Swinthorpe took his leave. For a long moment, Georgia remained fixated on the quadrangle and the lone maple tree. Both she and it were reaching for the light and air of the sky, reaching to escape the dark walls all around.
“But we are both firmly rooted in our worlds,” she whispered to it, “which prevents us from escaping completely.”
She felt in need of cheering up, so she returned to her rooms to read the letter from her cousin.
Keaton leaned against a stone pillar, shaded by the branches of the maple that had been planted in the quad by his grandfather. Its canopy was a mass of interlaced leaves that cast a deep shadow over the ground. And screened him from the view of anyone above perfectly.
“You heard?” Edric said, descending a flight of steps that led from the floor above.
“I heard,” Keaton replied, “you remembered my little childhood trick.”
Edric came to stand beside him, and Keaton imagined him craning his neck to look up. Above the pillar was a gap in the stone plinth that the pillar supported. It ran up to the floor above, covered by a skirting board, but was an excellent conductor of sound.
“I remembered. You see now that I was right.”
Keaton turned away lest his chagrin show on his face. He did not like giving away too much of his emotions, even to his most trusted relative.
“That was a statement rather than a question. I have spoken before about you putting words into my mouth, Uncle,” Keaton said, icily.
“And once again, I apologize,” Edric replied diffidently. “Everything I do is for your own good.”
Keaton arched an eyebrow, the thought occurring that while he had heard, ‘for your own good’, his Uncle had actually used the words, ‘for Westvale’. That could change the meaning, though Keaton dismissed the idea immediately.
If I begin to suspect Edric, then I am lost and should make myself a hermit, for no one will be trustworthy then.
“I will write to my man and ask him to come at his earliest convenience,” Keaton murmured.
“I can go to his office today,” Edric offered.
“No, Uncle. Leave this… to me.”
“It is no trouble, and—”
“No.” Keaton snapped, turning his head to the sound of Edric's voice.
He heard silence in reply and considered his order accepted.
If Edric takes on the task, it will be completed quickly and efficiently, and Georgia's departure will be expedited. Which is what I want now. Is it not?
CHAPTER 12
Keaton slammed the library doors behind him and stood with his back to them. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes. Of course, it was a redundant gesture, but he still felt the need to do it when he was tired or overwhelmed. The smell of old paper, glue binding, and leather covers suffused the air. Overlaid on them was the gloss of varnish on wooden tables, floor, and bookshelves. Polish was the next layer, and finally, the tang of wood smoke from the large fireplace.
He savored the deep silence. A cabinet clock ticked in one corner of the room, and the fire cracked and spat. But otherwise, there was a deep silence.
“Thank you, great-grandfather, for building this library out of stone and as a separate wing to the rest of the house. Thank you for my cathedral of solitude,” his half-whispered, half-breathed words were a solemn prayer to his ancestors.
He pushed away from the doors and strode confidently into the room, putting out a hand to touch a table, then a bookcase, knowing where each would be and gratified to find them exactly where they should be.
Miss Roseton has clearly not had the chance to find this room yet and rearrange it.
Thoughts of Georgia brought the bitter taste of regret. He frowned, and, as his concentration was disrupted, bumped into a chair.
“Damnation!” he roared, almost falling.
He kicked out, sending the chair screeching across the old wooden-block floor. Then he stood, breathing hard between gritted teeth, trying to recover his equilibrium.
“That damnable woman is too far under my skin,” he muttered, taking deep breaths.
