“Left.”
Harrison removed a small slender volume and opened it. “Forster, what does the code say?”
“Thirteen, thirteen, six.”
Walgrave turned the pages. “Find page thirteen, count thirteen lines down, then six words in. I have it: scorpions.”
Harrison and Forster bent their heads over the substitution code. “I have the next book: Horace Walpole’s Essay on Modern Gardening.”
“Would that be under the busts of Ray, Theophrastus, or Linnaeus?” Olivia paged to the appropriate sections of the ledger.
“Theophrastus. I have it here.” Sophia removed the volume from the shelves. “Where should I look?”
“Page twenty-five, line fourteen, word three,” Forster read out.
“The word is transpicuous.”
“Is that a word?” Walgrave asked.
“Yes, it means something one can see through—a transpicuous forest,” Olivia answered, without thinking. “If an argument is easily understood, it can be transpicuous.”
“That leaves out any of Forster’s arguments,” Walgrave joked.
“And yours,” Forster retorted.
“I think we ladies are wholly transpicuous,” Sophia countered.
“Not Olivia. As she tells me on a regular basis, she is a woman of secrets,” Harrison said.
Olivia looked up to find Sophia, clearly intrigued, watching her.
Harrison bent back over the solution grid. “Oh, dear. Perhaps Forster and I should manage this next one. It could be a bit salacious.”
“Not fair. If it’s entertaining, you cannot keep it to yourself,” Olivia chided.
“Certainly, Walgrave, tell us.”
“The next clue is Cleland, Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. The numbers are eighty-eight, nineteen, three. I withdraw my assertion that Tom wasn’t making a merry joke, and I’m certain I don’t wish to learn what word he chose.”
“Look at Harvey, third shelf down, perhaps five or six in. It’s a small book covered in a crisp blue linen.” Sophia gestured to the bookcases.
“Lady Wilmot, should we ask how you know your Cleland so well?” Harrison teased.
“That’s for her to know and for me to find out,” Forster warned laughingly.
“I found it. Let’s see. Intemperately. At least it wasn’t pleasure, or kisses, or . . .”
Olivia rose and took the book from his hand. “Let’s see what else Lord Wilmot could have chosen. ‘Charles waked, and turning towards me, kindly enquired how I had rested? And, scarce giving me time to answer, imprinted on my lips one of his burning rapture kisses, which darted a flame to my heart, and that from thence radiated to every part of me; and presently, as if he had proudly meant revenge for the survey I had smuggled of all his naked beauties, he sprung off the bed cloaths, and tossing up my shift as high as it would go, took his turn to feast his eyes on all the gifts nature had bestowed on my person; his busy hands, too, ranged’ . . . ah, here it is . . . ‘intemperately over every part of me.’ Lady Wilmot, I find I have never read Cleland. Might I borrow it?” Olivia looked not-so-coyly at Harrison.
Walgrave and Forster both began to cough, then quickly placed intemperately into the substitution code to arrive at the next book.
“Pliny. Thank God. Something temperate.”
After some minutes, Olivia looked up, confused. “I see Pliny listed here, but there’s no shelf marked.”
“I’m afraid I left some of these in our villa in Italy. The Pliny, for example, was in Italian. I had no idea how much room I would have here, so I left all the foreign language books behind.”
“I believe I have a copy of that in my library here,” Aidan volunteered.
“Can we send a footman? Or is your library organized by some equally arcane system as my father’s and your fiancée’s?” Walgrave scribbled Forster beside the title of the book.
“It’s equally arcane, but luckily my bookish brother Clive is reluctantly staying at my house—something about renovating the rooms at his club. He will be able find anything we request.”
Lady Wilmot and her fiancé acted in concert. Sophia called for a footman, while Forster took a piece of paper from the desk and scribbled a note. The footman was come and gone within minutes.
“I suppose we are stuck until the next book arrives.”
“Then that seems a perfect time for tea.”
