Chapter Fourteen

A rabella was right about the garden being the perfect place to sketch. In the days immediately after their arrival, she sketched the house from two different angles, and drew a rough picture of the barn and the pasture occupied by a single elderly dairy cow. She planned to begin creating some crayon landscapes, too, but she wanted to wait until she’d figured out the best views.

A week after they moved in, the weather changed. At first, Arabella welcomed the cooler breeze that chased away the oppressive heat. When storm clouds rolled in, though, she lost some of her enthusiasm. She had planned to spend a day outside, reading under the shade of a tree. Instead, she stood in the parlor and stared out the window, watching the rain fall in wind-driven sheets.

Normally, she liked storms. There was a special pleasure in curling up in a well-cushioned armchair and listening to the wind howl. Today, though, she felt restless, unable to sit down to either read a book or write a letter.

Maybe she did not have the right book. Dogwood Cottage did not contain a library. Apparently, William Kirkland had never been much of a reader. His wife had left behind only a handful of old-fashioned novels, all of which Belle had read before. But one of George’s London friends had crated up his small library and all his papers. The crates had been delivered yesterday. As a literary man, George seemed to hear about new novels before anyone else. He might have something Belle hadn’t read.

Arabella and George had a tacit agreement not to interrupt each other when they were working, but since all of George’s new books were in his study, he could hardly blame her for poking about the room a bit. She didn’t need to talk to him. She just wanted to rummage around his bookshelves. Surely, he wouldn’t mind that?

She half-expected to find George pacing back and forth in the study, since that seemed to be his usual mode of operation, but today he sat at his desk, his quill scratching quickly across a piece of paper. He did not look up from his work when she walked in, so she left him alone and went straight to the bookshelves lining one wall.

To her disappointment, she found only the same old volumes she’d already perused. She had absolutely no desire to read bound copies of old Spectator letters. Nor did she want to reread Sir Charles Grandison . Reading that once had been enough, thank you!

“George, haven’t you unpacked the books Mr. Potter sent you?” She glanced over her shoulder. George still sat at the desk, frantically writing as if he were in a race against the clock. He did not answer her.

“George?” she prompted. “What happened to the crate of books from London?”

“Mm?” He did not even look up from his work, though he’d clearly heard her. “What’s that?”

“What happened to the books your friend Potter sent you from London?” she repeated, a little less patiently.

“Oh!” He pointed with the quill. “Over in the corner, near the fireplace.”

Arabella walked around the desk and found two heavy crates full of books resting on an even heavier wooden trunk. Someone had pried the lids off both crates, but George had not even begun unpacking them.

She knelt on the floor and peered into the first crate. To her delight, it was full of books. Thick reference books and slim volumes of poetry mingled with three-volume novels and essay collections. Arabella had never read any of the novels, and she happily spent a few minutes investigating them.

“Do you recommend any of these?” She could not decide between Rosalind, or The Lady of the Forest, or Hunting the White Hart . She had heard of neither book.

Once again, George completely ignored her. When she glanced back at him, she saw his head still bent over his writing as he dipped his pen in the inkwell. Are there biscuit crumbs in there yet? she wondered.

No longer amused by his inattention, she tried raising her voice. “George!”

“What the devil?” He tossed his quill pen aside and glared so fiercely that Arabella quailed under his gaze. “Is there something you need?” A lock of nut-brown hair fell in front of his eyes, and he impatiently brushed it aside, leaving a streak of ink on his forehead.

Arabella tapped her own forehead. “You have ink on—”

“I know I’m probably covered in ink,” he snapped. “I usually am when I write. But there is no need to interrupt me just to tell me that. There will be time enough to clean up when I’m done working for the day.” He lowered his eyes to the paper in front of him and resumed writing.

Arabella gulped. “My apologies.” She glanced down at the box of books. Clearly, this was not the time to ask him about these novels. He would not appreciate her questions. Anxious to leave the study, she grabbed the first book at random. “I will leave you be now,” she promised.

Once again, George did not answer her, nor even glance up from his work. It was as if he had not heard her.

