Love In The Library (25 page)

As the footman descended the stairs, she thought the livery a bit incongruous with a home that had so many medieval flourishes. It mimicked the fashions of the last quarter of the past century—including the era’s powdered wigs.

"My master will be down in a few moments," he told them as he crossed the corridor where they sat.

Within ten minutes, Mr. Whitebread slowly descended the wide staircase, his gnarly hand carefully gripping the banister with each step. Though his identity had not been confirmed, she would wager her last guinea he was the owner of this ancient house. One of the reasons for her certainty was the high quality of his clothing. Even if the cut of his coat was a bit outdated, it had obviously been cut by the finest tailors.

One glance at him and she thought perhaps his name should be White Head, for his hair was snow white. She judged Mr. Whitebread to be nearing eighty. For some illogical reason, she had thought he would have been a younger man. Like Lord Seacrest.

“Dr. Steffington?” he said when he reached the foot of the stairs and looked at Airy.

Already standing, Airy shook the man’s hand. “Yes, and this is my sister, Miss Steffington.”

Catherine stepped forward and dipped into a curtsey. “I do hope you don’t mind that I insisted upon tagging along with my brother. Once Melvin told me yours was one of the finest libraries in the kingdom, I just had to see it, but I promise to get out of your way when you and my brother get down to your important discussions.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Mr. Whitebread said. “It’s always a pleasure for me to show my library to others.”

“Do you think I could impose upon your housekeeper later to give me a tour of Stipley?” she asked.

“I am sure she will be delighted to. Our public days are on Thursdays, so your tour today will be just you and Mrs. Denson.” He turned back to Airy. “Now if you two will just come down the corridor I shall lead the way to the library.”

“How old is your home?” she asked, slowing so as to not get ahead of him. His wobbly gait was typical of one who was well along in years.

“This section’s the oldest and dates to the sixteenth century. The home was built by the Farrington family—the Lords of Penwick. It was my family’s good fortune that the title went extinct for lack of heirs.” The old man sadly shook his head, and he spoke somberly. “Now, alas, the Whitebreads shall die out, too.”

She felt awfully sorry for him. Should she comment on this? Had he never married? She wondered what would become of this fine old home when he died.

“I hope you don’t think it unpardonable,” he said, “that I am not an architectural purist. I hired Robert Adam to design a grand, classical library which I’m afraid is rather at odds with the architecture of the rest of Stipley.”

“I have always found much to admire in Mr. Adam's works,” Airy said.

She had not known that Airy's interests extended to architecture. But of course he was enamored of all things classical. And Adam's neoclassical works would be sure to please him.

At the end of the west wing they came to a set of double doors. He had been right. These elegant gilt and white doors with gold knobs were vastly out of place in this Elizabethan home that nodded to England’s past rather than to the Greeks.

Once he swung open one of the gilded doors, she forgot about the incongruity. She was so dazzled by the elegance of the massive library, it was impossible for her to suppress her amazement. “Oh, it is so magnificent.”

Eyes she had thought tired a few moments earlier now twinkled like those of a man half his age. “I am happy, Miss Steffington, over your reaction.”

She stood frozen in the doorway, her gaze sweeping from an elegant marble chimneypiece at one end of the elongated chamber to its twin on the opposite wall some fifty feet away. Tall white and gilt bookcases with fan-shaped crowns and gilt fluting were stuffed with high quality leather volumes and set into walls painted in a vibrant light blue.

The attraction in this room was obviously books, more books than she had ever before seen in one chamber.

She looked up at their host. “How many volumes have you?”

“In all, there are some thirty thousand titles, but only about forty percent are in this chamber.”

Now it was Airy’s turn to make appreciative noises. “I can certainly see why you need someone to oversee such a collection.”

She wished he wouldn’t bring up that dreaded topic. “Pray, Mr. Whitebread,” she said, “what is your most prized acquisition?”

He began walking toward a glass case. “I am proud to say I have Shakespeare’s first five plays in their first printings.”