“Once our library grew too large for a ledger, Sir Roderick determined to follow the French system, with each book recorded on a single card.”
“Did he use the backs of playing cards as they did in France?”
Olivia laughed. “I can’t tell you the row it caused the first time he realized that the scholars were taking the records out of the catalogue in order to play whist with them. But the problem eventually disappeared.”
“How?” Harrison looked up from his work.
“Sir Roderick insisted that if they were to play with his card catalogue he had to be included in each game.”
“How did that solve the problem?” Harrison raised an eyebrow. “My father never had much aptitude with card games.”
“But he had two things in his favor. He had made it a sort of game when we made the catalogue, to match the content of the book to the suit of the card, and he had an excellent memory.”
“He simply memorized which books were on the backs of which cards?” Forster interrupted.
“Exactly.”
“How long did it take the scholars to discover what he had done?” Sophia asked.
“Almost a month. It might have taken longer except he found the ace of hearts so funny he could never see it without laughing.” Olivia smiled at the memory.
“Knowing my father, I’m almost afraid to ask what title was on the back of the ace of hearts.”
“But we must know,” Sophia insisted. “I say we make a game of it and guess.”
Forster shook his head. “We can’t guess until we first know the relationship between the suit and the book title on its back.”
“Yes, with my father, the match could be quite idiosyncratic,” Harrison agreed.
“I can tell you that books about agriculture tended to be recorded on the backs of spades; and books on mining on the backs of diamonds,” Olivia teased.
“What about the clubs? What content matched them?” Harrison queried.
“Why pugilism, of course!” Forster announced.
Lady Wilmot shook her head and ignored the men. “If the suit is hearts, then can we assume that the book has to do with love?”
“If that’s the case, my father owned a fine medieval manuscript of Song of Songs.”
“But it could as easily be books on physiology,” Forster said.
Olivia shook her head, holding back a laugh, her hand on the thin blue volume.
“You must give us a hint, Lady Wilmot,” Sophia implored. “Otherwise we could be choosing everything from ancient erotic poetry with Sappho to mystical religious passion with John of the Cross to treatises on midwifery.”
Olivia smiled and asked, “Should I give a hint?”
“No,” Forster joked, teasing Harrison happily.
“Yes. At least give us a century,” Sophia said.
“It was from the last century, and it was a book often regarded as somewhat . . . indelicate.”
Harrison turned a slight shade of purple. “Not again! Cleland?”
Sophia burst into laughter and Olivia covered her mouth, trying not to laugh at Harrison’s response. For a man so knowledgeable in how to please a woman . . . he could be a bit of a prude. “I must admit that from then on, I found it simply easier to give each scholar a pack of playing cards when he arrived at the library.”
“Walgrave, come with me. The ladies will call us for tea. I’ve purchased a new pony for Lily, and she’s in the mews. Fine piece of horseflesh.” The two men talked horses and Newcastle as they left the room.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As soon as the door shut behind
them, Sophia waved Olivia to her chaise longue.
“In the last several weeks, I have often worried about a desperate woman who came to a bookstore I patronize and asked for help.” She looked up, searching Olivia’s face for a response. Olivia remained silent, waiting to see how much Sophia might intend to reveal to Walgrave.
“I’m sure you were able to offer her the help she needed.”
“I have consoled myself with that thought, but today, I find that my concerns have been renewed.”
“I am sure there is no need for concern. Circumstances often change.”
“I would hope that if that woman needed help again, she would somehow know that I would be available to offer assistance . . . whether it would be as simple as a shared confidence or a request for help.”
“I am certain, your ladyship, that any woman you have helped in the past would know she would not be turned away.”
“Then, please, ease my mind further and tell me your story.”
“Why?” Olivia demurred.
Sophia shrugged. “Because it’s clear you love him, and equally clear that he’s hurt you badly. Perhaps I can help.”