She snuck off to her tiny sitting room, reminding herself that she ought not be hurt by the brush-off. George had warned her that he did not like being disturbed. Very likely, he had a looming due date for whatever article or review he was currently working on. She ought to give him space to work as she understood the need for solitude. She would not like being disturbed while at work on her art.

Still, she had not expected to be snapped at so fiercely. At least not by George, who usually treated her with gentleness. Was this how he would treat her now that the honeymoon was over? She sighed, then tried to push the incident out of her mind. She settled down in the window seat and looked at the book she’d chosen.

It turned out that she’d grabbed the first volume of Rosalind . She began reading, hoping the story would distract her from her bruised feelings. The novel’s title led her to speculate that it might be in some way inspired by Shakespeare’s As You Like It . It had been years since she’d read that play, but she remembered liking it.

Instead, Rosalind turned out to be a comedy of manners about a spoiled wealthy young lady, the daughter of an earl, who disliked the wealthy scion of a merchant house whom her parents wanted her to marry. After only a few chapters, Arabella felt certain she could accurately predict the whole plot. Rosalind (the titular spoiled aristocrat) would discover that her first impressions of the young merchant heir were wrong, and she would end up falling in love with him. Not a particularly original story! The author had a gift for spinning a pretty phrase, but that was not enough to keep Arabella reading.

Eventually, she decided she’d had enough. She set the book aside, wrapped her arms around her knees, and watched the falling rain. The wind had not died down. On the contrary, it gusted and howled as it swept around the corners of the house. She hoped none of the trees would be toppled. It looked as if the dogwoods had not been properly pruned in years. But she was no arboreal expert, and she might have been mistaken.

Enough of this! She ought not let the gloomy weather affect her mood. She pulled out a piece of stationery and began a letter to Lavinia, one full of details about her new home and the drawings she had been working on. She said nothing about the lack of good reading material or about George’s bad temper. None of that signified in the least!

At the dinner table that night, George apologized for answering her so brusquely. “But you know, Belle, it would be best if you refrained from disturbing me while I’m working. Once something throws me off the track of an idea, it’s hard to find the scent again. That’s why I hate interruptions.”

“I know,” she assured him. “I am sorry. You did warn me ahead of time. I shan’t interrupt you again unless it is really important. I only wanted to ask if I might borrow one of your books. I haven’t anything to read.”

He smiled across the table at her. “Of course! You may read any of my books, so long as I don’t need them for an article or a review. When we married, I promised to endow you with all my worldly goods, didn’t I? That must include my library.”

“I suppose it does.” The smile that flitted across her face had as much to do with George’s improved temper as with the prospect of raiding his library. “Is there anything you might particularly recommend? Any novel, I mean?” She had nothing against poetry or books of information, but they did not grip her the way a good story did.

“Hmm.” He took a sip of wine while he considered her question. “Have you read any of Alec MacPherson’s novels? I quite enjoyed those.”

The name sounded familiar, but it still took a moment for her to place it. “He wrote Rosalind, or the Lady in the Forest , didn’t he? I started reading that—” she began.

George interrupted her. “Splendid! That is his most recent novel, and probably his best work. At least, that’s what some of the reviewers have said.” He smiled broadly.

“Really?” She wrinkled her nose doubtfully. “I must say I was disappointed in the chapters I read. But perhaps it gets better later.”

His face fell. “Disappointed? How so?”

She nibbled on her lower lip as she tried to think through how to explain her disappointment. “The plot seemed unoriginal. It was as if Pride and Prejudice were combined with Joseph Andrews . Not that Lady Rosalind tries to seduce Harold, of course,” she quickly corrected, “but there is a similar theme of love across social orders.”

A frown darkened George’s face. “I had not noticed that.” He spoke stiffly, almost as if he were offended. “You may be right about the plot being derivative. That is, I believe some of the book reviews said much the same. But I quite liked the comic touches. The character of Lady Jareth, for example, was well done. Or so I thought.” He looked at her uncertainly.

