by Robin Helm
In the center of the room, an enormous table had been left with books stacked on one end, books in the middle, one lying open, and papers strewn about the other end. It was the best sort of library—one used, and used often, it seemed.
Curiosity drew him in, but just as he would have reached for the nearest book, two things happened. First, he noticed a shimmer of yellow cloth peeking out from beneath the table. Before he could bend to retrieve the shawl or bit of embroidery that must have fallen, a voice arrested his movements.
“Take care not to trample my skirt.”
The voice—young. Feminine, of course. But how young? Eight? Twelve? At what age did girls cease to crawl beneath furniture to… read?
Conrad was more than a trifle annoyed at the appearance of a child in the library. After months at sea and finally given an opportunity to indulge his favorite pastime with such a variety of books as had been promised him, discovering that he might be required to share the space with a child who would likely jabber like a jay proved more than a little disconcerting.
Still, one must do what one must do. He knelt before the table and peered beneath. The yellow skirt was unexpectedly long for a child’s, and as his gaze met the indignant eyes of a young lady, that length made sense. “I beg your pardon, miss.”
The expected lowered lashes and blushes, a common affectation for which he never understood the cause, didn’t appear. Instead, the young lady gazed at him with frank interest before snapping her book shut and waving him out of the way. “I suppose you’ve come, then. The Colonel said you would.”
“He did?”
She’d righted herself and smoothed her skirts before Conrad gathered his wits enough to realize that he ought to have offered assistance. The young lady just smiled at his inane question. “Yes. The Colonel said a Navy man would be commandeering the library while he visited.” She scowled at him as she gave him a full examination. “You don’t look like a naval officer.”
Must I tell this girl that I was so foolish as to have my things stolen from the docks?
“Then again, I suppose you might grow bored from living in uniform all the time.” The girl gave herself a little shake before she smiled at him. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Thayer. I am Miss Dashwood.”
For just a moment, Conrad almost expected her to thrust out her hand at him, but she didn’t. A quiet curtsy followed—just as one might expect from a well-bred young lady—and almost as if an afterthought. Unusual, I think.
“And how do you know Colonel Brandon?”
“He is married to my sister.”
Just as she said it, Miss Dashwood’s chin jutted out the slightest bit and in exactly the same way Mrs. Brandon’s had when he’d been introduced. In that fraction of a moment, he saw a resemblance that he suspected rarely showed. “A good man, I’m told.”
“The best.” Miss Dashwood gave him one of those looks that hinted of a forthcoming question. “He says you and the admiral are going to the Indies.”
“It is what is expected, anyway.”
A faraway, almost dreamy look filled the girl’s eyes. “The first time I met the Colonel, I asked what the East Indies were like. Do you know what he did?”
Of course, he didn’t. Conrad did notice, however, that she mentioned what the Colonel had done rather than what he’d said. “Tell me.”
Miss Dashwood eyed him once more as if gauging his likely response before she leaned close and murmured in an affected, mysterious tone, “‘The air is full of spices.’” She stood erect once more, and her eyes sparkled with delight. “That’s what he said,” she explained. “He just leaned close and made me feel as if I’d been let in on some great secret. That’s when I decided he was the best of men.”
“And has he proven you correct, or have you been disappointed?”
All affability, if one could call her demeanor such, dissolved in the wake of his question. Through cold, slitted eyes, she regarded him before turning away. “You cannot know the Colonel if you ask that question.”
***
While Betsy did her best to arrange her hair, Margaret read her book—one the Colonel had procured for her. A Journey from Bengal to England, through the Northern Part of India, Kashmire, Afghanistan, and Persia, and into Russia, by the Caspian-Sea. Though a mouthful of a title, Margaret sat transfixed by the descriptions and wonder of the great trek through foreign lands—ones she had dreamed of seeing for much of her life.
“In the evening, arrived at Rajah Mhal, a former residence of some of the Bengal subahdars. Ali Verdy Khan, in the beginning of his administration…”
“Miss Dashwood, I fear pulling your hair.”
