Scientific ingenuity, eh? She seemed even more passionate about his work than he. “Perhaps you should write them a letter, or better still, write Aunt Agatha.” He chuckled.
“I very well might.” Miss Bradbury set her cup aside on the tarp, eyeing him with an expression that appeared to be concern. “I hope you’re not going to allow one group of shortsighted men to dissuade you from pursuing your dream.”
“I am not. I have simply chosen to bide my time and change my strategy. Since the universities will not acknowledge my work, I have decided to go elsewhere. I’m currently petitioning various museums throughout London for my work to be featured in an exhibition. If I can gain enough public esteem, I might receive invitations to lecture about my automation research.” A chance to share his knowledge.
“That sounds like a fine plan.” Miss Bradbury poured them each another cup of tea, apparently having taken notice of his preference for sugar and no cream. “Your inventions are brilliant, Lord Carlyle, too brilliant to be hidden away in a country manor.”
“Please, stop with the Lord Carlyle nonsense. Call me Elliott.”
“Only if you will call me Gwen.” With an uncanny amount of grace, she lifted her cup and saucer, concealing behind it all facial features but her eyes, which peered at him above the porcelain rim.
“As you wish.” Elliott did not reach for his tea, too absorbed in study of those eyes. For now, under closer observation, the spectacles seemed not a ghastly obstruction or foreign object but a well-suited setting for two lovely examples of shining amber. Cynthia’s eyes had never possessed such an intense depth and color, nor had she ever shown any interest in his work or anything other than herself. She had talked, taken the burden of conversation, yes. But she’d never truly listened. Never truly cared.
Not like Gwen.
How blinded he’d been by infatuation.
Elliott shook his head. “You really are nothing like Cynthia.”
A shadow fell across Gwen’s face, dimming the light in her amber eyes before they once again lowered and cut him from view.
Chapter 8
Hello again.” Gwen knelt beside the crate of her books from London, the only books still in the library. Now that she had seen to all of the emergency cases, she could attend to the remaining damaged books at a more leisurely pace. Thus, freeing a portion of her time to become reacquainted with dearly missed friends and make decisions about their lodgings.
Gwen selected a volume bound in straight-grain treated Moroccan leather tinted a dark shade of evergreen. Jane Eyre, the unfortunate soul. After enduring so much heartache, poor Jane especially deserved to be settled someplace quaint and safe. Facing the boxes arranged on her left, Gwen’s gaze shifted back and forth between the two. Where ought Jane to live? Here in the library or upstairs on her private shelves? Upstairs, for starters. Jane’s tale warranted another read through. With great care, she placed the book in the box on the right.
Next Gwen assisted Jane Austen’s children in stepping out of the crate, first Elizabeth and Jane, then Elinor and Marianne, and lastly black sheep Emma. The three volumes weighed Gwen’s hands down to her lap, each one heavy, laden with words and memories.
Her memories.
Dreary afternoons plagued with silence, by the first line brightened with quadrille music and laughter no one could hear but herself. Long hours endured with not one soul for company, in the turn of a page rescued by this Austen sisterhood that welcomed her into their fictional family. That encouraged in the face of adversity, triumphed over hardship, and shared the joy of their happy endings with one bespectacled spinster who had very little happiness of her own.
A smile lifted Gwen’s lips. Without a doubt, the sisterhood belonged upstairs as well. She placed the three volumes inside the right-hand box. Perhaps together, Austen’s merry daughters could cheer up melancholy Jane Eyre.
The thought widened Gwen’s smile, pulling her cheeks taut. She turned back to the crate. Next, good old Silas Marner emerged from the stack of books. Her gaze drifted to the left-hand box designated for the library. Perhaps she ought to give Lord Carlyle—Elliot—the opportunity to meet Silas. She had a feeling the two gentlemen would get along rather well.
She herself seemed to be faring better with Elliott. Their indoor picnic a few days prior had been lovely. For the most part. A swift nudge with Gwen’s pointer finger prevented her sliding spectacles from furthering their descent. She could not expect things to be perfect in the course of a few days, if ever. Therefore, the awkward comment here and there must be tempered with the positives, counterbalanced. Ignored.
