Love and Other Perils

by Grace Burrowes

  “Other patrons,” Mr. Haddonfield said. “Away with you. Be gone.” He clapped his hands rapidly at Mr. Paxton, like a housekeeper impatient with a sluggardly maid.

  Paxton leapt back, jerked his coat down, and marched for the door. The silence in his wake was broken by bells on a passing gig tinkling, a merry sound.

  “Do you really blow things up?” Antonia asked.

  “Yes, but usually only on purpose.”

  Chapter Two

  Max was a scientist, which to his siblings meant he indulged in a quaint hobby, sometimes breaking things, sometimes arriving late to social gatherings with odd smells lingering on his clothes. He read a lot of books and liked to go for long walks by himself.

  His brothers and sisters were kind people. If he’d told them he chose to arrive late because explosives were simply more interesting than polite society, they would have been puzzled, if not hurt. Chemistry, physics, natural science—the world that could be studied and understood—held far more fascination for Max than the world that waltzed and swilled tea.

  Miss Antonia was an item of anomalous data. She was clearly not of a species native to the workaday surrounds of the library’s neighborhood. Her height set her apart, height usually being characteristic of the reliably well fed classes. Her diction had finishing school crispness about the consonants, and her attire was not only made from excellent cloth, but up to the moment in style.

  Other features contradicted the hypothesis of a lady fallen on hard times or doing a charitable bit at a lending library.

  Her clothing, while stylish and well made, was plain to a fault. No ruffles called attention to her curves, no fanciful embroidery flattered her blue-gray eyes. Her bearing was a conundrum as well: Somebody had taught her perfect posture, but they had neglected to teach her perfect confidence in the face of loutish behavior.

  “Are patrons like Mr. Paxton common here?” Max asked. And where was Lucifer?

  “I would not know,” Miss Antonia replied. “I am new to my position, but the records indicate Mr. Paxton is a frequent borrower and occasionally tardy about his returns.”

  “Then you must never give quarter where he is concerned. Do not back down, do not blink when he stares at your—your person. Regard him as you would an unruly child much in need of a stint on the dunce stool, for that’s exactly what he is.”

  “I have no experience with unruly children.” Miss Antonia regarded the book in Max’s hands. “Would you like to check out that volume?”

  “I have little interest in the illegal brewing of beer and ale,” Max said, holding tome out to her.

  “Is that what—? Oh, I see.” She took the book. “Is that what Mr. Paxton is about?”

  “I cannot say for a certainty. He has no estate that I know of, he dwells in a rooming house that I very much doubt has facilities for home-brewing, and his last commercial venture—crossing the Channel by balloon—failed spectacularly.”

  Paxton was not a scientist. He was one of the many opportunists looking to science for personal gain rather than for the betterment of humanity. Richardson’s treatise, which purported to teach the use of the saccharometer for establishing consistent results when making beer, had been a basic text among brewmasters for decades.

  “People die flying hot air balloons,” Miss Antonia said. “From what I recall, one can sail by boat from Dover to Calais in a few hours. Are balloons really so much faster?”

  Had she been to France herself?

  “The issue is the return journey,” Max said. “When the winds oblige, the trip from Dover to Calais can be made speedily by boat, but Calais to Dover is often a much longer journey. Balloons can search at various altitudes for favorable winds, if the pilot is skillful. Then too, the views from several thousand feet in the air are splendid.”

  She studied him for a curious moment before marching off with Mr. Richardson’s treatise. “You have flown in hot air balloons?”

  “Frequently,” Max said, following in her wake. “People think of explosions as violent occurrences, but in truth, a balloon expanding or a loaf of bread dough rising are simply explosions that happen over a longer time. If we can harness the energy of an explosion—as we do every time a bullet is propelled down the barrel of a gun—we will have great power that has until now been supplied only by the sweat of our brows.”

  “What was it like?” Miss Antonia asked. “To be in that balloon?”