Her heartbeat thumped when she saw the special case. Then it thudded when she realized the glass-fronted case did
not
contain
the Chaucer.

Airy’s eyes widened. “How long did it take you to collect those?”

From Airy’s state of marvel, she deduced that these only rarely—and individually—came upon the market.

Mr. Whitebread regarded Airy, affection in his countenance. “I started searching them out when Mr. Adam began to design the library back in 1777. It was six years before I was able to acquire the first. Numbers two through five I’d managed to get one at a time over a three-year period, but I had the devil of a time finding that first one. And I don’t need to tell you, Mr. Steffington, I had to pay a king’s ransom for the bloody thing.”

Their host’s gaze flicked to Catherine. “I beg your forgiveness for my unpardonable word choice.”

She shook off his apology.

"My library was sadly neglected during the years I helped care for my late wife, whose health was rather delicate in her later years."

Catherine was touched that caring for his wife had taken precedence over his well-known collection.

He spent the next forty minutes happily showing them his most valuable works. His voice became more strident, his step quicker with the excitement of having guests to view his library. She suspected that visitors enlivened his lonely life.

She found out rather a lot about the childless widower—including the fact he could neither be behind a theft nor consider the purchase of stolen goods. He came across as being a remarkably honest and likeable man.

When she could tell he wished to speak to Airy about the proposed duties of Stipley's librarian (his late librarian had died two months previously), she asked if she could trouble the housekeeper for a tour of Stipley.

Soon she was effecting great interest in everything the elderly housekeeper was telling her about the massive Elizabethan home, while each minute her thoughts were on Airy. She feared he was agreeing to come live at Stipley.

 Under normal conditions she would have had no difficulty expressing her interest in a fine old home like Stipley. But now she was too low. Learning that Mr. Whitebread did not possess the Chaucer made her feel as if she were standing upon a collapsing bridge.

Her melancholy thoughts went to the interview that was presently taking place between Mr. Whitebread and Airy. Now that Airy knew finding the manuscript was hopeless, he was likely making arrangements to come into Mr. Whitebread's employ in the near future.

Her future looked as bleak as the day’s skies.

By the time her tour of Stipley Hall was completed, Airy was already waiting for her, seated back on the bench near the front door and ready to return to Bath.

They entered their carriage beneath darkened skies that perfectly matched her gloom. She and Airy were both silent as the coach started back.

“As long as it doesn’t rain,” he said after the coach started rattling away, “we should be able to make Bath by around seven tonight. Will that be agreeable to you?”

“Yes, of course.” She wasn’t such a complete ninny that she feared highwaymen at five o’clock.

Sometime later she penetrated the silence. “You agree with me that Mr. Whitebread is not in possession of the Chaucer?”

He nodded morosely. “I'm confident that he does not have it.”

They were more than an hour into their somber journey before he voiced what was on both their minds. “It pains me to admit defeat.”

She peered into his solemn eyes and nodded. “You did all you could. I am in your debt.”

“I failed.”

She shook her head. “No, you did not. It’s through no fault of yours that I have been robbed. I owe my destitution to my own carelessness.”

“It’s not your fault a thief made the decision to steal your manuscript. One way or another, he would have succeeded.”

“I suppose leaving my door unlocked was better than having armed men bursting into my house while I was in residence.”

He attempted to offer consolation. “There you have it.”

A small part of her had held out hope that he would have a trump card to play now that all other avenues had come to dead ends. But it was not to be. He was a scholar, not a conjuror.

She drew her breath. No matter how painful it was to acknowledge, she must be happy over his prospective employment. “When does Mr. Whitebread want you to start?”

He favored her with a devilish grin. “What makes you so certain I suited him?

“I never had a single doubt. Who wouldn’t want a competent man like you?”

“I do not deserve your praise. I was hardly competent with your problem.” His voice lowered as he mumbled. “I told him I couldn’t start until sometime after my present commission ended on the 22nd.”

Her eyes misted. “I appreciate your loyalty, but I think we both know it’s hopeless.”