Perhaps by doing so, she might convince herself it had not hurt so much.
Renewing her focus on the present task, Gwen placed Silas Marner in the left-hand box and continued sorting through the crate. Alexander Dumas’ s bitter Count of Monte Cristo, upstairs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s painfully romantic Sonnets from the Portuguese, buried in the library. The process rolled on in monotony for an hour or so, title by title. Until finally only one book remained at the bottom of the crate. One that she had forgotten about long ago.
The very one that had sparked her love of books.
Hans Christian Andersen’s The Ugly Duckling.
Gwen withdrew Duckling from the crate, gently brushing her fingers across the worn calfskin binding and the painted Cosway-style cover illustration of a swan framed in flaking gold. How long had it been since she’d read Duckling? The number of years mattered not; she’d read it often enough as a child to know every word, sentence, and paragraph by heart.
“That summer the country was particularly beautiful, and it was glorious to be out in the green fields and meadows.” Every time Gwen read that introductory line, she still heard it spoken in Papa’s voice. Not a small wonder. After he had presented her with Duckling, she’d begged him to read it aloud at least five and twenty times in that one day’s span.
The day she had first gotten spectacles.
Papa’s voice warmed her faraway memory. “You will always be my little swan, Gwen. People might not see it now, but one day they will.” A quiver unsettled Gwen’s jaw and bottom lip. Except that one day had never come.
Because life off the storybook page was nothing like in fairy tales.
The ton in London never thought of her as a swan, only as a bespectacled spinster, a failure, a financial burden on the family. If they bothered to notice her at all. To most, she was nothing but a shadow in the foreground. The guest no one wanted to converse with but invited anyway to make an even party at a table.
In a way, Mamma’s brutal honesty had been kinder than Papa’s well-meant fairy stories. “The swap is your only chance to get off the shelf, Gwendolyn. New young blooms are entering the marriage market every season, and you simply cannot compete. No man wants a wilting dandelion when they can have a rosebud like your sister.”
Gwen’s head drooped as she bit her lower lip to contain a fresh tremor. No man wants an ugly duckling when he can have a swan.
“You really are nothing like Cynthia.”
Once more Gwen’s accursed spectacles slipped farther and farther down the bridge of her nose, yet this time she lifted not a finger to prevent their fall. However kind Elliott attempted to be now, it did not alter his true feelings. He had sought out Cynthia, courted and proposed to Cynthia. Without Mamma’s interference, he would have happily married Cynthia because she was the one he had wanted.
Her glasses fell from her face and landed on Duckling’s faded cover with a wire rattle. Gwen inhaled a heavy breath as a single numbing tear trailed down her cheek. Nothing had changed to make her desirable to Elliott. Nor would such a change ever occur. She needed to cease believing the storybook notion that things could be otherwise. She would never be anyone’s swan.
Rising to her feet, Gwen put her spectacles back in place, walked across the room, and turning her gaze away, dropped Duckling into the wastebasket.
Dashing here and there, Elliott stowed away tools, sorted clockw
ork parts into drawers, and attacked dust particle invaders with a rag and righteous indignation. Never again would he allow such a mess to accumulate. Never. Again. Of course, he’d sworn an identical solemn oath the last time he tidied the workshop—three years ago. Or was it five?
No matter. Today it would be spotless and in order. For now, that was all he required.
One day to set things in order. One day to set things right with Gwen.
“You called, m’lord?” Mrs. Nesbitt appeared in the doorway.
“Affirmative.” Elliott paused from his work, one hand filled with jabbing springs and the other brass cogs. “Where is Gwen?”
“In the library I suspect, m’lord. You’d be hard pressed to find her anyplace else. The sweet, studious soul prefers books to air, I think.”
Indeed, that was one of the reasons why he was beginning to like her so much and why nothing must go wrong today. Opening two more of the numerous tiny desk storage compartments with his knuckles, Elliott disposed of the springs and cogs. “This afternoon we—er, Gwen and I—will take lunch in the workshop. And, please, send it up with Harrison. I don’t want any giggling maids or gabbing footmen eavesdropping at the door.”
