Whispers in the Reading Room

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  “Miss Bancroft, I may live in a hotel, but believe it or not, I do know my way around a kitchen.”

  “Perhaps you do. However, I cannot in good conscience allow you to do that.”

  “Because?”

  “You are my guest.”

  He’d had enough. “I’m hardly that. You need to learn to accept help when it is offered. And try to accept it with graciousness.” Thoroughly irritated, he groused, “Didn’t your fancy schooling teach you anything?”

  “I learned enough.”

  “If that is the case, then you will realize I am right. Miss Bancroft, don’t be so pigheaded.”

  Her eyes narrowed, telling him that he’d picked the absolute wrong thing to say. He followed her as she resolutely walked the rest of the way down the stairs and to the front door. “Thank you for seeing me home. And I do appreciate your invitation to supper. But I cannot accept it. My mother needs me.”

  “I heard what your mother said.” He lowered his voice, and for the first time, he felt himself losing confidence. He wanted to help her, but he also knew much about saving face and feeling pride. “I realize now that you are in a far worse financial situation than I had originally thought.”

  “It is my business, not yours.”

  “Allow me to help you then.”

  “There is no need.”

  He pushed forward. “May I give you some money to pay your cook?”

  “No.”

  “It would please me if you would change your mind. I don’t like to think of you going hungry.”

  “We will not go hungry. I have my salary . . . Besides, I would be even more in your debt.” She swallowed. “And that is why I feel certain that you will allow me to save at least a small bit of my dignity.”

  Because he couldn’t fault that—because he knew he would want the same thing—he nodded. “I will see you soon at the library then, Miss Bancroft.”

  “Yes, Mr. Marks. Until we meet again.”

  Having to admire her spirit but still hating that she was forcing him to be so completely ineffectual, he stared at her one more time. Then he grabbed his coat and hat off the table. And as he strode out the door, practically marching down her front steps while glaring at anyone who looked his way curiously, Sebastian Marks knew one thing and one thing only.

  This was the last time he was going to walk away from Lydia Bancroft when she was in need. In fact, an idea or two were already forming in the back of his mind.

  But perhaps he should think things through, just this once. No matter how uncharacteristic for him. He didn’t want her to keep refusing his help.

  But no, no matter what happened between them in the future, he was not going to walk away again.

  Not even if she insisted.

  CHAPTER 9

  Three days had passed since Mr. Marks had walked Lydia home from the library, witnessed her mother treating her like a servant, and then been asked to leave. Unfortunately, Lydia kept replaying that hour over and over in her head, making it constantly feel as if it had occurred mere moments ago.

  Her circumstances hadn’t changed much since his departure. She’d barely been able to scrape together enough money to give Ethel her back pay. On Thursday morning, she’d taken her pearls to the jeweler and pawned them for what she was sure was a third of their value.

  Because she knew she needed to stretch each dollar as much as she could, she was resigning herself to cooking rather than trying to find some way to rehire Ethel.

  She was such a fool. As Lydia walked back into the kitchen, she surveyed the rather bare cupboards, and she decided that pride really was a sin. If she had allowed Mr. Marks to take her to supper Wednesday night, she would have a little more food left over for a meal now that it was Saturday. She wouldn’t be attempting to make two meals out of the pitiful number of ingredients that would barely make one. Not only would there be no shopping on a Sunday, but she would not be paid again soon enough to do them much good.

  Perhaps the painting in her room was the next to go.

  Now she was digging into the bottom of drawers for the last of their potatoes and onions and ruthlessly cutting off the spoiled ends. After that, she diced them as well as one could who had never had any formal kitchen training.

  Which, unfortunately, wasn’t very well. She found herself crying as she continued to chop onions, their harsh smell stinging her eyes.

  At least, that was what she firmly told herself was happening. She certainly wasn’t crying tears of frustration because she was in a difficult financial situation with no foreseeable way out. Or because she was going to keep from her mother the whole truth for breaking her engagement to Jason.