  “The preparation can last longer than the flight. One must first pump cold air into the balloon itself, then heated air to expand the volume of the cold air, and all without the flames doing any mischief. The launching must be timed to avoid anything but the slightest breeze, and—”

  “No,” she said, pausing at the bottom of the spiral steps. “I mean, what was it like, to fly so high, to see the world as only God and the birds have seen it previously?”

  I’ll show you. The words sprang to Max’s mind without any rational provocation other than the longing in Miss Antonia’s eyes. A woman who let Paxton’s blustering intimidate her would be terrified to see the world from two thousand feet up, but Miss Antonia apparently longed for that view.

  “The perspective is amazing,” Max said. “Full of odd contrasts. The world is at once small and enormous. Mighty forests look like squares on a quilt, France is right next door, not twenty miles away. Because the balloon is moved along by the wind itself, there’s an odd sense of stillness despite traveling at a good clip. One moment, all is quiet majesty, then next, the firebox is roaring and you’re trying to avoid a disobliging hillside.”

  “Women fly,” Miss Antonia said quietly. “A few women.”

  Women not only flew hot air balloons, they did so spectacularly. Max could not picture this tidy, prim librarian manning the firebox and delighting in the vagaries of the wind.

  “Would you like to fly, Miss Antonia?”

  She took off up the winding steps. “I am flying, Mr. Haddonfield. This library, full of flights of imagination and wisdom, is my sky and the books are my wings. I need not risk my neck on a lark involving silk, flame, and foolish fancies.”

  The spiral stairs were constructed of metal, and her half boots made quite the racket as she ascended. Max followed more quietly, wondering what disobliging male hillside had blighted Miss Antonia’s sense of adventure.

  His conjecture was hardly scientific, and yet, it had the ring of a solid hypothesis. “What will you do if Paxton makes trouble?”

  “Trouble, Mr. Haddonfield?”

  “If he returns for another round of attempted bullying or he complains to your superior?”

  She moved down a row of bound volumes and shoved Richardson back among his fellows, then remained gazing at worn book spines of brown, red, and black leather.

  A boring sky, by Max’s lights, though one meriting some study.

  “You need not be concerned, Mr. Haddonfield. I will have a word with Mr. Kessler when he drops by on Thursday. He has more than a dozen libraries under his management, and one rude patron won’t deserve much notice from such a busy man.”

  Max had four sisters whom he loved dearly. They had mothered him when his own mama had gone to her reward, interceded for him when his older brothers became too overbearing, and prevented his father from sending him to boarding school at a tender age when Max’s experiments had nearly set the stables ablaze.

  Women paid attention in ways men often did not, and yet women were often not afforded attention in ways they deserved, particularly when that attention was owed them by a busy man.

  “You complain first,” Max said. “You inform Kessler that his library has attracted a bad sort, one intent on exploiting the learning to be had here for criminal gain. You make it plain that Paxton’s rudeness to you and to the ladies at the reading table is a sorry disappointment to your feminine sensibilities and will not be tolerated.”

  Miss Antonia gave him another one of those considering looks. He could not read her gaze, but he sensed a prodigious intellect c
oming to careful conclusions.

  “I’m to be the offended lady?”

  “Aren’t you offended?”

  She folded her arms and faced him. “What if Mr. Paxton was to become personally troublesome?”

  Over the scents of old books, leather, and coal, Max detected a grassy fragrance laced with mint. Coming from her.

  “Troublesome, Miss Antonia?”

  She stared at a spot beyond Max’s shoulder as pink crept up her neck. “Troublesome, like a bachelor who has made one too many trips to the men’s punch bowl.”

  Interesting analogy for a librarian. “You mean his hand accidentally glides over your bum when you’re showing him where to find the brewing treatises? Or he passes too close to you, such that—”

  “Yes,” she said, a bit loudly. “Troublesome in that regard.”

  “Your knee,” Max said. “A fine weapon when deployed in the vicinity of a man’s falls. He’ll drop like wet laundry if you look into his eyes while you’re doing it.”

