I attempted to understand, but the upper-class social dance of husband-finding usually induced a headache, if I thought about it too long. Maybe there were some benefits to being poor with fewer expectations to marry for position instead of marrying for love. “Don’t you want to at least like your husband a little?”
Miss Witherby’s brown eyes grew wide. “Liking him is all well and good, but what I want more is to secure a place for me and a name for my family. If talking books and being friendly are the means to my end, then I shall do that.”
My previous compassion dimmed a little in light of her confession. I sighed. But I had a job to do, so after summarizing two books that Mr. Camden had just finished, as well as explaining one of the books Mr. Dasher had found interesting, from what I could discern, I shared that Mr. Camden would be in the library around four that afternoon and Mr. Dasher would take a walk along the library terrace around six, if she should wish to venture in those directions.
A sadness stole over me as I left Miss Withersby’s presence. Whether from the fatalistic view she held of her future marriage or the fact that I’d helped her deceive Mr. Camden in believing she loved all those fictional characters as much as he, I wasn’t certain, but I felt as though I’d betrayed the beloved characters as much as I had Mr. Oliver Camden.
I had second thoughts about the note, especially after my conversation with Miss Withersby. I would have removed it from the book and tossed it away if I’d not been called, along with several other servants, to help Mrs. Idlewild, a rather eccentric guest, find her wayward and somewhat intoxicated cat. It took nearly two hours before either the drunkenness wore off or the cat got tired of running, and the animal and its owner were reunited. Unfortunately, this meant I missed the opportunity to remove my note, because when I finally returned to the library, The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle and my clandestine correspondence were gone.
So, with a sigh of resignation, I continued my work. There was nothing to be done about it. Most likely Mr. Camden would find it amusing, tuck it away, and never think of the Library Fairy again.
I had just finished returning a stack of twenty books to their respective places and was preparing to slip through Mr. Vanderbilt’s secret study to the loggia, when the sound of feet on carpet brushed close behind me.
“Are there any good books in this library at all?”
I turned and looked down to find a pair of pale blue eyes staring up at me from a face wreathed in golden curls. A pink bow sat among the gold and somehow matched the blush of the little girl’s cheeks in an almost porcelain doll way. My shoulders relaxed, and with a smile I lowered to a chair at my right so I’d meet her height. “Well, I imagine it all depends on what you consider a good book.”
The girl, maybe eight or nine years of age, measured me with those powder-blue eyes and nodded. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“What sorts of books do you like? If you tell me, perhaps I can help you.”
She drew in a deep breath and perused the vast room of bookshelves then turned back to me, chin at a confident tilt. “What would you recommend?”
I barely kept my grin in check at the girl’s clear desire to be viewed as more grown-up than she was. “Well, I’m not sure.” I tapped my chin as if contemplating the question. “But if you’re interested in such things as architecture and theology, we have a rather extensive collection.”
Her nose curled into a dozen tiny crinkles.
“And, of course, there are a few books on gardens and animals.”
The crinkles became less defined, but I still hadn’t won her over.
“And, I suppose…” I looked up toward the bookshelves as if thinking, but cast a quick glance at her from my periphery. “There are always adventure books and fairy tales.”
Her smile stretched into two dimples which she quickly quelled when I turned my full attention back to her. “I don’t think I’m keen for gardening books today, but I should very much like to see your fairy tales.”
“Ah, a reader after my own heart.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You read fairy tales?”
“Oh yes, they’re some of my favorites.”
“But aren’t you too old for fairy tales?”
“Too old?” I pressed a palm to my chest as if shocked. “The only people who are too old for fairy tales are the ones who’ve forgotten their imaginations.”
Her gaze turned thoughtful. “Grown-ups forget a lot.”
“You are right. Unfortunately, they do.”
“I suppose that’s why they look sour so often too.”
I barely caught my laugh. “We should at least feel a little sorry for them, don’t you think? How dull and gray it must be to live without an imagination.”
She nodded, and I searched her cherub face. “But you and I are kindred spirits because we both know the best way to manage the real world is to keep a firm hold on an imaginary one.” I grinned and crooked my finger to beckon her to follow. “I think I have just the place to look.”
Her airy giggle hit me in the heart and I grinned as she followed me with dancing steps through Mr. Vanderbilt’s secret study, down the loggia, and up a back stair. Before stepping from the stairwell, I searched the hall. Empty. With silent movements, we slipped to the center of the bookshelves that lined the hallway leading from some of the guestrooms to the first-floor sitting room.
“Here is where we keep our fairy tales,” I whispered, opening the glass door to reveal rows of various sorts from Beauty and the Beast and Peter Pan to collections of Andersen, Grimm, and MacDonald.
“Why aren’t they in the
