Mary nodded. She hoped so as well, for she was certain Lady Trafford’s company and conversation would offer a great improvement over Withrow’s.
*
With dinner complete, Mary went directly to the library. She turned the door handle, which was unlocked, and stepped inside. She paused for a moment at the entrance, taking in the smell of paper and leather binding, and smiled.
The walls of the room were covered with bookshelves of beautiful dark brown wood. She let her fingers trail along the well-polished surface as she explored. In addition to the shelves on the walls, there were several additional rows of shelves, of half the height, in the middle of the room. Based on her mental calculations, Lady Trafford owned at least twice as many books as had been in her father’s library, if not three times as many.
Ladders were spread throughout the room. She tried sliding one, but it did not slide. She noted a ledge at the top of the shelves that the ladders seemed to hook onto. She lifted one of the ladders, shifted it, and placed it in another position on the shelves.
Every single book had high-quality bindings, even a novel she found. Lady Trafford must have a proficient craftsman who bound all of her books. Mary removed a few books at random but could find no rhyme or reason to their organization. Surely a library of this size must have a logic to it, but if it did, she could not find it.
Mr. Bennet’s library—now Mr. Collins’s—had four general categories: religion, natural history, politics and world history, and other. Within these categories the books were organized by a combination of size, colour, and purchase date. Mr. Bennet had created a catalogue which recorded all of his books and assisted in finding them. He also knew his books well, so if Mary had a question, she simply had to ask him. Her father would sit for a moment, thinking, then stand and go directly to the book Mary sought.
Mary searched for a catalogue of books but did not find one. She supposed she could ask Mr. Withrow or Mrs. Boughton, but she did not want their help; she preferred to explore places on her own, at her own speed.
One section of the library had no shelves, but rather paneled walls of various materials and textures, a very fine desk, and other seating—several chairs and sofas. The desk was covered with papers, and one of the pages caught her eye. She did not mean to read it, but once her eyes fell upon the words, she could not unsee the meaning of them. It was a list titled “Tasks for September eighth.” It appeared to be items Mr. Withrow had hoped to accomplish today. “Greet M. Bennet, give apologies” was crossed out, along with five other items: “Update ledgers,” “Check harvest,” “Trade letter D. Ray,” “Newspapers,” “Check on mine investment.” There were fourteen other items on the list that he had not completed.
Withrow must be very busy indeed. It seemed to her almost futile to create a list of that length; it was better to keep one’s life simple and meaningful than to fill it with endless tasks. She had never had more than one or two things she needed to do on a given day, and some days she did not have any.
There was a large detailed map of the region, and she studied it for a moment. Then she turned back to the books, looking for something she might borrow. Finally she found a book of sermons. Next to it on the shelves were other sermons and religious histories. Even if she could not get a sense of the library’s organization as a whole, at least the religious books were all grouped together. She chose two collections of sermons and one history of the Anglican church, then found a small piece of paper on Mr. Withrow’s desk and wrote herself directions on where to replace the books once she was finished. She wrote another note listing the books she was borrowing, which she set on the desk, then sat down in one of the chairs with her new reading.
Halfway through the first chapter of the Anglican church history book, Mary paused. Lady Trafford must have a family Bible which included the family records. Mary could figure out their direct relationship on her own, even before Lady Trafford returned.
On the shelf of religious books, she found commentaries on many of the books within the Bible, but no Bible. Puzzled, she stared at the shelf for a minute. Then she walked around the room, step by step, peering at each and every shelf. Surely Lady Trafford owned a Bible. She could not imagine what kind of person would not.
Mary had begun to question the potential for the salvation of Lady Trafford’s soul when she found the Bible and quickly repented of her hasty judgment. It had been placed on a shelf with other books that appeared to be prized or rare.
With care, she removed the Bible from the shelf and returned to her seat. She opened the book and inhaled its pleasant, musty smell. Inside she found page upon page of family records, written in dozens of different hands over the years.
She closed the book and set it on the chair, then went to her room and retrieved the family names chart she had prepared. Once she had returned to the library, she laid both the book and her chart on Mr. Withrow’s desk—on top of his papers, as she did not want to move them—and studied name after name,