  Miss Antonia was bright pink now, even to her ears. “And if he should grasp my arm?”

  Max circled her wrist with his fingers. “Get my smallest finger in a good grip and haul it smartly back and away from my hand. You can break my finger that way. Then jab your thumbs into my eyes while I’m whimpering in male outrage, and follow up with a heel stomped on my instep.”

  She looked down at his hand wrapped around her wrist. “Your smallest finger?”

  “I grew up with older brothers of the big and boisterous sort. They sometimes didn’t know when to stop teasing me, so my sisters taught me a few handy moves.”

  Miss Antonia smiled up at Max, her hand resting over his as he grasped her wrist. “Your sisters taught you how to fight?”

  “How to defend myself.” What lovely eyes Miss Antonia had, and how delightful that she was tall enough that Max didn’t feel like a plow horse when he stood next to her.

  “Like this?” She gave Max’s finger a tug that would not have awakened a napping kitten.

  “More firmly.” Did her perfume include a hint of lemon?

  She tugged again, still not very hard.

  “Have you ever waltzed?” Max asked.

  She looked down. “I have. I am considered too tall to be a suitable partner for most men.”

  “Madam, most men are too short to partner you effectively. When you dance with a partner who knows what he’s doing, does he dither and hesitate or does he move decisively?”

  “Most of them dither and hesitate while they stare—they mince about. There is an earl, though. Or there was. He’s on the tall side, and I did enjoy dancing with him very much.”

  Had this earl been her disobliging hillside? Max’s older brother Nicholas was an earl who was very tall, also very married. Though how did a librarian end up dancing with any earl at all?

  “Be like that fellow when you yank on my finger. Know what you’re about.”

  She looked up at Max, and he braced himself for another kitten-tug.

  “’Zounds!” She’d nearly ripped his finger off. “Well done.” He shook his hand, considering the hurt worth the reward, for Miss Antonia was beaming at him.

  “Like that?” she asked.

  “Exactly like that, and then flounce off in high dudgeon. That part’s important because most men won’t deal well with having been bested. Make your exit while you can, no lingering about to gloat.”

  Miss Antonia’s smile was impish, filling her gaze with sheer glee. She gave Max’s arm a glancing pat.

  “High dudgeon will take some practice, but I will work on it. Mr. Paxton isn’t the only patron inclined to haughty airs. Nobody warned me about that. Did you come here for a particular book, Mr. Haddonfield?”

  “I came here to see how Lucifer is faring, though perhaps he’s gone out on feline business.”

  Miss Antonia swished past him, which allowed Max to confirm that indeed, the luscious meadow-y, summery scent came from her.

  “Lucifer rarely goes out during the day. He takes his responsibilities as a member of the staff quite seriously, though he apparently thinks he’s been given the job of butler rather than mouser.”

  “He’s settling in well?” Dagger would be disappointed.

  “He has made conquests, Mr. Haddonfield. Come along.” She descended the steps and continued on to the reading table. “Ladies, excuse the interruption, but has either one of you seen our Mr. Lucifer?”

  One of the old dears lifted her book of sermons to reveal the top of Lucifer’s head peering over the edge of the reading table, as if he, too, had been enjoying the reverend’s spiritual guidance.

  “Lukey is such a dear thing,” she said. “A gentleman in every sense.”

  “He likes Betty best,” the other added. “A pity the library has only the one cat. They are not the solitary creatures we make them out to be, you know. They enjoy company as much as we do.”

  Lucifer squinched his eyes at her, as if concurring in her opinion.

  “One cat is more than enough,” Miss Antonia began. “We have apparently eradicated the mouse problem, and that suggests—”

  “You need another,” Max said. “One should keep loyal patrons happy. As it happens, I’m in a position to help.” He bowed to the ladies and departed before Miss Antonia could marshal any arguments.

  “I can smell the books on you,” Peter said, smiling as he bowed over Antonia’s hand. “Very scholarly, my dear.”

