Cassandra, looking delightfully charming with her hair curled over one shoulder beneath her bonnet, picked up the book and held it as if she had been given a bar of gold. She read the title, and then her brow lifted in confusion. “Practical Education?”
Soren winced. “I know it isn’t the most enticing subject. Someone left it at the inn. Piper doesn’t read, and once I told him the title, he was happy enough with ten shillings for it.” Books were expensive. Ten shillings was all Soren could reasonably afford. He’d been lucky. “You may not want it, either.”
She opened the cover to the first page. “The author is female. Maria Edgeworth. I’ve heard of her.”
“Truly?”
“Yes... she writes silly popular novels. They are romances, I think.”
“With a title likePractical Education?” He grinned. “If it is a romantic novel, what do you believe is being taught?” He let his voice take on heat so his intention was clear. “Hopefully something very ‘practical.’ ” Their driver, who waited at the head of the horses, guffawed his agreement.
Cass playfully slapped his arm with the book. “Behave.”
“Yes, dear,” he said with false meekness. She gave him a teasing frown as she climbed inside the vehicle. She carried the book with her.
Soren nodded to the driver that they were ready to go. While the man mounted the lead horse, Soren took his seat and closed the door. With another wave, they were off.
Cass put her nose in the book. “I am not one for light novels,” she said again.
Soren pointed out, “It says volume one. If it is a romance, it must be epic if there is more than one volume to it.”
“Perhaps you should writeyourmemoirs, my lord,” she suggested, giving him half of her attention.
“That would be at least ten volumes,” he assured her, and she laughed in a way she hadn’t since she’d first discovered Holwell had spent her money.
“I don’t know if my feelings should be hurt by your laughter, wife,” he mock-complained.
Her answer was to kiss his cheek. She slipped her gloved hand in his. “I was thinking five volumes. Several of which haven’t been written yet.” She held up the book. “Thank you for this.”
“You are most welcome.”
She smiled, and then pulled her hand away and went back to her book. Soren wondered if giving her such a gift didn’t make him his own worst enemy. It completely absorbed her attention.
However, she didn’t shut him out. After a bit of reading, she said, “This is not a work of fiction. I’ve read books of ideas written by women before. Mary Wollstonecraft wrote a treatise remarking on the importance of educating women.”
“That doesn’t sound like an interesting book, either.”
Her smile was quick. “Oh, but it was. I agreed with many of the ideas.”
“I’m unsurprised.”
Her smile widened. “Listen to this.” She read the opening paragraphs. “Miss Edgeworth wrote this with her father, or at least the first part on proper toys. They are attempting to inform the reader about raising children.” She looked up at him. “Does one need a book on such a topic? Isn’t it a standard understanding?”
“I don’t know if my tutors ever read a book about how to educate me. They should have,” he assured her. “I think I still have bruises from the knocks around my head, and the blows never helped my learning.”
“But does one need to have toys explained? It seems odd to me to offer such instruction.”
“There had been times I’ve sought advice, especially when Logan first came to me. When we were on the ship, I’d need to redirect his attention to keep him out of trouble. He does have a will of his own.” That was an understatement. His son had not settled into Pentreath comfortably, and Soren wasn’t certain why. His fear was that, as his mother direly warned, his son would never become a part of English Society. Logan mourned for his mother and the life he’d known.
“The authors refer to their thoughts as the ‘art of education,’ ” Cassandra said thoughtfully.
“The topic is too dry for me.”
She didn’t answer. She’d dived back into the book, ignoring Soren, but he didn’t mind. He would have purchased her a dozen books if he could afford it. The downheartedness that had hovered around her yesterday had dissipated.
She was an active reader. Her brows knit or lifted as a thought struck her. She pursed her lips as if in disagreement, or twisted them when she found insight.
From time to time, she shared. Holding her finger on the page to keep her place, she said, “Miss Edgeworth believes children are remarkably perceptive and sensitive.”
