books and periodicals next to her teeming with a multitude of further annotations.
Finally looking up to find Diana had absented the room, Petra sensed the very door she had thought shut and locked inside her had transfigured into air.