Mrs. Nesbitt curtsied, fiddling with the string on her apron pocket. “Yes, sir.”
As the door closed, Elliott finished clearing his desk of all automaton projects and debris. He then scoured the wooden surface once more with the rag, allowing no oil smudge or speck of dirt to escape. This time must be perfect. Had he neglected to remember anything? Workshop tidied. Lunch ordered. Shirt and waistcoat freshly pressed. Nothing else remained on his mental list, except the notation written in bold red letters and repeatedly underlined.
Don’t say anything stupid.
If need be, err on the side of silence and shut up.
Elliott tucked the rag in another drawer, arranged two chairs on either end of the desk, and then surveyed the results of his efforts. Good, good. After a nice lunch, he would take Gwen on the full, albeit brief, tour of the workshop. A tour Cynthia had never experienced, nor likely would have enjoyed. But he had a feeling, a hope rather, that Gwen just might.
Besides, here he’d be less inclined to make a verbal misstep while surrounded with safe subjects for conversation. Subjects he knew a great deal about and could discuss at length. Ones that would prevent him from looking foolish and hurting Gwen. Again. That was the working theory at any rate. Divine assistance might be required to put it in action.
Elliott consulted his pocket watch. Time to go.
Striding out the door and down the hall, he soon entered the library. Gwen sat in her usual spot, boxes and books arranged around her on all sides. He paused, dragging in a long breath. Don’t say anything stupid. He exhaled and headed toward Gwen’s corner.
As he crossed the library, his foot collided with something hard. Blast. Gwen did not lift her gaze. Too absorbed in her book, thank heaven. Kneeling down, Elliott found the trash bin on its side and its contents spewing out. Contents that included one worn copy of The Ugly Duckling. Odd. Why would it have been discarded? It wasn’t that bad off.
Elliott put the book under his arm, shoved the litter back into the bin, and set it at an upright position. With a few more steps, he closed the distance between himself and Gwen. Her gaze still did not rise. The book must be very intriguing, indeed. “Gwen, do you know why this book was thrown out?”
Gwen looked up at him yet said nothing.
Maybe she hadn’t heard his question clearly while engrossed in her story. Elliott bent at the torso in a partial bow. “Sorry to intrude upon your reading. I was just wondering if you knew the reason this book had been discarded.” He withdrew the book from under his arm and held it up for assessment.
Her eyes lowered, not once examining the volume in question. In fact, she seemed to be doing her best to avoid looking at the book entirely. Elliott glanced at the apparently offensive fairy tale and then back at the downcast girl before him. Gwen evading, ignoring, a book. Unimaginable. And were those tears in her eyes? “Gwen, I—”
“The book is mine, and I have no further need of it.” Haste rendered her words brittle, jagged-edged.
Gwen had thrown it away? None of this made sense. Not one word. “But why toss it in the bin?”
She rose slowly but refused to meet his gaze. “Because, Lord Carlyle, I stopped believing in fairy tales long ago.” With that she walked away, leaving the pile of books on the floor, leaving the library, leaving him.
Elliott stared at the library door as it swung shut. What now? Should he go after her? Think, man, think. He paced, started for the door, turned round and paced again, wasting precious moments. Blast. Following after Gwen now would only make things worse. In his muddled state, he’d, without question, say the wrong thing. Blunder himself into a tighter corner. Cause her greater pain. Err on the side of silence. Shut up. And think.
Chapter 9
The ominous day Gwen had dreaded throughout her month long, self-sentenced incarceration had finally come—she had run out of books.
Arms wrapped around her person, Gwen took yet another turn about her room, which seemed to be dwindling in size by the minute. What was she to do now? She had already read through the small assortment of books she’d conveyed to her bedchamber last week, some of them twice. Reading them through a third time would serve only as a tedious aggravation. She needed a new book, something fresh, something she had not read recently. Without a volume of undiscovered words, her mind had no sanctuary from thought, no haven of comfort, no distraction.
Nowhere left to hide.