  Antonia could nearly smell the amusement Peter’s tone exuded. To him, her little lending library frolic was a passing fancy to be indulged until she came to her senses. Coming to her senses would involve marrying Peter, keeping Papa’s fortune in the family—she and Peter were second cousins, once removed—and having Peter’s babies. The title had gone to a first cousin, and that happy fellow was larking about somewhere in Italy.

  Antonia was trying to reconcile herself to taking the sensible course. Peter was a decent man, good-looking, and not given to excesses. She might not be miserable with him and she would do her best to ensure he wasn’t miserable with her. He was willing to overlook her great, hopeless age and her propensity to read at all hours. He was a known quantity who wouldn’t expect her to manufacture any romantic effusions.

  Was it possible to be too sensible?

  “Have you rung for tea?” Antonia asked. “I could do with a cup myself.”

  Afternoons at the library were quiet and chilly, but then, afternoons at home this time of year were quiet and chilly—also dull.

  “I did not want to presume,” Peter said. “How goes your grand adventure at the library?”

  Peter’s reluctance to presume was a recent invention. Usually, when he was under Antonia’s roof, he assumed the privileges of family and expected the deference owed a guest.

  Antonia tugged the bell pull twice. “I do so enjoy having endless time to read.”

  “Some believe novels upset the delicate humors of a lady’s imagination.” He offered this observation while using a spill to light the silver candelabra on the piano.

  “Some men.”

  “And many women.” He shook out the flame on the spill and tossed the unused paper into the fire on the hearth.

  At the library, nobody would have wasted a spill that had at least three more uses left. Here, the footmen would replenish the blue porcelain spill pot on the mantel daily.

  “As it happens,” Antonia said, “I was reading about how to make good beer. There’s more to it than one suspects.”

  Peter’s smile faded into perplexity. “Beer, Antonia?”

  Every household consumed a quantity of beer. Most servants’ compensation included allotments for ale, candles, and tea. The commodities could be of much greater value than the coin earned. Antonia had had a vague grasp of those realities—she did oversee her housekeeper’s and butler’s books—but hours of reading had enhanced her understanding.

  “Beer, Peter. We both drink it, most larger households brew it. A bad batch can re
sult in terrible ailments, while good beer and ale is an English point of pride.”

  “So you’re honing your housewifely arts?”

  Must he sound so hopeful? “I’m familiarizing myself with the library’s inventory, also reading about the lady aeronauts. Napoleon’s official balloonist was a woman, and—”

  “And look what happened to Napoleon.”

  Antonia was beginning to find Peter’s smile, which showed off perfect white teeth and made the corners of his eyes crinkle, irksome.

  “The Corsican conquered most of Europe before suffering a defeat that many attribute to bad weather and worse luck.”

  Peter’s smile disappeared. “Have you been reading French histories again, Antonia?”

  That tone, which conveyed both disappointment and a touch of asperity, was part of why Antonia had yet to consent to the sensible match Peter proposed.

  She took a seat, grateful for the deep cushion of the reading chair by the hearth. “Why insist that women learn French if we’re not to use that skill to learn what the French know?”

  “Learn French recipes,” Peter said, pacing the width of the parlor. “Enjoy French opera, nip over to Paris to buy some French fashion, but don’t trouble your pretty head with drivel spouted by failed revolutionists.”

  Antonia had no illusions about her looks. Her head, like the rest of her, was plain. Moreover, she was constructed on too grand a scale to ever qualify as pretty. Peter stood an inch taller than she did, only because she never wore heels unless she was on horseback, while he consistently trotted around in fashionably heeled boots. When she danced with him, they were the same height.

  Max Haddonfield, by contrast, had a good six inches on her, and he was well muscled. If Antonia stood up for a waltz with him, he’d neither dither nor hesitate, and he didn’t stare at her chest either. He had the most marvelous blue eyes, so calm and intelligent, but not too—