She snapped the book shut and gazed at herself in the glass. “Is it not sufficiently coiffed for a simple family meal?”
“There’s a young gentleman, miss.”
Is that what you call a naval officer without sense enough to recognize a good man when he meets one?
She rose and examined herself from several feet away. A good eighteen inches of lovely embroidery trellised up the hem of the gown and into the skirt. Margaret even had a Kashmir shawl with a border that nearly matched. Marianne would be pleased that she made an effort, which in turn made the loss of reading time almost bearable. It would be bearable if I didn’t know that man would invade my… that is the library for the next fortnight or so.
The rumble of voices near the main staircase sent Margaret dashing down hallways and into cramped, narrow staircases to the kitchens. She gave Cook what she hoped was an impish smile as she scuttled through the room and through the house to where the family had gathered in the music room. Marianne played Beethoven’s Sonata No. 14, and as usual, the Colonel stood close to turn the pages. Their sons fidgeted on chairs, eager to give their polite applause and be sent off to the nursery. Nanny Sayers stood to one side, watching, listening, ready to reassume command of her charges.
Margaret knew the moment the Colonel became aware of her presence in the doorway. Without shifting his concentration from the music, he acknowledged her with what could only be described as a wink, despite not blinking once. Only one other person noticed.
Lieutenant Conrad Thayer.
Seated apart from the rest, he rose, and without anyone taking notice, he offered his seat, which left Margaret with no other choice but to accept. The melancholy, repetitive notes of the sonata continued while she sat, hands clasped in her lap, and eyes roaming the room. How does she endure it? I should go mad if I felt called on to pound away at those keys every time I passed an instrument.
At the conclusion of the performance, Mr. Thayer asked if she played the pianoforte as well, and Margaret managed to refrain from stating her true opinion, saying, “I am able to follow the music and play a few scales, but that is the extent of my expertise.”
The Whetherings, a middle-aged couple with just enough sense between them to be both comical and dangerous, had been included in the dinner party, and as expected, Margaret found herself seated next to Mr. Thayer. And so begins the tedium.
“Having met you in the library, Miss Dashwood, may I assume you enjoy reading?”
Could you be a long-lost son of the Whetherings? That is precisely the sort of ridiculous question Mrs. Whethering might ask. The man tucked into his soup with good grace as he waited for her answer. Margaret picked up her spoon as she sought a civil enough response. Simplicity proved wisest. “I do.”
“Novels? Perhaps Evelina is a favorite?”
Though tempted to inform him that even her romantic, liberal-minded sister would object to the book, she kept her remarks simple and without explanation. “I’ve not read that. I’m currently enjoying A Journey from Bengal to England, through the Northern Part of India, Kashmire, Afghanistan, and Persia, and into Russia, by the Caspian-Sea.”
At that, Mr. Thayer only replied, “Indeed?”
“Yes, sir. Indeed.”
Marianne turned to her. “Mama has written to insist that you return home to the vicarage. The rumors of highwaymen in the n
eighborhood have her concerned for your safety.”
“We might credit the vicar for that solicitude for my safety,” Margaret mused. “He is the most attentive of stepfathers.” At Mr. Thayer’s twitch and nearly repressed smirk, she added, “Mr. Berridge is also much more charitable regarding the intelligence of these highwaymen—if indeed, they do exist.”
“Why would you say that, Miss Dashwood?”
Prudence suggested she might refrain from speaking her mind, but the slight twist to Mr. Thayer’s lip overrode prudence’s objections. “That would be because I’ve not yet heard of a highwayman entering a library to accost the inhabitants. That is a highwayman such as I might like to meet.”
Mr. Whethering suggested, in all sincerity, that perhaps a footman might be spared to guard the door whilst Margaret was about her books. “She may find a quiet turn in the garden a safer pastime if highwaymen are now taking to attacks on innocents in houses.”
The sisters both snatched up napkins and coughed. Marianne found her voice first. “Mama will be disappointed to see you stay if there is any danger.”
