Chapter 12

CHAPTER12

Somewhat embarrassed by her behavior the previous evening, and well aware that it could have cost her more than red cheeks and wounded pride, Joanna sought to avoid Edwin the following day. Not that avoiding him was difficult when he kept to his study or his chambers at all hours of the day, refusing to surface.

“Is he always like this?” Joanna asked at dinner, where she sat alone in the smaller breakfast room, so as not to send the poor footman into an apoplexy as he ran the length of the dining room just to fill her glass or serve the next dish.

Mrs. Hislop had joined Joanna, at Joanna’s insistence. “Like what, M’Lady?”

“Is he ordinarily a hermit, hiding away wherever it is dark and gloomy, like himself?” Joanna smiled to hide her concerns for the future, wondering if her evenings would forever be spent in the company of the sweet, amenable Mrs. Hislop until the noble housekeeper abandoned this Earth.

Mrs. Hislop concealed a smile of her own behind her hand. “He is more occupied than usual since your return, but he has many endeavors to tend to. Once they have proved successful, I am certain you will see more of him.” She hesitated, “would you like me to try and coax him down again?”

“Leave him be,” Joanna replied, for she did not know if she could bear the sting of another rejection so soon, having been refused his company at breakfast and luncheon.

Why should I care if he rejects me? her mind argued, for it made little sense. Would she really rather spend her meals sitting opposite a potential killer who occasionally stared at her like he wanted to devour her, and who lacked even the most basic conversational skills?

“I wrote to my friends today,” Joanna changed the subject. “I have not yet invited them to visit, but it is my hope that I can encourage them to visit me by next summer, when the gardens are not just a roosting spot for crows. I should think that the eastern wing might also be habitable by then. Do you know when the architect is arriving? As I am sure you are aware, His Grace tells me nothing. Apparently, it is never necessary for me to know anything.”

Mrs. Hislop looked a little anxious as she took a sip from her wine glass. “I would not hope to invite visitors that soon, M’Lady. His Grace… is not fond of visitors.”

“But I am his means to regaining some position in society, am I not? How can he hope to do so if he does not invite guests to his manor?” Joanna sank back in her chair, her appetite lost. “I have asked my friends and my dearest Nancy to send invitations to any ball or gathering that will have us northern outcasts, so perhaps there will be some potential there. Oh, I do long to hear music and see dancing again.”

Mrs. Hislop nodded slowly. “It has long been absent from this manor, but it will have its glory restored one day soon.”

“But not too soon,” Joanna teased lightly, her heart aching with homesickness. She missed her friends, she missed her sister, she missed her mother, and there was barely anything at Bruxton Hall to fill such a monumental gap. Mrs. Hislop was doing her best, but she could not fill the shoes of so many.

With a weary sigh, Joanna dabbed her lips and set down her napkin. “I am so full that I shall have to waddle to my chambers. Please, inform the cook that she has, once again, created a feast for the ages. Indeed, if she continues in this manner, my friends and family will not know me when I see them again, for I shall be the size of a house.”

“Less butter?” Mrs. Hislop suggested.

“Less butter,” Joanna agreed, getting up.

Mrs. Hislop hurried to stand. “Shall I bring your embroidery to the drawing room? I could dust off the pianoforte if that would please you, instead, though it has been a while since anyone has tuned it. A book, perhaps?”

A thought came to Joanna. “Is there a library? I have not yet seen one, despite wandering into dangerous rooms and almost having my skull caved in by a lovely section of the coffered ceiling. I do believe the piece resembled a Grecian vase, though I could be mistaken.”

“A library?” The color drained from Mrs. Hislop’s weathered face. “Well, there is one, but—”

“I should very much like to read before I retire to my chambers,” Joanna urged, suddenly excited. If there was one thing that could improve her temperament, it was a good book. And, as Edwin had alluded to the fact that he enjoyed the classics of ancient Greece and Rome by naming his stallion Bellerophon, she hoped she might discover some favorites among his collection.

Mrs. Hislop chewed on her lower lip for a moment, before straightening up decisively. “Why shouldn’t you enjoy the library, too? You are the mistress of this house, after all.” She nodded firmly. “I will show it to you at once, and if you should feel peckish or thirsty, all you have to do is ring the bell and I’ll come, laden with beverages and delicacies.”

“You are all involved in this conspiracy to prevent my gowns from fitting,” Joanna said with a laugh, as she followed Mrs. Hislop out of the breakfast room. “You do realize there is nothing so perilous for boredom as delicacies, do you not?”

