And then a new possibility struck her. He might wish to meet his father. The whole journey could be built around a need for him to have that connection. In any case, he was right when he’d pointed out that his father was the only one who had known his mother—
A door opened. A couple left their room. Gwendolyn has seen them downstairs, but they had not yet been introduced. The gentleman had gray at his temples. His lady companion seemed older in that way some self-satisfied women had. He helped her drape a lovely paisley shawl over her shoulders.
Gwendolyn turned, pretending to inspect a portrait of a sow and her tan-colored piglets with black patches. They nodded to her as they passed. The gentleman noted her interest in the painting. “You can see the descendants of that sow in the estate’s north quarter,” he said to Gwendolyn.
“North quarter?”
“Yes, not far from the river. Middlebury likes to keep his pigs as far from him as possible. They say he has a sensitive nose.”
“Oh,” Gwendolyn replied, feigning interest. One didn’t need a sensitive nose to appreciate the marquess’s decision. She wasn’t fond of the sour, earthy smell of pigs either.
“A short ride. Worth it. We always enjoy a stroll by the river, don’t we, dear?”
His lady gave a wan smile as if truly not interested in being friendly.
“We are going to take a turn in the gardens, if you wish to join us?” the gentleman offered.
“That is very kind, sir, but I’m waiting for Lady Orpington.”
“Oh, well, you are on the wrong floor. She stays in the family’s set of rooms when she visits. They are one floor down.”
“Thank you,” Gwendolyn said.
His wife gave a tug on his sleeve, and the couple continued on their way. They went down the stairs without looking back.
Gwendolyn watched them disappear down the steps. She stood, thoughtful for a moment—a terror-filled dream of a singing woman, an unknown mother who had probably been a prostitute, an uncaring father who had also paid all of his illegitimate son’s bills, and Lady Middlebury, who was definitely not pleased Mr. Steele was here.
There was an answer in all of this. She’d wager Mr. Steele was right and Lord Middlebury alone might understand how they fit together. It was also possible that the dream was just a recurringnightmare of the sort she’d had when she was a child.
Funny, but she hadn’t even thought of her childhood bad dreams until this moment, and yet there had been a time when they had ruled her imagination. She’d started having them when she’d first arrived at Wiltham. They had been so vivid, Gram would hear her crying out in her sleep and gently shake her awake. Eventually they had stopped. Perhaps because Gram and her sisters’ love had made her feel secure? Gwendolyn didn’t know.
However, there was a difference between her dreams and Mr. Steele’s. She’d experienced hers during that dark confusing time when she’d been shipped off to a father and family she did not know. His had started after a head wound when he was an adult. It was as if the dream had lain dormant inside him, only to be shaken loose by being shot. One traumatic event revealing another?
She shook her head at her fancifulness... and yet she did believe in omens. What was a dream if not an omen?
Gwendolyn decided to take her investigation downstairs to the ground floor. It seemed a good place to start. As for her search, she would be alert for anything that had to do with the elements of Mr. Steele’s dream or secret relationships, and she was rather excited about it all. She felt as if she was stepping into a novel, one of her own making.
Gwendolyn was at the top of the staircase when she caught a glimpse through the ajar doorof the first room on the West Wing side of the house.
Books.Shelves of them.
She could not resist having a peek. Books were her weakness. She must see what there was to read. Like a bee to a flower, she moved toward a charming, intimate library and slipped through the half-open door.
The room was the size of her bedroom, but two walls, from floor to ceiling, were shelves painted a dark green to match the room’s walls, and every shelf was tightly packed with books. They were even organized by topic, height, and size.
Someone had thoughtfully placed a chaise by the room’s single window. There was also a small writing desk and chair close at hand.
The room’s window overlooked the kitchen garden instead of the formal ones that covered a good portion of the land surrounding the house, and it made her smile. Flowers were lovely, but she enjoyed herbs and colorful vegetables almost as much.
Hanging over the desk were several landscapes and a few small portraits. She noticed one of the landscapes was of Colemore shortly after the current gardens had been designed. They seemed sparse compared to their lush, late summer glory of today.
However, it was the books that drew her. Gwendolyn walked over to the shelves and started perusing the titles, running her fingers over the bindings as if by touch she could tell what the books held. Many of the tomes were old, their spines stiff and carrying a scent that remindedher of dust and vanilla. They cracked with age when she carefully opened them. And she had to open them. She might need something to read this evening, and this was better than being at Hatchard’s because she could feel the weight of them in her hands without an intermediary.
Some of the books appeared to be recent purchases. Poetry took up one full row, and then Gwendolyn’s favorites—treatises on travel—took up another. If she had her desire, she would travel. She envied men who had the chance at a Grand Tour. She longed to see the sights, the art, and the lands she, as a woman, could only read about. She pulled a book down titledLife in Gaul. She also enjoyed history, especially about older civilizations. She skimmed the first paragraphs and decided the author was too prosaic to read during a house party. She put the book back and then discovered tucked among the botany books all three volumes of Maria Edgeworth’sBelinda. These were more valuable than gold bars to Gwendolyn.
Almost giddy with happiness, she pulled the slim books from the shelf. She’d take them back to her room for later—and then her eye landed on five black leather binders on a lower shelf. They were oversized, so they stuck out.
Curious, and thinking they could hold maps—an exciting prospect—Gwendolyn knelt to examine them. She set the Edgeworth books on the floor, pulled out one of the binders, and opened it.