“I’ve no intention of leaving the Colonel’s lovely library in order to avoid a danger I don’t believe to exist.”
Mr. Whethering insisted that the deplorable state of the roads would ensure no man, highwayman or not, would wish to spend much time on them. What that comment meant Margaret couldn’t hope to understand. She only thanked him for agreeing with her, which seemed to put him in high spirits that lasted through the rest of the rather tedious meal.
Indeed, the simple family meal dragged out far too long for Margaret’s taste, and as the women withdrew at the eventual conclusion, she saw a look pass between the Colonel and Mr. Thayer. Thus, I miss the interesting conversation. A glance at Marianne and Mrs. Whethering confirmed her supposition. They will probably fill the air with opinions on lace and ribbon.
She was wrong. The conversation revolved around the latest frocks seen in Town. After the third mention of shirring, Margaret jumped to her feet. “Please excuse me for a moment.”
Marianne arched an eyebrow but said nothing.
The low rumble of men’s voices grew louder as she neared the dining room. Mr. Thayer’s reached her first. “I’ve felt like His Majesty’s groom delivering a dispatch more than once, although the sea is a preferable road and a ship a fine mount to ride.”
“It was much the same in the army,” the Colonel remarked. “I remember all too well the comings and goings of official papers. As a younger officer, I often wondered at the value of the missives—were they merely menu requests at the next officers’ dinner?”
Thayer’s voice grew serious—almost ominous. “Ours are never that interesting. I find I’m tasked with carrying the sort that make me anxious when another ship nears.”
It wasn’t the words—of that, Margaret had no doubt. No, something in the way Mr. Thayer spoke them hinted of… more.
“I hope you’ll be free of all such things soon and enjoy the month here.”
Month! The Colonel mentioned a fortnight! Her memory reminded her of his addendum of, “or a little longer,” but even that didn’t presuppose a month.
“Should I stay? I wonder. I confess to enjoying the countryside, and your library is magnificent, but…”
“If Margaret is your concern,” the Colonel began, “do not trouble yourself. She isn’t likely to bother you.”
What else the Colonel said, she didn’t hear. Indignation welled up and nearly spilled onto her lips. I shall not bother him? He ought to concern himself with not bothering me!
At that, she turned on her heel and returned to the drawing room, determined to convince Marianne that she must have a new blue gown at the earliest convenience, a certain way to show her sister her displeasure. As she entered, she heard Mrs. Whethering remark that with a handsome young man like Mr. Thayer in the house, perhaps “dearest Margaret” might find a husband at last.
Marianne replied with the suggestion that few young ladies would enjoy finding a husband only to send him to sea some months later. This could not and would not be borne. However, before Margaret could say anything, Marianne greeted her. “Are you well?”
“Quite.”
“And what will you say to Mama when you write?”
Male voices approached, giving Margaret an idea. She waited until she was certain they could hear her with perfect clarity before saying, “I shall inform her that, of course, I will not return home. I came to visit with you, the Colonel, and my nephews. I’ve not had a week to do that yet. Furthermore, I will not exchange the Colonel’s excellent library for Mr. Berridge’s omnipresent sermons.” The men came into view as she added, “Marianne… I’ve decided I am in need of a new blue dress.” Mr. Thayer took a seat opposite her and the line about his mouth hinted he disapproved of frippery. “Indeed,” she added, “I believe I’ll need two new blue dresses immediately.”
The Colonel seated himself beside his wife and smiled at her—that same smile she’d seen ten years earlier when he’d first been introduced to Marianne. He turned his smile on Margaret. “I’m afraid you’ll need to share the library with Thayer while he’s here.”
“Of course. I feel certain we won’t trip over one another.” Despite her congenial words, Margaret seethed. The library is the highlight of my visits at Delaford, and I won’t spend my days sharing it with the likes of him.
Mr. Thayer sneezed and begged pardon.
He’d sniffle all the time, I’m certain.
***
Did she know he saw her skirt at the edge of the dining room doorway? Had she come to listen? To send a message to the Colonel from his wife? For some other reason?
