Page 81 of Stealing Sophie
“There is always the front gate,” she called after him. “I could explore that.”
“Ask Fiona to show you the back wall,” he suggested, shutting the door after him.
He should not have replied so sharply, he told himself as he pounded down the steps. But she sparked him like a fire at times—and what he still kept from her regarding her brother made him tense as a drum.
He strode through the bailey yard, noticing as he passed that the kitchen garden was neater, already sprouting fringes of green leaves and tiny flower heads.
Odd, he thought. Perhaps Sophie’s efforts to clear the garden plot had uncovered some plants pushing up. Yet he expected nothing to bloom there. Nothing at all.
Milton was unfashionable these days,as was Spenser, Sophie thought, looking at the contents of the library bookshelves by the light of the candle she held. She loved their poetry nonetheless. Connor liked them too, she saw, for his copies ofParadise LostandThe Faerie Queenewere well-thumbed.
She traced a finger over leather spines as she studied the books on the shelves: Clarendon’sHistoryand Rowe’sThe Works of Mr. William Shakespeare,with slips of torn paper tucked among the pages; a new copy of Swift’sTales of a Tub; works by Defoe; Pope’s translation ofThe Iliad.
Connor MacPherson was far more than an outlaw and a farmer, she thought. He was well educated, with a diverse mind. Nor was he a particularly tidy, she thought, smiling. Books and papers were stacked everywhere, on shelves, on the desk, even on the floor. Wooden boxes containing books and portfolios filled the corners of the room.
A mahogany desk and an upholstered armchair took up part of the room. The desk was cluttered with books, quills, an inkpot, more papers. As her skirt brushed the desk edge, a sheaf of papers spilled down. Sophie picked them up, noticing that they were map-like drawings indicating boundaries, fences and buildings, wells, trees, and watercourses. She set them aside, puzzled.
The pile of books on the desk concerned farming, agriculture, husbandry. Frowning, her interest caught again, she examined the spines: Walton’sCompleat Angler,Cooke’sComplete English Farmer,a copy ofThe Gentleman’s Pocket Farrier.
The largest book on the desk, a volume on agriculture, had a worn cover and foxed pages. The date, she saw on the flyleaf, was 1669. An ink inscription read, “Duncan MacPherson, Lord Kinnoull, 1702, his boke.” Another book was in French, D’Argenville’sLa Theorie et la Pratique du Jardinage. Gardening practices?
She might never have guessed that Connor had such interests. But she had seen him with his sheep and his favorite cow, his adoring dogs. He was comfortable in that role. Now, as she explored his study, she realized he was more a gentleman farmer, interested in theory and knowledge as well as taking on the actual work.
She lifted another book. “Van Oosten,” she read aloud. “The Dutch Gardener, or the Complete Florist.”
“Recently translated,” Connor said behind her.
She whirled. He leaned in the doorway, shoulder against the jamb, arms crossed, as if he had been watching her for a while.
“I was looking at your books. I hope you do not mind.”
“Not at all.” He walked toward her and picked up one of the books stacked on the desk.“A New System of Agriculture,”he said. “John Laurence. Old but very useful. I picked it up from Allan Ramsay’s bookshop in Edinburgh. Have you ever been there?”
She shook her head.
“We will remedy that one day. A fine bookshop.” He set the volume down. “This is my favorite room here. It feels a little like home.”
“Does it remind you of the library at Kinnoull House? I saw it. A beautiful room.”
“The library at Kinnoull is big and bright with tall windows and bookshelves enclosed in brass mesh. Five thousand volumes, the last time my father had it counted. I was fortunate to make off with a few hundred books and some furniture before the place was taken. This was my father’s favorite chair,” he said, resting a hand on its high back.
“And the other rooms here, the great hall, the bedchamber? Do they remind you of Kinnoull House?”
“The furniture came from rooms at Kinnoull. We carted it away in the night, Neill and I. Ransacked, Sir Henry said, when he accused me in a letter of stealing his goods. The bed came from a guest room and seemed comfortable. I hope you agree.”
Sophie felt a blush grow. “You must have many things still at Kinnoull House.”
“Oh, aye. Sir Henry has been sleeping in my bed, I imagine. Perhaps my father’s.” He picked up another book, let it drop. “How did the place look when you were there?”
“It is a very elegant house. The gardens, by the sitting terrace, would be lovely in spring and summer. I walked there with Sir Henry.”
“My mother was particular about her flowers. Even raised them in stone pots all along the terrace. You and she would have had much to talk about.” He flipped through the book without looking at its pages. “Had you married Sir Henry, you would be mistress of Kinnoull now, with many gardens to play in.” The sudden edge in his voice sent a chill through her.
“Sir Henry would disapprove of a wife who digs.”
“Well, then. Good you married a man who does not mind.”
“And if I had married him, I would not be Lady Kinnoull. He is not viscount.”
