“I should also warn you that Mr. Fanshawe has the notion of a silent partner,” Mr. Sommerset continued. “I cannot ensure that he will be more welcoming of your wife’s notion than that lady’s father and uncle have been.”
“I should like to have the opportunity to find out,” Arthur said. “Perhaps it might be possible to arrange a meeting with Mr. Fanshawe in the near future.”
“I can offer you better than that, Mr. Beckham. I am to dine with Mr. Fanshawe this very evening, and I am certain he would be delighted to learn of your interest. Do accompany me and be introduced, at the very least.”
Arthur sensed the turn of the wheel and the return of his good fortune. Given the stakes, he could not possibly decline this opportunity.
* * *
Avoidingthe memory of Arthur’s seductive touch, Patience opened the first box of her books. She smiled as if she greeted old friends and lifted out the first volume with real pleasure. The task of unpacking the books soothed her and she peeked within several of them, reading a few lines of familiar prose, and feeling her usual calm manner return.
Soon she realized that she was no longer alone. An enormous grey cat had somehow found its way into her room. It sat between her and the fire, its long fur a thousand shades of silver and grey, its gaze fixed upon her. As she watched, it flicked its tail, wrapping it elegantly around its own paws. Those green eyes glowed as it considered her and Patience smiled.
“Good afternoon,” she said and curtsied, for the creature’s manners were so regal that such a gesture seemed deserved. “Though I do not as yet know your name, you are welcome to stay.”
The cat yawned mightily, displaying a collection of sharp teeth and a very pink tongue. Then it bounded onto the armchair before the fire, trod down the cushion with its paws and curled up to sleep with one last flick of its tail.
Patience watched, then returned to her beloved books. The space inside the bookcase was much bigger with the doors open than she had realized.
He was routinely thoughtful and instead of appreciating his generous nature, she had demanded more. She owed him an apology, to be sure.
As Arthur had warned, the bookcase was not entirely empty. She had not seen his books with the doors closed. There were a dozen or so books already on the bottom shelf. Curious about his tastes, she lifted them out. Plato’sRepublic, a book she suspected he had read at a tutor’s behest. Ovid’sMetamorphoses, a curious choice but one that reminded her of his sister’s favorite work. Perhaps the siblings shared an interest in beings who could change shape—or in tales of romance.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.Waverley, The Canterbury Tales. She smiled, guessing these might have been her father’s recommendations. There was a bookmark in the first, a sign that he had tried to follow her father’s injunction and one that made her heart squeeze.
There was a volume of Greek plays by Euripides, along with Shakespeare’sComedy of ErrorsandTwelfth Night. She could not say who might have chosen those volumes. She looked at the Greek volume with interest. Her Greek was not as strong as it might have been, and this could offer good practice. Perhaps Arthur would advise her. She liked that idea very much.
Indeed, she could envision them together before the fire, each absorbed in his or her own choice, comparing impressions at intervals or sharing passages with each other. He would speak clearly when he read aloud and she smiled at the prospect of such an evening together.
Were they all plays about mistaken identities? Surely, she imagined that.
The Decameronin Italian. She knew that was a collection of tales told by wealthy friends who exiled themselves from Florence to avoid the plague. There was a work by Dante as well. It made sense that he read some Italian as they had been in Venice.
Faust: A Tragedyin a volume that included both German and English. Her father had spoken of Goethe’s play, and about the character who made a bargain with a demon.
There was another book, one with a title that could not be easily read. A thick volume. Patience removed it, admired the tooled leather cover, then opened the volume in search of a title. To her surprise, it was not in fact a book, but a box constructed to look like a book.
And it was filled with banknotes.
They were neatly bundled and there was a tally on the top, the total sum making her eyes widen. Where had these funds come from? Why were they hidden? They had to belong to Arthur, but why would he have banknotes? She knew that the affluent relied upon credit and paid their bills later instead of immediately.
Perhaps they were his winnings from gambling. If so, he was luckier than she had imagined. She replaced the notes and the volume, nudging the other books more closely around it. Now that she knew the volume’s contents, its hiding place no longer seemed ideal. Anyone might look at the books, realize the title of this one was difficult to read, and guess the truth.
She began to unpack her books, mixing them with Arthur’s so that the book-that-was-not-a-book was less easily noticed. So much money!
Why had he left it in her room? Because she would have more books?
Because he trusted her? The possibility made her heart glow, then she frowned. She wished he returned home soon so she could apologize and they could reconcile.
She took note of the time and rang for Gellis, assuming the Beckhams dined at eight. The girl arrived promptly, her cheerful manner of earlier in the day somewhat diminished when Patience requested assistance in dressing for dinner.
“She did not send you word, then, ma’am?”
“Who might send me word of what, Gellis?”
“Her ladyship will not dine downstairs this night.” The girl caught her breath. “She often has a tray in her rooms when there have been other events in the day.”
Patience guessed that this was not entirely true by the girl’s discomfiture. “And Amelia?”