The appeal of a woman friend was too great to reject, and given that Sophia had helped her once, without question, Olivia found herself uncharacteristically confiding in the other woman.
“After our wedding, I lived with Harrison’s father. Each week, we waited for the wars to end and for Harrison to come home. After Sir Roderick died, I’d waited so long that I forgot exactly what I was waiting for. Then one morning I realized that he was never going to return.”
Lady Wilmot extended her hand, placing it on Olivia’s knee, in sympathy.
“I can remember the exact moment. I walked into the morning room, sun shining in the long windows, my breakfast on a tray on his desk, and a copy of the latest London newspaper tucked under the table linen. I skimmed through the advertisements for servants, read the theater and society news, shook my head over the police reports, then settled in to read the parliamentary debates for the previous week. And there I saw it, the evidence that made it clear just how foolish I had been to believe that I—of all people—could have drawn him back to me.”
“What did it say?”
“I’ll never forget it. ‘The opposition’s position was well argued by Lord Walgrave, returned last month from the Continent.’ Returned, and no word.”
“Oh, dear. You must have been crushed.”
“I knew he had been opposed to the marriage, but somehow I thought with his next visit we could start anew. First I cried; then when my tears were spent, I forced myself to face honestly each of the illusions I’d allowed myself to cherish. One by one, I set each aside, until there was nothing left, not even the dreams I brought with me to Sir Roderick’s home.”
“But you still love him,” Sophia said gently.
“Yes, unfortunately, I do.”
“Thank you for your confidence.” Sophia poured the tea. “I would like for you to consider joining some friends of mine this evening for dinner. We are thinking of forming a salon, of sorts, but one whose purpose is somewhat unusual. You may bring Walgrave, of course.”
“Unusual?”
“So often salons are managed by a woman, but for an audience of men, whereas this would take as its model the muses of Parnassus. Each woman brings a particular skill, and we share that knowledge or expertise with the others when it is needed.”
“Might I speak frankly, Lady Wilmot?”
“I would prefer it.”
“When we first met, I was running from Walgrave. It was essential then that he not catch me, and it is essential now that he not know who he was following.”
“I saw the desperation on your face. It is the primary reason I am willing to keep your secret.”
“But we meet today, in the company of a man I was clearly trying to escape, and then you invite me to dinner tonight, to discuss a salon that takes on . . . causes.”
“That’s not quite what I intended.”
“Why me, then?”
“Because you are resourceful. You have trusted me twice, when you had no reason to. And I believe that when we know one another better, we will find ourselves not so different, you and I. Certainly you are not so different from the other women.”
“Then we will come.”
A rap at the door ended their conversation. Harrison carried a tea service, and Forster an armload of ledger books. Behind them two footmen each carried a box filled with books.
“My tastes in books and Tom’s often ran parallel, so it seemed easiest to bring my ledgers in which I record my purchases,” Forster explained. “Unfortunately, unlike Tom and Sir Roderick, I have no system for my library. I simply write in one of these ledgers what books I have purchased then put the book on the shelf. It makes for some uneasy shelf-mates, but at least I always make sure to put a book or two between Wordsworth and Byron.”
“We’ve brought all the books Forster purchased in the period Tom was making his list.” Harrison set the tea service down as Lady Wilmot directed. “This way, if the book isn’t in Tom’s library here, we can perhaps find it in Forster’s.”
“Then, let’s have our tea, then resume our work. Perhaps we can even be finished before dinner.”
* * *
Lady Walgrave’s salon was held in a large unused banqueting hall at Lord Forster’s London house. Most of the wing beyond the hall had been converted into estate offices, leaving the banquet hall isolated except for a lucky connection to the library.
