by Lenora Bell
“He only looked at you like that, Beatrice,” said Viola.
Isobel’s lips quirked. “And I must say that you returned the favor, Beatrice.”
“And what was it like to kiss him?” Viola asked.
“Hold a moment.” Lady Henrietta nearly spilled her wine. “You kissed him?”
“Viola.” Beatrice fixed her friend with a stern look. “You weren’t supposed to mention it.”
“Well?” Isobel prompted. “What was it like?”
Beatrice closed her eyes. “It was like discovering a new word. Rolling the unfamiliar syllables around on your tongue, searching for meaning only to find that it resists all attempts at classification. Instead, this word changes you, makes you redefine yourself. Like a medieval alchemist, its goal is transmutation. Everything he touches turns golden. Dreamlike.”
“Oh dear,” said Viola.
Beatrice opened her eyes to find all three ladies gazing at her with the same worried expression.
“That wasn’t just a kiss.” Isobel pointed her wineglass at Beatrice. “You’re halfway in love with him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Beatrice. “Enough talking about men. Let’s find a new name for the league, since we’ll be moving out of Mayfair soon.”
“A very good idea,” said Viola. “What about The Muses Society. It’s innocuous enough that it won’t call too much attention to us, while we would know that it meant we were each other’s muses.”
“I like that.” Isobel placed her chin on her fist. “But it might be too commonly used? I was thinking something a little more daring. What about . . . The Virago Club.”
“I see where you’re going with that, Isobel,” Beatrice said. “You want to reclaim the word, just as the bluestockings did. But I think the colloquial usage is too negative. Even though the Latin means exemplary and heroic qualities, everyone associates the word with the definition put forth by Mr. Johnson, which ended with the unfortunate summation, ‘an impudent turbulent woman.’”
“I’d like to keep my position as music instructor,” Viola said. “I don’t want to reveal our true purpose to the world just yet.”
“Why should we have to hide under the cover of domestic pursuits?” Isobel asked. “The world is changing and perhaps, if we reveal our ambitions, we may speed it along.”
Beatrice didn’t think the world was ready to allow females to attend schools of law, but if anyone could clear that new pathway for women, it would be Isobel. “Let’s revisit the matter of the name at another meeting. We’ll put it to a vote. There’s a piano for you to play at the clubhouse, Viola. You can go there to compose your works without fear of being overheard.”
“This is splendid news,” said Viola.
“There’s also a courtyard in back that may be used in fair weather by the Duchess of Ravenwood for training ladies in the art of self-defense. My sister-in-law, Mina, will also be helpful in that department. And we will have a lending library replete with books of interest to females, with particular attention paid to female authors.”
“Bravo,” said Lady Henrietta.
“The property comes with a jovial and competent housekeeper who thinks tea cures all ails and is under contract through next year but will most likely wish to continue her employment,” Beatrice continued. “As well as a rather dour octogenarian man of all work who, I may gently suggest, might be past the age for a well-compensated retirement to the countryside. There’s only one obstacle to our plans, ladies, and it’s a large one.”
“There’s always an obstacle to a lady’s goals,” observed Lady Henrietta.
“A London builder and developer named Foxton wants the property. He owns the buildings on either side and plans to join them into a manufactory. He visited the shop while I was there and was most unpleasant. He’s been quiet lately but I don’t trust his silence. He’s plotting something.”
“We won’t let him take it from us,” said Isobel.
“We’ll find a way to keep it,” Viola agreed.
Beatrice rose from her chair. She raised her wineglass in grand elocutionary style. “It’s utterly imperative that we don’t allow Foxton to win. I own the bookshop. He can’t have it. He’s a symbol, that’s what he is. A symbol of every man that’s ever stood in our way, denigrated our goals, told us to stay home, or tried to take away our freedom.”
“Huzzah,” the ladies cried, rising to their feet and raising their glasses.
The meeting concluded shortly thereafter due, in no small part, to the wine running out.
Beatrice offered to give Viola a ride home in her carriage.
“Have you guessed the secret meaning your aunt was hinting at in her letter yet?” Viola asked.
“I still haven’t. Her language was so odd. She wrote, ‘I hope you will divine my meaning and that this Revelation of Love helps you to be brave, and not hide yourself away.’ Revelation and love were capitalized.”
“Like the title of a book.”
Beatrice stared at her friend. “What did you say?”
“Capitalized as if they were the title of a book.”
“Viola, that’s the answer. There’s a fourteenth century manuscript that’s gone missing. We know about it because there were copies made in the seventeenth century. The title was Revelations of Divine Love. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it until now.”
“Perhaps it was the wine.”
“It was you, Viola. I must visit the bookshop.”
“What, now?”
“It’s only half-nine. My mother won’t be home for hours. I can’t wait to find out if my theory is correct. I don’t know why my aunt would keep such a treasure hidden, but she must have had her reasons.”
“I’d go with you, but father has been feeling ill lately and he’ll worry if I’m not there to prepare his medicines.”
Beatrice squeezed Viola’s hand. “Don’t forget what we said in the meeting. You’re always taking care of everyone else and never finding time for yourself.”