Mrs. Hislop chuckled. “There has been some discussion about you being too thin, but you are in the north of England now, M’Lady. It’s expected to put some meat on your bones.”

“You think me too thin?” Joanna smoothed down the front of her skirts, thinking of home. Her mother had always scolded her for being too slight, and her father had, a time or two, called her ghoulish to behold. But when Joanna was invested in her books or charging through the wilderness with Pegasus or swimming in the lake, she forgot all about food, satisfied by joy and freedom instead.

Mrs. Hislop tilted her head from side to side. “You are perfect as you are for the warmer months, but when winter comes, you’ll need the additional protection from the cold.”

“I shall make a note of that,” Joanna promised halfheartedly, already dreading what winter might bring.

Before long, Mrs. Hislop stopped outside a gloomy door, steeped in shadow. It was the last at the very end of a long and forbidding hallway, where the glint of eyes seemed to follow her from the portraits that adorned the walls. She told herself it was just the oil paint catching whatever light it could, in a hallway without candles or lanterns, but the bristle up the back of her neck said otherwise.

Mrs. Hislop selected a key from her chatelaine and slipped it into the door’s lock, turning it so slowly, as if the sound of it clicking open might bring the constables down upon her. At last, she turned the handle and swung the door wide, gesturing for Joanna to enter.

“Be at your leisure here, M’Lady, and if His Grace should say a word about it, you tell him to come to me,” Mrs. Hislop said.

“Does he not allow anyone in here?”

Mrs. Hislop grimaced. “Only I am allowed to clean it and prepare it, and as he hasn’t had guests here in—goodness, I can’t even remember—it is difficult for me to say for certain how he might respond to you making use of it. But, as I say, enjoy it. I’ll contend with His Grace.”

“Thank you,” Joanna said, her eyes widening as the familiar scent of books wafted into her nose.

She stepped inside without needing to be told twice, though nothing could have prepared her for what she was about to see. The library was the most beautiful library she had ever beheld, far more splendid than the one she loved at Tillington House.

It was as large as any ballroom, with stacks that stretched back to the farthest wall. Meanwhile, the surrounding walls had all been transformed into bookshelves that were at least three times her height; the highest books attained by way of a sliding ladder that moved upon black iron runners. A smaller, moveable ladder seemed to be the only way to reach the top shelves of the inner stacks, but Joanna did not mind a bit of risk with her reading.

“This must be where all of his fortune has been spent,” she mused aloud, utterly in awe as she peered up at the vaulted ceilings that made her feel as if she was standing in the middle of a cathedral. Six grand chandeliers hung from those magnificent ceilings, though only two were lit, spilling a soft glow onto two reading sections of the library. The first pool of light revealed a mahogany desk and a leather, wingback chair. The second illuminated a red velvet chaise-longue and four leather armchairs that beckoned temptingly.

Taking her time to explore, Joanna ran her fingertip across leatherbound spines, tingling with anticipation at the names she recognized, delirious with the names she did not. Edwin’s collection must have rivaled that of the palace itself.

“If I live to be one hundred in this residence, I shall never read them all.” She clapped her hands together, laughing with delight. Certainly, this one room would take care of her boredom and, perhaps, her homesickness.

She had just reached the reading area with the chaise-longue and the armchairs, eyeing the fireplace that stood proud and unlit, when her gaze was drawn upward to the painting that watched over the library. Unlike the eerie eyes of the portraits outside, this painting depicted the most beautiful scene: a forest in the summertime, captured from the perspective of whoever was wandering through the noble oaks and sturdy sycamores and lithe silver birches.

The details rendered Joanna breathless, imagining that she was upon the portrayed path, enjoying that summer’s day. She envisioned the blackbirds singing, and the wood pigeon cooing from the nest in the far-left corner of the painting. She could almost hear the rustling of the leaves, for they appeared to be in motion, and if she strained her eyes hard enough, she could have sworn she saw the glint of water in the distance, where the tunnel of vibrant trees ended. Even the lichen that clung to the oak trunks looked so real that she felt like she could have climbed up on a ladder and plucked the lichen right off the canvas.

“Do you like it?”

The voice, so close behind her, made Joanna jump. A stifled scream escaped her mouth, silenced by her own hand clamped across it. Was that her life now— jolting and screaming, teetering on the brink of anxious madness?