Surprisingly, to Olivia, however, the table in the middle of the hall was set for only fourteen. Membership in the salon did not extend far past Lady Wilmot’s or Lord Forster’s relations. The Muses—as Lady Wilmot called them—included a cousin by marriage, Audrey Hucknall; Sophia’s sisters-in-law, Ophelia Mason and Kate and Ariel Gardiner; and Forster’s sister Judith. Only Olivia and the bookseller, Constance Equiano, were not relations. As soon as dinner was concluded, the men—Forster, Walgrave, Malcolm Hucknall and Sidney Mason—all retreated into Forster’s billiards room, leaving the ladies to plan their salon.
“As you all know, Aidan has encouraged me to open a salon. I hosted one in Italy until my husband fell ill, a lovely community that would help each other whenever a need arose. I’d like to create that combination of intellect and skill again. We would contribute our talents in whatever way we feel will best benefit the group, and eventually, we would use our knowledge and skills to help others. But to use our skills, in some cases, we must keep them secret. We promise, then, not to reveal each other’s gifts outside of our circle.”
Each woman agreed with nods and, in some cases, relieved sighs.
Sophia pointed at the ceiling. Ornate painted beams were spaced evenly down the hall, and between each rib, carved medallions waited for paintings to fill them. “Since all the paint on the ceiling has chipped off, I decided to reimagine its decorations. Each of the medallions will house a portrait of one of us—the Muses in the Muses’ Salon—with the emblems of our talents.” She waved to the side, and a woman in a painter’s cap and smock stepped forward, holding a drawing board. “My friend Angelica has agreed to join us as the official painter for the Muses’ Salon, and she has agreed to be bound by the same promise of secrecy. Tonight as we talk, she will be making your sketches. As for me, I design gardens. I know plants and their seasons and I have been developing a community among the plantsmen and nurserymen in London. Angelica has decided to present me as Flora, goddess of flowers.”
Sophia extended her hand to her future sister-in-law, Judith, inviting her to make her own introduction.
Judith wrinkled her nose. “Though Sophia finds it a talent, I find it more of a curse. I have an unusually sensitive palate. I can distinguish ingredients in a dish or drink either by taste or smell. I can recall and recreate dishes and perfumes with a fairly high degree of accuracy. But don’t ask me to do anything useful with it. I can’t, for example, tell if a meal or a potion i
s poisoned, unless that poison has some distinctive aroma or taste.”
“I’m sure that skill will prove very useful at some point.” Ophelia leaned forward encouragingly.
Sophia turned next to her sisters-in-law. “Kate can remember anything she’s read, even if she has only read it once, or only read it swiftly.”
“It’s even odder than that.” Kate shrugged her shoulders. “Sometimes, I can even recall a page later, even if I didn’t actually read it before. I can ‘see’ the shapes of the letters in my mind and I can ‘read’ it later.”
“Ariel, describe your talent.”
“I have a surprisingly accurate sense of direction. Once I have visited a place, I can return there with ease, even if by a different route.”
“Now you, Ophelia,” Sophia prodded.
“But I haven’t a skill.” The auburn-haired woman looked uncomfortable.
“You can make anyone feel welcome, and you create communities wherever you go,” her sister Ariel suggested.
“And no matter whether you are telling the truth or the most extravagant lie, people always believe you. Well, people not related to you, that is.” Kate grimaced. “It isn’t fair.”
“Malcolm will tell you I am a dancer, and that’s true, to a point”—Audrey looked bashful—“but horses and ropes are far more difficult to dance on than any stage! My family was famous on the Continent as acrobats, performing for kings and queens before the Terror.”
Olivia and Constance turned to each other with similar looks of chagrin.
“Constance?”
“I suppose I am like Ophelia, in that people underestimate me. I have connections to tradesmen across the country as well as to some religious groups through my sister.”
“Olivia?”
“I can pick a lock; read a letter upside down, even if it’s written in a bad hand; and disguise myself so that I’m not recognized, even by those closest to me.”
The other women oohed.
“I think Olivia has the best skills.” Kate laughed. “And she should teach us all.”
“Oh, yes! yes!” the women exclaimed all around, and for a moment Olivia felt that she was at home with her scholars.
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