  Or because she’d let her character flaw—too much pride—interfere with good sense.

  With a new resolve, she poured the mixture of potatoes and onions into a cast-iron pan, turned up the gas flame, and added a few precious dots of butter and a heavy hand of salt to make the mixture palatable.

  When she thought it was cooked through, Lydia spooned the mixture onto two plates, then cracked two eggs in the skillet and fried them as best she could. Finally, she carried two plates to her mother’s room. It wasn’t much, but it was certainly edible. And for that she was glad.

  Her mother picked at the food with an expression of distaste. “This is all we have today?”

  Lydia’s spirits sank even further. “I am afraid so.”

  “But I thought you pawned your pearls?”

  “I did. But I had to pay Ethel and a tax bill. As you know, our finances are rather pinched.”

  “Your pearls were very fine.”

  “Unfortunately, they didn’t fetch a very fine price.”

  “Who was that man you brought by the other evening?”

  Startled by the inquiry at last, Lydia replied before she considered the ramifications. “His name is Mr. Sebastian Marks. He’s a gentleman I’ve met through the library.”

  She was so relieved a friend who still visited her mother had stopped by that morning, revealing the news that Jason had told his parents they were simply not a good match. Her mother had no choice but to finally let that dream go.

  Lydia was also relieved Jason had apparently elected not to tell lies about her and Mr. Marks.

  “Is he wealthy?”

  “I believe him to be.” A thread of doubt settled in and pulled tight. She actually didn’t know him well, did she? But no, he was obviously wealthy.

  Now ignoring her meal completely, her mother stared at her. “I only spied him from afar, but he seemed rather tall. And handsome. Do you find him attractive?”

  “He is tall,” Lydia murmured. “Easily more than six feet.” Far better not to reflect on whether or not she found Mr. Marks attractive. She had only talked with him on two occasions, but he’d never given her any indication that he found her to be the type of woman he would seek in a wife.

  Not that he would. He was indeed wealthy and high in the instep. She was a librarian.

  “I did notice he had dark hair and eyes. Unusually dark.”

  “I suppose they are.” It was best to keep her answers short and to the point. Otherwise she’d tell her mother that Mr. Marks actually had dark-blue eyes, the color of lapis lazuli. And that his dark hair sported a cowlick near his temple.

  Her mother regarded her for a moment before taking another miniscule bite of potato and egg and setting her fork down again. “He really was rather hulking. And he seemed to be staring at you too. Staring and eavesdropping is rude.”

  “I didn’t realize he could see us, but I suppose if you were able to see him, he could see us. I should have shut the door.”

  “Well, he’s not terribly refined, is he? I mean, I’m not at all sure he looked the part of a wealthy man.”

  “Momma, his clothes are the latest fashion and very expensive. You were not close enough to see. But even if they weren’t, there is nothing wrong with that,” she retorted before remembering that Mr. Marks’ appearance was certainly no bu
siness of hers anyway. “Don’t forget, I wear glasses. Most people find that off-putting.”

  “You wouldn’t if you tried harder to see.”

  No matter how much Lydia had tried to tell her mother that her poor vision was not something she could rectify on her own, her mother still was of the mind that her glasses were at the heart of her lack of success on the marriage market.

  “Vanity is a sin,” she declared piously. “Besides, I don’t believe he minds my glasses.”

  “Altogether, he is unsuitable for any woman of means, don’t you think?”

  “No, I do not.” Why wasn’t her mother listening? Actually, she considered Mr. Marks to be one of the most handsome men she’d ever met. He was certainly the most intriguing. And the smartest. Those meant as much, if not more, to her as his wealth.

  “You aren’t thinking to see him again, are you?”

  “I imagine I will see him from time to time. We are friends,” she pointed out as soon as she swallowed another mouthful. “He frequents my reading room after all.”