“It’s all right. I’m used to it. Are you sure it’s a good idea to visit the bookshop? Won’t Mr. Wright be there?”
“I doubt it. After finishing his work he likes to share a libation with his sailor friend at a dockside tavern. Don’t give me such a suspicious look. I’m not going there for kisses, I’m on the hunt for an ancient manuscript.”
Beatrice let herself in with her key.
All was dark and quiet in the shop. Coggins didn’t answer the bell. He must have already retired for the evening and was probably snoring soundly.
She hung her cloak and bonnet in the entrance hall. Removing her gloves, she lit the candle in a small lantern to carry with her as she moved through the darkened house.
Ford had been busy since her last visit. She could barely remember where the shop counter used to be. He’d laid new flooring seamlessly over the entire room, the oak gleaming like honey in the candlelight.
She imagined the spacious room as it would look when it was the clubhouse’s central meeting place. There’d be a table large enough to gather around, with stately high-backed chairs for each member. She’d place cozy velvet armchairs by the fireplace, for reading and fireside chats. It would be warm and welcoming, and filled with books and laughter.
All was quiet on the stairs. Just as she’d suspected. Ford was out carousing with Mr. Griffith and the lads, holding court in a noisy pub, the focus of every barmaid’s attention.
She pictured him leaning back in a chair, boots planted firmly on the floor, his shirt collar loosened to reveal his muscular neck and a hint of broad chest. The barmaids couldn’t stop staring at him. They poured ale into glasses until it sloshed over the sides and spilled over the bar top.
She climbed the stairs, holding her candle ahead of her. It was preferable that he wasn’t here. Her mission was to search Aunt Matilda’s private chambers for the Revelations and be home in bed before her mother’s return.
Chapter Nineteen
Ford had been
reading one of the books from the hidden side of the shelves. Things had just been getting good. Bodices ripping. Buttons popping.
And then he heard the footsteps in the hallway. He’d assumed it was one of the servants passing by, until Beatrice barged into his bedroom.
A few seconds later and she would have walked in on him pleasuring himself.
Why hadn’t he locked the door? He hadn’t realized there was trouble on the forecast tonight.
“Ford!” Her hand shook and the lantern she held wavered, casting flickering light over her wide eyes and astonished expression. “I thought you’d be out drinking with your sailor friend.”
He covered his groin with the book, as his underclothing hid only so much. “I’m too tired to go to a pub, Beatrice. I worked extremely hard all week long.”
“The progress is astounding.”
“You hired the right man for the job. I work fast and I work hard . . . and I enjoy my well-earned rest. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be prancing around ballrooms with prattling dandies?”
“I just attended a meeting of the Mayfair Ladies Knitting League, and one of our new members is opening a wine cellar in London and she gave us some wine to test.”
“How much wine?” he asked suspiciously.
“Oh, a few glasses. I’m perfectly in possession of my faculties.”
“Then you’ll realize that it’s never a good idea for a young lady to enter a rogue’s bedchamber at night and you’ll march right back down those stairs.”
When she didn’t move, he growled, “Now.”
“I’m not here for you, Ford. I’m here for ancient manuscripts.”
“Whatever you’re searching for can wait until tomorrow morning.” He would have bundled her out the door by now but he couldn’t stand up yet. Not until his arousal subsided.
“No, it can’t. If I’m right about my interpretation of my aunt’s letter, then I could own one of the very first works authored by a woman in English!” Her head swiveled as her gaze swept the room. “I know the Revelations of Divine Love is hidden here somewhere. It’s a fourteenth-century book of mystical devotions written by the anchoress Julian of Norwich. The original manuscript has been lost, but there were several copies made which have been seen or heard of from time to time, but never found.” She rounded on him, her eyes shining. “I had a feeling that Aunt Matilda was speaking in code in her letter. She obviously feared that someone was going to try to steal the manuscript after her death. She couldn’t entrust it to anyone but me. I’m the one she chose.”
Ford let go of the book for a moment to rub at his eyes. “What’s it going to take to get you to leave?”
“A quick search for the book and then I’ll be on my way.” She waved an elegant hand toward the bed. “And then you may slumber.”
“In her letter, my aunt says, ‘I hope you will divine my meaning and that this Revelation of Love helps you to be brave, and not hide yourself away. Allow me to point the way.’”
Ford groaned. “Very well. Let’s consider that literally. Is she pointing at anything in her portrait?”
“The portrait! I hadn’t thought of it.” She approached the bed, lifting her candle to the painting. “She’s looking downward, but her chair and her knees are pointed”—she turned her head—“to her writing desk. The manuscript could be secreted there.” She hastened to the desk and set down her lantern.
All of this wide-eyed racing around the room and breathless exclaiming was not helping Ford’s situation. He still couldn’t leave the chair.
She searched through the desk drawers and then bent over the desk, pointing her round backside in his direction. She slid forward until her bum was in the air and her head pointed toward the floor. Her toes lifted and dangled a few inches above the floor.
Definitely not helping.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice strangled and thin.
