Page 19 of Too Wanton to Wed
She expected more dust, more wooden planks, more misery—but as he used his candle to light a pair of wall sconces, she found herself in a library as sumptuous as any in London.
The walls were lined floor to ceiling with rows upon rows of books. A balcony circled the perimeter overhead, allowing visitors a more convenient browsing experience than the typical wheeled ladders. A crackling fireplace nestled in the center of the far wall, flanked on one side by a door partly blocked by stacks of books, and on the other by a half circle of well-cushioned wingback chairs.
She made her way through the spacious aisles. Breathing in the scent of leather-bound books, she ran the tip of her finger along their spines. History, science, children’s tales, biographies, medical texts, legal treatises, even an entire wall dedicated to gothic novels. No wonder he was passionate about this room. It was magnificent.
Laughing, she stared up at him in delight.
He glanced away, as if disconcerted by her unfeigned pleasure. “Not what one might expect in an abbey, I imagine. The medical tomes are mine—there are hundreds more in my office—but all the other volumes are for Lillian. Every time I learn of a new book, I send for a copy. I have no idea what she might fancy once she does learn to read, so my goal is to have them all.”
“I am in awe,” she breathed, craning her neck for a better view of the volumes lining the balcony. “It’s perfect.”
“It is a work in progress.” He bowed and made his way to the door. “You are welcome to revisit this room as often as you’d like. Please, help yourself. Select as many titles as you wish, while I fetch Lillian to her new classroom. Mind the automatic locking mechanism—here, I’ll prop open the door with this stool.”
She bit back a sigh, once again reminded that this library was a splendid oasis within a well-fortified tomb. There must be a way to bring some light, somelife, into Lillian’s dark existence.
Violet chose a slim volume of fairy stories, then returned to the prayer room to await her new charge.
Settling atop the wooden bench, she opened the book to the first page and began to read. A handsome prince upon a white stallion had just stormed a witch’s lair when the prayer room door swung open.
Lillian arrived meticulously dressed, as if she were being presented to court rather than sitting through her first morning of lessons. Mr. Waldegrave entered just behind, a blue porcelain inkwell in one hand and a blackboard perhaps a cubit square tucked beneath his other arm.
“I’ve ordered a larger board,” he said before Violet had even opened her mouth, “but I’m hoping this will do in the meantime.”
Violet held out her hands. “It’s magnificent. It also looks brand new.”
“It is.” Lillian set a small basked of candles upon the table. “What could I write, without knowing my letters?”
Mr. Waldegrave’s jaw twitched, as if the comment had scored a direct hit.
Violet, however, was heartened—the remark had been delivered matter-of-factly, with neither recriminations nor self-pity. Lillian was not precisely bouncing on her heels with anticipation of practicing her penmanship, but nor did she appear resistant to the idea. She simply seemed curious. At the Livingstone School for Girls, it sometimes took Violet months to coax new arrivals from despair to curiosity. This was a very good sign, indeed.
He pulled a quill and a handful of chalk from one of his pockets. He laid everything atop the table along with a small sheaf of loose parchment. “If you require anything else, please let me know and I will see it ordered immediately.”
“This will be wonderful for today. Thank you.” She patted the empty section of bench next to her. “Would you like to join me at the table?”
Lillian hesitated briefly before sliding up onto the bench alongside Violet.
“Very good. Now, would you thank your father for the supplies he brought for us to use?”
Two sets of eyes swiveled to face Violet. Mr. Waldegrave’s expression was pained, as if she had purposefully set him up for another public rejection. And his daughter’s face was suspicious, as if she wasn’t sure whether the new governess would cancel all the fun if Lillian refused to play nice.
Just when Violet began to think the awkward silence would stretch on forever, Lillian finally glanced away and muttered, “Thankyoupapa.”
Although her tone was resentful and her gaze never met his, Mr. Waldegrave’s dark eyes warmed. “Thankyou, Miss Smythe. And you’re very welcome, Lillian. There’s a bell pull along the wall, should either of you require anything at all. Otherwise, I will return at noon.”
After he quit the room, Violet spent most of the morning at the blackboard, drilling her charge on the alphabet. Once Lillian could write several letters to both her and Violet’s satisfaction, however, she quickly wearied of the squeak of chalk and its endless dust. Upon hearing “I want the feather pen!” for the hundredth time, Violet finally acquiesced.
Ink, however, was a far more challenging medium, and after half an hour of sticky fingers and scratched parchment, the nine-year-old looked a mere breath away from tears—or a tantrum.
“Let’s take a respite from the quill, shall we?” Violet suggested, keeping her voice light and pleasant. “There’s still a bit of chalk to use up. Would you be so kind as to hand me the blackboard?”
Expression thunderous, Lillian glared at the feather protruding from the inkwell, glared at the ink coating her small hands, then glared at Violet with tears in her eyes. Neither of them spoke. After a fraught moment, Lillian snatched up the blackboard and tossed it across the table.
“You can have the horrid—Oh!” Lillian grabbed for the board, but it was already sailing directly toward the inkwell... and Violet’s dress.
Instinct had Violet leaping to her feet, which only served to provide an even larger canvas for the flying ink. She fumbled to catch the porcelain bottle, succeeding, at least, in rescuing the handcrafted inkwell from shattering upon the floor. Her dress, however—heronlydress—was irrevocably ruined.
No, not ruined. That was misplaced vanity talking. Stained from mutton sleeve to frayed hem, perhaps, but still wearable. It was not as if she had ever looked particularly radiant in it anyway, she told herself. And at least the ink hadn’t gotten on Lillian’s finery.