  “It really is too bad that all the entertainments surrounding the fair are over. Perhaps you could have met more gentlemen that way.”

  “Mother, I wasn’t invited to many of those events.”

  “You were invited to enough. If you had accepted all the invitations and comported yourself well, if you had tried to be a little more alluring, I feel certain you could have garnered even more invitations. Men like women who are enjoyable to be around. Who sparkle.”

  Lydia bit back a reply. She had accepted all the invitations. Her mother just could not accept that she was not a popular young woman. At times like this, she truly worried about her mother. It seemed her world was becoming smaller and smaller, that she was becoming less and less aware of reality, and far more comfortable with hazy memories of better days. Instead of uttering another retort, Lydia picked up their plates. Hers was practically licked bare. Her mother’s was almost full. Disappointment coursed through her as she realized she’d managed to disappoint her mother this evening in not one way but two.

  “I’m going to wash these and clean up the kitchen.”

  Her mother picked up her embroidery and nodded. “Very well. Yes, you may go do that.”

  As Lydia walked downstairs, she reflected again that her mother spoke to her as if she were a servant.

  Something did need to change, she thought as she picked up her fork and ate the rest of the food on her mother’s plate. While some might have thought the act repugnant, Lydia only knew that it would hold back her hunger for another few hours.

  A half hour later, just as she was drying the last of the dishes, she heard a brusque knock on the front door.

  She rushed to open it. Foolishly, she wondered if it could be Mr. Marks. He hadn’t come into the library since she asked him to leave her home. But maybe he had by now forgiven her for her rudeness. Maybe he was still concerned about her.

  But one quick look out the window had her feeling far less excited.

  With a lump in her throat, she opened the door. “Mr. Avondale, it is very late. What are you doing here?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Now?”

  “Let me in.”

  The other times he’d come calling, he’d only stood in the foyer. If she let him inside, he would see just how shabby the townhouse had become. She was tempted to close the door in his face, but his family was too influential. She couldn’t afford to earn their disfavor.

  “You may come in for a moment, but I’m afraid I don’t have any refreshments to offer.”

  “I didn’t come for refreshments. I came to speak to you about a private manner.” He looked around. “Where is your mother?”

  She was growing more confused. “My mother is upstairs in her room. Do you wish for her to be present?”

  He shook his head. “I do not.” He walked right into their receiving room and sat down. Two seconds later, he was on his feet again, pacing.

  More confused than ever, she gazed at him curiously. “Jason, whatever is wrong?”

  “I need to know just how well you know Sebastian Marks.”

  Mr. Marks seemed to be on everyone’s mind that evening. “He is a friend.”

  “How good of one? You two seemed rather close at the hotel.”

  “He was seeing to my wrist. If you will remember, I burned my hand from the tea.”

  “Someone told me they saw you walking with him a few days ago.” He stared hard at her as she lowered herself into a chair. “What were you doing?”

  She was as disconcerted by his question as his demanding tone. “I fail to see why that is any of your concern. You ended our engagement, if you will remember.”

  Instead of showing any reaction to that, he waved off her reminder, like it was nothing that mattered to him. Instead, he sat down across from her and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his thighs. Crowding her space.

  But it was the dark, panicked look in his eyes that caught her off guard. “Lydia, do you trust him?”

  “I . . . I believe I do. Why?” Was he actually concerned for her welfare . . . or for his own?

  “Have you ever seen any of his business partners? Any of the men who work with him?”

  “Jason, he frequents my reading room. That is all.” She had no idea what he did, and she would certainly have no idea if another gentleman would ever be one of his business partners or not.

  Actually, all of this was becoming increasingly irregular. “Your manner is starting to worry me. What is wrong?”

  “I feel as if I am being watched.” He shuddered. “Usually I would call such suppositions nonsense. However, I could swear I saw the same man who was lurking about at my club last night standing outside my address this morning.”