“I won’t give up until the eleventh hour. I shall write to Dr. Mather straight away and ask him to be on the alert.”

"Mr. Christie, I know, would alert me if he learns of the Chaucer coming on the market."

He frowned. “A pity we have so little time.”

"I keep feeling we're overlooking something," he said a moment later. "How can it be the most valuable manuscript in the English language is stolen, and none of the prominent collectors have learned of its availability?"

She shrugged. "I will own, it is most perplexing. It's almost as if the thief never intended to put it on the market."

"Which doesn't make sense. Is not a collector's greatest joy in exhibition?"

"Yes, of course. Pride does not exist in a vacuum."

They both went silent again, the mood as gloomy as a wake.

As darkness began to fall, she said, “I beg that you talk to me to keep me from thinking scary thoughts.”

He gave a hardy, masculine chuckle. “What should you like to discuss?”

“Do you think you shall be happy at Stipley Hall?”

He chuckled. “You are given to using words that would never cross my mind.”

“What kind of words?”

“Words like happy and love. I don’t think in those terms. I prefer things that can be empirically proven.”

“Then I feel very sorry for you. Life is empty without the promise of love and happiness.”

A moment later, his voice went somber. “I’m sorry you may have to go live with your brother.”

That wasn’t nearly as agonizing at the prospect of future without him.

Chapter 19

Her first full day back in Bath was one of the gloomiest in her life. No letter from Mr. Christie greeted her. Tomorrow was the 22
^nd
. If she had not satisfied Coutts that she could pay the monies owed by midnight, she would lose her home.

She was powerless to keep her life from edging into a lonely oblivion.

It was too late to even expect answers from either Mr. Christie or Dr. Mather, if she and Airy dispatched letters today. Somehow, though, she believed neither of those men had knowledge of who might have taken her Chaucer or where it was now located. She kept remembering Airy's statement the previous afternoon. It made no sense that the most valuable book in the English language had been stolen, and no one had heard about it, and no one had tried to sell it, no one was prominently displaying it.

She had come to believe that a crazed collector was behind the theft, a man so obsessed that he wanted it, even knowing that he could never claim ownership. Which did not make sense.

Everything she and Airy knew about a collector's need to display his prized acquisitions was being discounted.

As she dressed for the day, a deep melancholy stole over her. There was nothing more either she or Airy could do now.

Simpson knocked upon her door. "Madam, you have several callers who have arrived at once."

She stopped tying her satin sash. "Pray, Simpson, what are their names?"

"Sir Elvin Steffington came first with two young ladies and his twin, and just as the baronet extended his card, Mr. Longford arrived with the largest bouquet of flowers I've ever seen."

Upon learning that Mr. Longford was calling, she could not suppress a groan. She almost wanted to collapse into tears. Had Mr. Longford not understood that her rejection of him was irrevocable?

Though she would have preferred to spend her day trying to determine if there was something she had overlooked regarding the Chaucer, she knew her situation was hopeless. Being around others—except for Mr. Longford—should help improve her blue devils. She was happy the Steffingtons had brought the youngest member of the family for Catherine had taken an instant liking to Miss Lizzy Steffington the day Airy was attacked. Her heartbeat drummed. Was it because that lovely young lady bore a resemblance to the man Catherine loved?

She couldn't bear to think that after tomorrow, she would never see him again. Grief surged through her. Perhaps long after she was at her brother's the day would come when memories of Airy's lanky body and pensive face would no longer send her pulses rocketing. But the way she felt at present, she could not imagine that day ever coming.

A peek into her looking glass assured her she was dressed appropriately for a morning call in her dainty sprigged muslin, a pink sash tied beneath her bosom.

* * *

Melvin was the only silent person in Mrs. Bexley's drawing room. That was a common occurrence for him, especially when in mixed company, but today there was even more of a reason for his silence. That damned Long
mouth
was there. Melvin glared at the long-winded, self-important, braggart. The damned man was still attempting to press his attentions on the poor widow who had so desperately tried to douse Longford's unfounded hopes.