Gwen cast a glance at her newly acquired bookcase whose sad, empty shelves outnumbered those occupied. Somehow hiding among fictional friends no longer provided an escape from the ever-creeping loneliness and failed to blot out the harsh reality that hummed in the silence. A stark, oppressive quiet that seemingly confirmed Elliott’s lack of affection. In all this time, why had he not once sent her word or sought her out? Gripping the back of her desk chair, she sank into its hard wooden seat. Had she lost his attentive friendship forever?
The continued silence provided her answer.
Gwen propped an elbow upon the desk, leaning her brow against her hand, and massaged away the residing tension. She could not continue on in this manner. When Mrs. Nesbitt arrived with luncheon, she must ask the housekeeper to retrieve her box of books from the—
A knock shattered the stillness. Gwen spun round in the chair and latched her gaze on to the door as another more timid knock rapped against the wood. Who could that be? It wasn’t yet time for lunch. She stood, calling out to the unknown visitor. “You may enter.”
The brass knob turned and the door swung inward, revealing Elliott standing in the doorway, face clean shaven, shirt and waistcoat pressed, and every button secured in place.
Gwen’s breath caught. He’d come, he’d actually come.
When she failed to speak within the socially acceptable time frame for staring at another person in silence, Elliott presented an informal but stiff bow. “Good morning.”
She nodded in reply, words being too difficult to form.
Elliott cleared his throat and spoke in a matter-of-fact nature. “I thought you’d like to know that the library’s reconstruction has been completed.”
The library. He’d only come to tell her of the library. The breath Gwen had been holding dissipated from her in a muted sigh. “Oh, that…that is good news.”
“Indeed, and I would like for you to inspect the results. If you want to, that is.” Retreating a step, Elliott made another bow. “I’ll be in the library, if you should care to join me.” With that, he walked away and left the door open.
Did she care to join him? Gwen pursed her lips, not moving a fraction from where she stood. The horrible awkwardness had returned to their interactions, but now such an exchange felt worse still when compared to the memory of their more relaxed conversations. Could she bear to be in the same room with Elliott u
nder this renewed discomfort? Perhaps, perhaps not. Either way, she could not go another day without a new book to occupy her mind, and she did so want to see the library restored.
Venturing into the corridor, Gwen crept downstairs, passed Elliott’s workshop, to where the library’s huge double doors stood closed. She took a deep breath and pushed them open.
Warm sunlight greeted her upon entry, streaming through the new window, which featured a border of rectangular panes stained in an alternating pattern of red and gold. On either side of this, all the books she had repaired lined the shelves of the ceiling-high cases. Elliott’s automaton inventions stood among them, here and there, as if on sentry duty, guarding precious treasure—the literary gems rescued from a midnight tempest. Gwen approached one of the bookcases and stroked a hand across the freshly polished, gleaming mahogany. They had truly done it; they’d saved the library.
Walking beside the wall of bookcases, Gwen soon neared the center of the library, the sun’s gentle rays now close enough to warm her skin. Her gaze traveled away from the books, toward the source of warmth, and she paused mid-step. Before the window, two wingback chairs now sat, angled toward each other with a table between. Her breath slowed along with the beating of her heart. Two chairs. One for Elliott, and one…for her?
With tentative steps, Gwen drew closer to the seating arrangement. Instead of the previous masculine leather, toile fabric displaying various scenes of birds among flowers and trees covered the set of tufted chairs, soft and lovely. Had Elliott picked that fabric with her in mind? Gwen’s fingers glided over one of the plush chair arms. How she wished to nestle in this perfect spot, lounge there with a book for hours and hours until night brought need of a candle’s flame. Her gaze wandered to the table between the chairs, searching for a candlestick for such purpose. Yet she found none. Only one item occupied the tabletop.
A beautiful automaton swan.
Gwen’s chest tightened, breath stalled. A swan. Not in all her time at Briarcliff had she seen a swan among Elliott’s inventions. This was a recent endeavor. A new creation. Wings folded against its body, the swan rested on a wooden base, which featured a brass plate bearing an inscription. She knelt, peering at the tiny engraved letters.
The Lassoed by Marriage Romance Collection Page 5