Arabella thought about that for a moment, then shook her head. “She amused me a little, yes, but she seems like a copy of Mrs. Jennings, from Sense and Sensibility . I think this Mr. MacPherson must fancy himself as good as the ‘lady’ who wrote Sense and Sensibility and Pride and Prejudice . But he is not. He is not good enough to tie her bootlaces!”

George abruptly began coughing, and his face turned a strange shade of red.

“Are you choking?” Arabella rose out of her seat, ready to pound him on the back until he spat out whatever clogged his throat. But George shook his head, covered his mouth, and coughed something into his napkin. She sat back down, relieved.

“Must’ve swallowed too big of a bite,” George rasped. “I shall be all right in a trice.” He drained the last of his wine, then dabbed at his mouth with the napkin. “So, you were not impressed by Mr. MacPherson’s writing. Shame. He happens to be one of my favorite writers. But no matter.” Oddly, he kept his eyes focused on his plate rather than looking at Arabella as he spoke. And he stabbed at his food with unnecessarily violence.

“ De gustibus non disputandum est .” There was no accounting for matters of taste, as Sir Michael was fond of saying whenever anyone argued about the merits of a carriage horse, a play, or a pudding. “We need not like the same novels merely because we are married,” Arabella pointed out. There were bound to be many issues on which she and George disagreed. They had different personalities, after all.

“Quite right!” George lifted his chin, met her gaze, and smiled with his mouth, but not with his eyes.

Arabella frowned, feeling puzzled. She had favorite authors, favorite pieces of music, and favorite foods, just like everyone else. But she would not feel hurt by finding out that a friend did not share her interests. She was, in fact, quite used to people being less interested in things than she was. No one ever wanted to talk about colors and patterns as much as she did. And she couldn’t remember George reacting this way in any of their other discussions of literature. He must really love MacPherson’s novels, though she could not see why.

Perhaps George would appreciate the chance to talk about his favorites. “Tell me what you like about Alec MacPherson’s novels,” she suggested. “I would like to know more about your taste in books.”

George shrugged. He continued to avoid eye contact. “I don’t know that there is much to say. As you point out, people like different things. I happen to like the novels, that’s all. I thought perhaps you would, too.” He refilled his wineglass. Then he brightened. “I thought MacPherson did rather a good job writing women.” He caught her eye and smiled hopefully.

Arabella furrowed her brow. “Really? Rosalind did not seem nearly as well rounded a character as the ones written by many lady novelists, or even by Sir Walter Scott. She wasn’t consistently written, either. One minute Rosalind is haughty and rude, and the next she is sympathetic and kind. Her mood seems to change as the plot demands.”

George scowled down at his plate. “As you said, there is no disputing over matters of taste. We should simply leave it at that.” His voice carried an uncharacteristic edge. He sounded not merely hurt, but angry.

As she stared at him, her hand slowly crept up to take hold of one of her curls. She wound the strand of hair around one finger as if she were winding up a ball of yarn. She could tell she’d upset her husband, but she didn’t understand why. And she had no idea what she ought to say. How did one mend such a situation?

George took a bite of his roast beef, then caught her eye and smiled wryly. “You needn’t look so guilty, Belle. You said nothing wrong. I suppose I am rather sensitive about... my favorites. My literary favorites, I mean. For the future we will know better than to talk about MacPherson’s writing.”

They fell silent for a moment, then George waved a fork at one of the serving bowls. “Have you tried this cucumber salad? All the vegetables are from our own garden! Isn’t that marvelous?” This time, the smile on his face looked genuine.

Arabella forced her stiff face to return his smile. She unwound the tangled strand of hair from her finger, picked up her fork, and dutifully tried the salad. But she could think of little to say for the rest of the meal.

When George cautiously suggested that he might go back to the study and see if he could get a little more work done before bed, she readily agreed. He might insist that Arabella had done nothing wrong, but she knew her words had upset him. She could not help feeling vaguely guilty for that. Besides, if it wasn’t safe to talk about books with her husband, what could they talk about?

Marriage, she realized, was going to be more difficult than she had expected.