“All kinds. History, Shakespeare, science, poetry. I even enjoy a novel from time to time.” Like his late father, Oliver loved the written word. And he would much rather spend an evening in a library than with most of society. His family being the exception.
“Have you read Sir Walter Scott?” Miss Childs’ question did not surprise Oliver one bit. The Scottish novelist and poet had become very popular of late.
“I’ve read Waverly and its sequel. Though my favorite of his works is actually his epic poem, The Lay of the Last Minstrel.”
“I have heard of it, but I’ve never read it,” Miss Childs admitted.
“I believe they have a copy here,” Oliver gestured towards the bookshelves, “if it is not already on loan. Mr. Middleton, our former vicar, borrowed it so often they threatened to make him purchase a copy of his own.” Oliver could not help but smile at the memory.
“Not all clergymen are so in favor of reading fiction, Mr. Linfield.”
“More’s the pity,” Oliver retorted, earning a true smile from Miss Childs. “What do you enjoy reading, Miss Childs?”
Oliver felt completely captivated as the young woman launched into an explanation of several of her favorite reads, ranging from Shakespeare’s comedies to the novels that had been published anonymously by “a lady.” Everyone had read them, including Oliver, but nobody seemed to know the identity of the mysterious author.
“Do you frequent the circulating library, Mr. Linfield?” Miss Childs asked after they had finished discussing their thoughts on Sense & Sensibility.
“My father was a collector, and there is an extensive library at Blackthorne Park.” Oliver shook his head as he admitted, “If there is something I wish to read, it is likely that I already have it available to me.”
“And what of the vicarage?” Miss Childs asked. “Does it have an adequate library, or do you often borrow books from your brother?”
Oliver opened his mouth and then closed it again. She thought he was Tim. His stomach clenched at the thought. She had been friendly not because she’d warmed to him, but because she thought she was speaking with his brother. If she thought he was Tim now, she had likely made the same mistake while serving lemonade the day before. After all, Oliver wore the very same work clothes.
Oliver knew he should correct her. But he also feared he would embarrass her, or even anger her. But neither was it kind to intentionally deceive her now he realized the error. There was also the fact that he liked this version of Miss Childs, the one who smiled and discussed books. He had no desire to bring back the icy debutante who could not stand the sight of him.
As Oliver took in her smiling face, he chose the cowardly way out. “The vicarage has a small library, but Mr. Middleton took most of his personal books with him when he retired last year.”
“It appears the rain has lightened up, Mr. Linfield,” a deep voice spoke from behind him. He turned to find Mr. Johnson, the proprietor of the circulating library and apothecary.
Oliver glanced out the front window. The sun was not shining, but the rain appeared to have stopped. But then he looked down and for the first time realized he’d left a large puddle on the wooden floor. “My apologies for the mess. If you have a rag of some sort, I can wipe up after myself before I go.”
“No need, sir,” Mr. Johnson replied, but it was clear he wanted Oliver out of the shop so he could clean up.
Oliver turned to the dark-haired young woman and tipped his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Childs. I should be going.”
“Then I bid you farewell, Mr. Linfield.”
Oliver bid the proprietor farewell and then ducked through the door and back outside.
Kitty pulled her feet up underneath her as she sat on the sofa in the library at Arbor Hill. Her mother would never approve of her undignified position, but her mother was in London. And she wished to be comfortable as she read The Lay of the Last Minstrel.
When she’d asked Mr. Johnson about the poem after Mr. Linfield left, the shopkeeper had taken her right to the correct spot on the shelf. Apparently not a soul had borrowed the book since Mr. Middleton had moved away. What a shame, it was proving to be very engaging.
An hour later, Kitty’s literary sojourn along the Scottish border was interrupted when Lady Sampson stepped into the room, followed by Mr. Timothy Linfield. He appeared to have recovered from hissoaking the day before. At the very least, he was appropriately attired for a social visit.
“Ah, Kitty. I was wondering where you’d disappeared to.” Lady Sampson spoke in her usual warm and welcoming tone as she took a seat on the sofa facing Kitty. “Timothy and I were discussing parish business, and now we are going to have tea. Would you care to join us?”
“Thank you, I would,” Kitty replied while attempting to return her legs to a more ladylike position without attracting undue notice.
“What is it that you are reading?” Mr. Timothy asked, after taking a seat of his own to the side of Lady Sampson.
She opened the cover and held up the title page, “The Lay of the Last Minstrel.”
“Ah, yes.” Mr. Timothy broke into a grin. “A favorite of my mentor, Mr. Middleton. Oliver liked it so much he bought a copy of his own.”
Kitty froze in place as the words settled into her mind. Hoping that she had heard wrong, she asked, “It is a favorite of your brother’s, but not yours?”
“I enjoyed it well enough,” Mr. Timothy replied, “but Oliver adores it.” Lady Sampson said something about the tea and the vicar turned his attention to their hostess.
