“What do you like to read?” she asked, her hopes all pinned on this one question.
He began to pull her books from the opened chest, glancing at the titles. “I’ve not had much timefor study, Elizabeth, so that is hard for me to answer. I like what I’ve read of philosophy and mythology, though. And history. I should like to learn another language someday, to expand my reading.”
“Which?” she asked.
“Which do you know?” He looked up.
“Italian and French.”
“I’ll start with French.” He averted his gaze to pull out more books and stack them on his table. “I would like to read your collection, with your permission. You, of course, may read any book you find in my library, which I admit was compiled with paid guidance. Unlike men of your class, I did not have the luxury of a university education.”
“Neither did I,” she grumbled before she realized what she’d said.
His lips curled faintly in response, but he made no snide comment as to her sex. She was grateful for this and equally gratified he’d askedherpermission to read her books. Such small acknowledgement of her person quietly thrilled her.
“What should I begin with?” He continued to peruse her collection.
Elizabeth opened the second chest and searched for Ovid’sMetamorphoses. “This.”
“That I know.” He smiled. “Pick another.”
She handed himLes Liaisons Dangereuses.
“I cannot read French, Lizzie. Not yet, at least.”
Right.She rummaged until she foundEthelindeby Charlotte Smith.
“Fiction?” he asked.
“Yes.” She hoped he’d like it. “You might appreciate the antihero.”
He flipped to page one. “Mind if I skim this while you unpack?”
“Not at all.” Her heart beat faster, curious as to what he’d think of the orphaned Ethelinde and the men who pursued her. What did he think of her, his wife?
“Hmm…” He mulled as he wandered to a window, seeking better light. For a moment his profile evoked the book’s most villainous rake, Davenant.
Milton settled into a wingback and Elizabeth stole glances at his serious, handsome face. She liked the sharp planes of his cheeks.
She continued to unearth her beloved books, relieved to find all accounted for. She carefully packed them back into their chests and then explored her husband’s shelves, noting not only how many titles were unknown to her, but how many books lay strewn about the room, as if his library were wellused. She found a page open to a poem and stopped to read.
The Garden of Love
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.