  “Your club?” She knew men of his social circle frequented well-to-do gentlemen’s clubs, but she had no idea which one or ones Jason claimed as his own. “What club is that?”

  He did not answer, but she saw a muscle in his jaw jump as he looked away.

  “Why would someone be doing that, Jason?”

  He glanced at her before staring out the window.

  He was hiding something. What she didn’t know was what she wanted to do with what he was asking her. Did she care to get involved? Should she get involved?

  She did not. She should not.

  When she thought her only option for the future was Jason’s like of her, she had been determined to keep his good will. But now that their engagement was a thing of the past, she felt she could be far more opinionated.

  She had choices. Not too many in life, but she definitely did as it pertained to him.

  Treading carefully, she said, “Again, I do not see how your suspicions affect me. There is nothing holding us together any longer.” Just to set the record straight, she added, “And I must admit that I am no longer interested in your suit.”

  With obvious impatience, he brushed a stray lock of hair back from his forehead. “Lydia, this has nothing to do with you. I don’t care what your feelings are.”

  “If you don’t care, then perhaps you should go speak to someone else. I fail to see why you came to see me at this time of night.”

  “I’m here because I want you to talk to Marks on my behalf.”

  “I don’t know him that well. And what would he have to do with someone watching you?”

  Did this have something to do with what had happened in the hotel? Even if it did, even if she had known Mr. Marks well, she was absolutely sure now that she wouldn’t do what Jason was asking anyway. His words were confusing and frightening. Nothing she wanted to become embroiled in.

  He ignored her. “I want you to insist that he call off his watchdogs immediately. I am sure he is behind this.”

  It was becoming obvious that Jason was a bit confused. Yes, Mr. Marks had come to her rescue, and yes, he had been angry about Jason’s behavior, but why would he care to have Jason followed? Mr. Marks lived in an expensive hotel and spent
afternoons reading at her library. She was fairly certain he wouldn’t know the first thing about spying on men.

  Whatever Jason feared from Mr. Marks, this was taking it too far.

  “Jason, forgive me, but you’ve let your imagination run away with you. Mr. Marks doesn’t spy on people. Furthermore, he has no reason to do such things—not even after your despicable behavior at the hotel. Why would you think he would be behind this?”

  A myriad of expressions—confusion, amusement, anger, despair—passed over Jason’s features. Now Lydia felt sure he was struggling with something dire. She wondered if he was hiding a secret about himself or about Mr. Marks.

  Then again, she remembered how instantly angry Jason had become when he saw Mr. Marks at the hotel. Was his first instinct really that there was something between her and Mr. Marks, or was there something between the two men that made him so suspicious? Something Mr. Marks didn’t like but Jason actively feared.

  It was time to uncover the truth, or at least move on. His pensive glares were becoming tiresome, and his accusations about Mr. Marks were giving her a headache. “Jason, I cannot help you if you are not honest with me,” she chided. “Please either tell me what is the cause of your worry about Mr. Marks or bid me good evening.”

  “Honest? You want me to be honest?”

  “Of course.” She was becoming impatient. “Please be honest, if you can. It means candid. Straightforward. Sincere.”

  He scoffed. “You and your definitions. It’s enough to make one ache to press a hand to your mouth, just to silence your superior attitude.”

  Remembering the way he’d gripped her wrist, she flinched. “Please leave.”

  He didn’t budge. “Tell me, don’t you ever get tired of being the smartest person in the room?”

  His words were caustic. Cool. She knew his question was rhetorical as well. However, his criticism was just painful enough that she decided to pretend ignorance. “Actually, no, I do not tire of it. I am usually the smartest person in the room. I certainly am this evening.”

  His eyes turned cold. “One day you will wish you had minded your tongue.”

  That felt as though he were threatening her, but he did not make a move toward her. He only seemed to want to make her do his bidding, and she would not. Standing up on shaking legs, she said, “I will see you to the door. I believe this conversation has run its course.”