display cases with her handkerchief, Mr. Wiley peppered him with questions about the prince's own library. "Has he any works of Bacon?"
"A few letters, and the usual volumes. He might be looking to acquire more, as a matter of fact. I understand the Parham has quite a handsome selection of his personal papers. Would any be available for him to survey?"
Mr. Wiley shot a glance at Jessica, who was standing straightbacked in front of the mantel, dusting it with the lace scrap of handkerchief, ostentatiously paying no mind to their conversation. Still, he lowered his voice. "The library is closed for now, in accordance with the late baron's will. In four weeks, however, I might be able to invite the Regent here to see what I have. In fact, perhaps we could arrange a bit of an opening celebration. Not, you understand, that I expect to sell my Bacon items."
My Bacon items. Mr. Wiley seemed less than certain that young Jessica Seton would be inheriting the library come July 23. Arrogant shag, this Wiley was anyway, expecting the nation's monarch to come to him, trailing a royal celebration behind. But John played along. "I must warn you that the prince is unlikely to come here at all, without some indication that it will be worth his while. If all you can have is a couple official letters signed by Bacon's secretary, I don't think I should be able to persuade him to make a visit."
The challenge worked. John had a glimpse of Miss Seton's startled face as Mr. Wiley, rigid with offense, led him back into the library's main room. "Just a couple official letters! Signed by a secretary!" Wiley muttered. "You'll see!"
John saw at a glance that the library was designed in a U with the reading room surrounded on three sides by the functional areas. This main room had an open area near the door, and an upper level, a narrow mezzanine lined with bookcases and accessible by some hidden staircase. The lower level was scored with rows of shelves perpendicular to the back wall.
And the shelves, he was glad to see, were filled with books. John set to calculating how many volumes there were: fourteen rows, say twenty feet long, three shelves along each row, subtract perhaps thirty percent for many of the volumes were, scandalously, tipped over to warp slowly into odd shapes: eight thousand volumes though, easily. And more were stacked on the floor between the rows, waiting to be re-shelved-—waiting patiently, to judge by the depth of dust on the covers.
The only light came from six tall windows, distributed symmetrically along the back wall. It was so dim that John could not make out the titles on the back of even the closest books. But he saw several he thought might be incunabula, books from the earliest days of printing, in the last half of the fifteenth century. He wished he hadn't left his spyglass on the Coronale, for he was hopeful that gold-tooled volume in the corner had been bound by Samuel Mearne, Charles II's bookbinder, and the Regent had a standing order for any Mearne books that turned up.
So much treasure in such disarray—it might have made John dizzy earlier in his career. But he'd seen monastic libraries in worse condition, including the Greek convent that hid the Jerusalem among piles of burlap sacks. Most of those libraries, however, were owned by impoverished and ignorant nuns and monks, who didn't realize what is was they possessed. This library was being neglected by a man who ought very well to know better.
John let his anger flare up and go out. He needed no further motivation, and so it would prove only distracting to curse Mr. Wiley's slovenliness and Parham's criminal laxity. But he felt a resolve build in the back of his mind: Now he intended to do what before he had only pretended to consider. He would help Miss Seton get control of this library. Young and inexperienced and feminine as she was, she could not help but do a better job than the men who had it now.
Besides, an inner voice said, she will have me
"A few letters, and the usual volumes. He might be looking to acquire more, as a matter of fact. I understand the Parham has quite a handsome selection of his personal papers. Would any be available for him to survey?"
Mr. Wiley shot a glance at Jessica, who was standing straightbacked in front of the mantel, dusting it with the lace scrap of handkerchief, ostentatiously paying no mind to their conversation. Still, he lowered his voice. "The library is closed for now, in accordance with the late baron's will. In four weeks, however, I might be able to invite the Regent here to see what I have. In fact, perhaps we could arrange a bit of an opening celebration. Not, you understand, that I expect to sell my Bacon items."
My Bacon items. Mr. Wiley seemed less than certain that young Jessica Seton would be inheriting the library come July 23. Arrogant shag, this Wiley was anyway, expecting the nation's monarch to come to him, trailing a royal celebration behind. But John played along. "I must warn you that the prince is unlikely to come here at all, without some indication that it will be worth his while. If all you can have is a couple official letters signed by Bacon's secretary, I don't think I should be able to persuade him to make a visit."
The challenge worked. John had a glimpse of Miss Seton's startled face as Mr. Wiley, rigid with offense, led him back into the library's main room. "Just a couple official letters! Signed by a secretary!" Wiley muttered. "You'll see!"
John saw at a glance that the library was designed in a U with the reading room surrounded on three sides by the functional areas. This main room had an open area near the door, and an upper level, a narrow mezzanine lined with bookcases and accessible by some hidden staircase. The lower level was scored with rows of shelves perpendicular to the back wall.
And the shelves, he was glad to see, were filled with books. John set to calculating how many volumes there were: fourteen rows, say twenty feet long, three shelves along each row, subtract perhaps thirty percent for many of the volumes were, scandalously, tipped over to warp slowly into odd shapes: eight thousand volumes though, easily. And more were stacked on the floor between the rows, waiting to be re-shelved-—waiting patiently, to judge by the depth of dust on the covers.
The only light came from six tall windows, distributed symmetrically along the back wall. It was so dim that John could not make out the titles on the back of even the closest books. But he saw several he thought might be incunabula, books from the earliest days of printing, in the last half of the fifteenth century. He wished he hadn't left his spyglass on the Coronale, for he was hopeful that gold-tooled volume in the corner had been bound by Samuel Mearne, Charles II's bookbinder, and the Regent had a standing order for any Mearne books that turned up.
So much treasure in such disarray—it might have made John dizzy earlier in his career. But he'd seen monastic libraries in worse condition, including the Greek convent that hid the Jerusalem among piles of burlap sacks. Most of those libraries, however, were owned by impoverished and ignorant nuns and monks, who didn't realize what is was they possessed. This library was being neglected by a man who ought very well to know better.
John let his anger flare up and go out. He needed no further motivation, and so it would prove only distracting to curse Mr. Wiley's slovenliness and Parham's criminal laxity. But he felt a resolve build in the back of his mind: Now he intended to do what before he had only pretended to consider. He would help Miss Seton get control of this library. Young and inexperienced and feminine as she was, she could not help but do a better job than the men who had it now.
Besides, an inner voice said, she will have me
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