“The book . . . could be hidden . . . behind the desk,” she said, her voice muffled by the desk. She moved her hands over the back of the desk. “You could . . . help me, you know.”
No, he couldn’t. Unique lost manuscripts were all very good, but what he had in his sights was a unique and very present woman in the exact position that he’d fantasized about—over a desk, her feet swinging off the floor as he rolled up her skirts and feasted his eyes on the contours of her body before running his hands . . .
He was having very, very bad thoughts.
He pressed down on the book in his lap.
He closed his eyes. Think about the most nonerotic thing imaginable.
Dukes.
Dukes who were elder brothers of bookish ladies.
Dukes who held the fate of one’s family in their hands.
She turned her head toward him, spectacles askew and bosom squashed against the hard wood surface. “Nothing back here. Perhaps there’s a hidden drawer beneath the desk?” Her toes hit the floor and she dropped to her knees in front of the desk. “I can’t find anything.”
“Usually valuable possessions are hidden in safes.”
“That’s it! Help me lift the portrait—there could be a hidden safe behind it.”
She was so focused on finding this book that she wouldn’t notice anything untoward about his anatomy. As long as she didn’t glance down.
He rose on unsteady legs and lifted the portrait off the wall, setting it carefully aside. He dragged his hands over the wall. “Nothing.”
She gave a frustrated sigh. “The bookshelves?”
“They don’t swivel. I tried them.”
“The glass! It could be behind the looking glass.”
He searched behind the large, gilt-framed mirror. “Nothing.”
“I was certain we’d find it in her bedchamber.” She plopped down on the bed with a frown on her face. “It’s somewhere else in the house, then.”
“We can’t search the entire house right now. It’s late, Beatrice.”
“It’s not that late. My mother won’t be home for hours yet.”
She sat on the edge of his bed, her hair escaping its pins and her cheeks flushed with pink. “Do you have any wine?” she asked.
“I think you’ve had enough wine. And I only have whisky.”
“I’ve never tried whisky before. Did you know that the word comes from the Gaelic word uisgebeatha, meaning ‘water of life’?”
“It’s sustained me over the years, but I’m not pouring you any. And it’s time for you to leave.”
“What were you reading when I arrived? The Wicked Earl’s Wishes?”
“Never mind what I was reading. We haven’t found the ancient manuscript so it’s time for bed.” Separate beds. In separate houses.
At opposite ends of a social gulf.
They reached for the book he’d set on the bed at the same time. Beatrice won. She held it up to the lamp. “The Ups and Downs of a Woman of Pleasure. Is it any good?” she asked with a saucy smile.
“Ungh . . .” And now she was sitting on his bed and reading a naughty book.
Good lord. Ford didn’t know if he could take much more of this, and he didn’t have another book to place over his groin. Hopefully she didn’t notice his predicament . . .
She noticed. Her eyes widened behind her spectacles.
He placed his hands over his groin. “I was having a private moment before you arrived.”
“Apparently.” She flipped the page. “My goodness. Is that . . . is that done?”
Don’t ask her what. Don’t do it, Ford. “Is what done?”
“He’s underneath her skirts. He’s kissing her . . . in unexpected places. Gamahuching. It must be from French, but the Latin roots don’t suggest any vulgar associations. What an interesting word. Some words have unknown etymological origins, which always pose a challenge.”
And Ford was dead. Heart stopping, palms gone clammy dead.
The woman was talking about gamahuching. As long as she didn’t ask for a practical application to help her better
understand the word, everything would be fine.
Just breathe, Ford. In. Out.
“Perhaps I could include a few unexpected words in my dictionary. It might be a way to increase the readership.” She skimmed through more pages. “How fascinating.”
A lock of wavy hair fell over her cheek as she read. She brought a finger to her lips and moistened it before turning another page.
Ford followed the line of her finger into her mouth. Tip of her finger touched by tip of her tongue.
He wanted her so badly.
Someone had to have some sense of propriety around here. He lunged for the book and slammed it closed. “Enough reading.”
His voice sounded faint, like it was an echo coming back to him from a long tunnel.
“It was just getting interesting.” She smiled sweetly, with a hint of challenge that made him even harder. “You told me to live a little. To take risks.”
“This wasn’t what I meant.”
“At our meeting tonight, my friends and I spoke of our passions and goals. Lady Henrietta Prince wants to sell the wine she produces on her family estate. I’m working on my dictionary. Viola is completing her father’s symphonic works for him because he’s going deaf, and Isobel is attending a school of . . .” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “I’m not supposed to be telling you any of these secrets. The point I’m trying to make is that I’m ardent about learning new words. And I find that I’m developing a passion not only for discovering their origins, but for putting them into practice.”
She couldn’t be suggesting what he thought she was suggesting.
She dropped her gaze to his lips, and her voice turned sultry. “I’ve heard that some things can’t be learned from books. They must be learned by practical application.”
Firelight licked her hair and danced in her eyes. If he touched her, she’d incinerate him.
He wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees and service her so well she moaned his name.
“Unless . . .” She bit her lip. “Unless you don’t wish to teach me?”