And what did that comment about blue dresses mean?
“—our Mr. Thayer has endured months and months at sea—to the East Indies and back, Margaret—and a country rest is exactly what my friend, the admiral, ordered.”
Miss Dashwood sat up, eyes sparkling, interest bringing a pleasing tone to her complexion. “Admiral Croft?” She turned to Conrad. “Do you know the Crofts? I met Mrs. Croft once and greatly enjoyed my conversation with her.”
“I do,” he said. “Mrs. Croft is a favorite among all the officers for her sense, kindness, and adventuresome spirit.”
The conversation shifted, but the way Margaret looked his way when she thought he didn’t observe her made Conrad nervous. This will never do. If I should spend five minutes in the same room with her, she’d be chattering about Mrs. Croft in half that time. I came to bring the dispatch and enjoy peace and quiet at a country manor with a library like no other. I did not come to endure some young thing waxing romantic about life at sea with one’s husband.
A new, horrifying thought prompted a second glance at Miss Dashwood. However, her glaring at him in what could only be presumed as defiance relieved anxiety there. At least I need not fear personal romantic delusions. She seems to despise my appearance here as much as I resent her intrusion into my respite.
As if she could read his thoughts, her gaze flitted to the doorway and, presumably, beyond to the library. That book she mentioned—Forster’s, I believe—is probably just a ruse. When no one observes, she likely sets it aside for some silly romance like Evelina.
Miss Dashwood turned her gaze on him as if in a challenge before returning to the discussion of an upcoming neighborhood dinner party, and that challenge settled it for him. The only inducement to volunteering for this assignment was the promise of peace and quiet in as fine a library as I could hope to enjoy for a month or so. I brought the dispatch and should relinquish it in a day or two. Until then and afterward, I’ll read at night while she’s asleep and that should ensure we avoid one another nicely.
At that moment, Conrad caught a glance his way from Mrs. Brandon and a knowing nod from the Colonel. Indeed, avoiding Miss Dashwood seems a prudent course.
CHAPTER TWO
Perhaps years of army training had inspired it. Whatever the cause, at the end of each day ju
st before retiring, the Colonel would wander up and down the halls ensuring that all was well in his household. The army explanation was Marianne’s. Margaret, on the other hand, had decided after many such long visits as she was wont to make at Delaford, that this was just further proof of what a superior man he was.
The familiar tread down the hall came not long after the clock struck eleven o’clock. Five minutes ought to do the trick. “If Mr. Thayer is to intrude on my sanctuary, then I will be certain to enjoy my time reading whilst the rest of the house sleeps.”
Betsy had helped her from her gown and into her nightdress, but Margaret didn’t care to wander the house in a state of undress. She might fall asleep in the library, and what an embarrassment that would be for their houseguest to find her déshabillée! So, as she waited, she pulled on a simple morning dress that she could button herself and tied back her hair.
Confident of a sleeping house, she retrieved a candle and a spare from the box, took her book from the dressing table, and moved with swift, confident steps down the stairs. On nights when she could not sleep, and the moon was high and bright, unhidden by clouds, Margaret often crept outdoors to wander the garden paths. The shadows cast by the candle created the sort of deliciously eerie patterns on walls that still sent Marianne into shivers of delight.
I’m beyond an age where her stories would incite a thrill. I wonder that she’s never outgrown them. Just then a creak beneath her foot startled Margaret. It wasn’t that she’d never heard that particular step creak, indeed, Marianne had complained about it only that week, but with her current thoughts in the otherworldly realm, she’d forgotten it.
Margaret crept into the library and situated herself in her favorite chair. As she opened her book, an explanation of Marianne’s unending thirst for thrilling tales presented itself. Her children, perhaps, provide continued delight in them.
The book resumed with an interesting tidbit about the lives of Hindus. “Amongst the Hindoos, marriage, when it can be performed with any degree of conveniency, is deemed an indispensable duty, and it is believed, that propagating the species in that state, entitles parents to singular marks of the divine favour.”
