With another glance toward the library’s various entry points, I took up a pen and scribbled out a quick note.
Mr. Book Goblin,
No self-respecting library fairy would dare give away the ending of a book to the reader. I should most certainly lose my wings.
Sincerely,
The Library Fairy
P.S. Fairies talk of many things, but only when pressed.
My pulse pounded in my ears as I slipped the note into The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle and left the book on the table near the juncture between the long gallery and the library. In a few hours guests would meet in the gallery for tea and then, perhaps, retire to the library. That had been the pattern for most of the guests over the past few days. Maybe I would attempt a peek at Mr. Oliver Camden’s response to my little missive…but now, I had an appointment with Miss Lorraine Withersby, and had no idea what to expect.
“I don’t need to know every detail of the book, Miss Blackwell.” Lorraine Withersby pushed a loose strand of golden hair back from her heart-shaped face and reached for her teacup. The young woman had clearly taken great pains with her toilet, for even the curls brushing the sides of her face appeared to have been placed there with as much purpose as the rose color on her cheeks.
Respectable women never admitted to wearing makeup, even if the whole world recognized the pretense. I’d even heard from visiting maids how their mistresses forced them to secretly purchase cosmetics so no one would suspect the lady. Of course, the maids I knew rarely had interest or funds to spend on such a frivolous and disreputable indulgence. There was no denying Miss Withersby was pretty, and as the daughter of one of the richest men in South Carolina—or so the house gossip went—I felt certain she became even prettier, but she did not care for books.
I stifled a sigh. Despite the impossibility of the venture for both parties, Miss Withersby and Mr. Camden, I would do my part, and perhaps they’d find mutual ground in other areas.
Mrs. Potter had arranged for me to meet with Miss Withersby in the sitting area of the Sheridan Room, one of the bedrooms not in use at present and nearest to the library, which allowed easier access for me to return to my duties. The housekeeper took to the assignment with a scowl I felt to my bones.
With very little to go on in preparation, I had gathered several books Mr. Camden had enjoyed and brought them with me to the meeting, proceeding to read a bit to Miss Withersby in an effort to help her gain a sense of the author’s voice and style.
I’ve always found it rather fascinating how those two elements— voice and style—can color a story…or detract from it.
“Just tell me what the story is about.” She sipped her tea and offered a lackluster smile. “If you’re worried about my ability to take what information you give and use it to its fullest extent, have no fear. I possess an excellent memory and have always excelled at theatrics, from what my mother tells me.”
Though sarcasm was generally frowned upon in good society, my mind tended in that direction without assistance. In fact, at that moment, I wondered if Mrs. Withersby employed a bit of sarcasm on her own, because Lorraine Withersby embodied every ounce of highbred, shallow-character theatrics I’d ever seen.
I immediately reprimanded the turn of my thoughts, as contrite as if the bishop had stared at me from the high pulpit of All Souls. Few people are as they appear at first, and it behooves the heart of a Christian to see with gracious eyes our fellow humans, whether of high-bred means or low. After all, I’d been a servant, or the daughter of a servant, my entire life, and certainly hoped, if given the chance, people would see me for more than a quiet worker with nothing of interest to say. I had plenty to say—too much, really, for my occupation. Loud enough to beat a steady rhythm against submissive servitude. I wondered how long it would take for those words to pound through my self-control in this situation.
Oh, what would it be like to have someone truly see me? And appreciate what they saw?
I softened my expression and readjusted my approach. “It is my understanding that you wish to impress Mr. Camden. Is that correct?”
Her gaze darted from mine and she took a piece of shortbread from the offerings on the table. “He appears to be the best option of the two men here.”
I couldn’t disagree with her. From what I’d observed, Mr. Ezra Dasher, though quite handsome, kept his words few and his smiles even fewer. Though his reading choices proved more along the lines of gothic horror and crime thrillers, he also read psychology-based books as well. His family, though wealthy, wasn’t nearly as prestigious as the Camdens, it appeared, and, well, to be honest, I liked Oliver Camden better because he liked my favorite books.
“And what characteristics about Mr. Camden appeal to you most?”
“He’s a highly respected and rich gentleman’s son.” Her pink lips tipped into a saucy smile. “And he has an estate in the Lake District of England, which will assure me an escape from here.” She waved a palm to the room as if encompassing the entire country.
“You don’t care to stay in America?”
She scoffed and straightened her posture. “I have experienced three failed seasons, two in New York and one in Charleston. It is a humiliating endeavor to have your hopes dashed and to be viewed as a failure by all polite society.” At this declaration, her bottom lip quivered, and compassion doused my previous assumptions. “I do not pretend to be clever, but I am not unkind.” She blinked a few times and then seemed to rally. “So, I don’t mind trying for either
