had been called away hastily in the middle of an intriguing passage. “It’s not merely a vanity collection, is it?” she asked aloud.
“No, the master is quite devoted to his books.” Mrs. Buttons repositioned a comfortable chair by the cheerful fire and drew back a curtain to admit plenty of daylight. “I’ll leave you to explore, Miss Duvall. Shall I send a tea tray for you?”
Vivien shook her head and wandered from one bookcase to another, her gaze rapidly scanning the enticing rows. The housekeeper laughed suddenly. “Until now, I’ve never seen anyone look at books the way Mr. Morgan does,” she remarked.
Barely aware of the housekeeper’s departure, Vivien opened a glass door and examined a row of poetry. Something strange happened as she read one title after another…Many of them seemed startlingly familiar, the words connecting in a way that made her quiver with surprise. Mesmerized, she reached for one of the books. She opened it, the textured leather binding soft beneath her fingers, and found a poem by John Keats entitled “Ode to a Grecian Urn.” Thou still unravished bride of quietness… It seemed as if she had read the words a thousand times before. A door opened in her mind, illuminating knowledge that had been stored away until this moment. Thoroughly unnerved, Vivien clutched the open volume against her chest and grabbed another off the shelf, and another…Shakespeare, Keats, Donne, Blake. There were many other instantly recognizable poems, fragments of which she could even recite by memory.
The relief of remembering something made her almost dizzy with excitement. She picked up and held as many books as possible, crowding them against her body, dropping a few in her haste. Shewanted to carry them all to a quiet corner, and read and read.
On a lower shelf she discovered well-worn volumes of philosophy. Snatching up Descartes’s Meditations , she flipped it open and feverishly read a passage aloud. “There is nothing, among the things I once believed to be true, which it is not permissible to doubt…”
Vivien hugged the open book to her chest, mind swimming with chaotic impressions. She was positive she had once studied this book, these words, with someone she had cared for very much. The familiarity of the words gave her a sense of safety and comfort she needed desperately. She closed her eyes and clutched the book harder, straining to capture some elusive memory.
“Well.” A sardonic rumble broke the silence. “I wouldn’t have expected to find you in the library. What have you found that interests you?”
Six
V ivien whirled to see Morgan filling the doorway, the corner of his mouth tightened in a jaded quirk that passed for a smile. The somber gray of his trousers and waistcoat was balanced by a moss-colored coat that brightened the antique green of his eyes. She stumbled forward in her excitement, anxious to share her discovery.
“Grant,” she said breathlessly, while her heart raced in an uneven canter. A few books cascaded from her overburdened arms. “I-I found these…I remember reading some of them…You can’t imagine how it feels.” A wild, frustrated laugh escaped her. “Oh, why can’t I remember more? If only—”
“Vivien,” he said quietly, his smile fading. He reached her in three strides, helping to steady the jostling pile in her overburdened arms. As Vivien read the frown of concern on his face, she knewthat she must appear half mad. More words bubbled to her lips, but he hushed her gently.
“Let me,” he said, taking the mass of heavy volumes out of her unsteady grip. He set them on a nearby table and turned to her. Clasping her shoulders in his large hands, he eased her against his body. He held her in a reassuring embrace, his hand smoothing over the back of the velvet gown and lightly rubbing the lowest point of her spine. As he spoke, his breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple. “Tell me what you remember.”
Vivien shivered at
“No, the master is quite devoted to his books.” Mrs. Buttons repositioned a comfortable chair by the cheerful fire and drew back a curtain to admit plenty of daylight. “I’ll leave you to explore, Miss Duvall. Shall I send a tea tray for you?”
Vivien shook her head and wandered from one bookcase to another, her gaze rapidly scanning the enticing rows. The housekeeper laughed suddenly. “Until now, I’ve never seen anyone look at books the way Mr. Morgan does,” she remarked.
Barely aware of the housekeeper’s departure, Vivien opened a glass door and examined a row of poetry. Something strange happened as she read one title after another…Many of them seemed startlingly familiar, the words connecting in a way that made her quiver with surprise. Mesmerized, she reached for one of the books. She opened it, the textured leather binding soft beneath her fingers, and found a poem by John Keats entitled “Ode to a Grecian Urn.” Thou still unravished bride of quietness… It seemed as if she had read the words a thousand times before. A door opened in her mind, illuminating knowledge that had been stored away until this moment. Thoroughly unnerved, Vivien clutched the open volume against her chest and grabbed another off the shelf, and another…Shakespeare, Keats, Donne, Blake. There were many other instantly recognizable poems, fragments of which she could even recite by memory.
The relief of remembering something made her almost dizzy with excitement. She picked up and held as many books as possible, crowding them against her body, dropping a few in her haste. Shewanted to carry them all to a quiet corner, and read and read.
On a lower shelf she discovered well-worn volumes of philosophy. Snatching up Descartes’s Meditations , she flipped it open and feverishly read a passage aloud. “There is nothing, among the things I once believed to be true, which it is not permissible to doubt…”
Vivien hugged the open book to her chest, mind swimming with chaotic impressions. She was positive she had once studied this book, these words, with someone she had cared for very much. The familiarity of the words gave her a sense of safety and comfort she needed desperately. She closed her eyes and clutched the book harder, straining to capture some elusive memory.
“Well.” A sardonic rumble broke the silence. “I wouldn’t have expected to find you in the library. What have you found that interests you?”
Six
V ivien whirled to see Morgan filling the doorway, the corner of his mouth tightened in a jaded quirk that passed for a smile. The somber gray of his trousers and waistcoat was balanced by a moss-colored coat that brightened the antique green of his eyes. She stumbled forward in her excitement, anxious to share her discovery.
“Grant,” she said breathlessly, while her heart raced in an uneven canter. A few books cascaded from her overburdened arms. “I-I found these…I remember reading some of them…You can’t imagine how it feels.” A wild, frustrated laugh escaped her. “Oh, why can’t I remember more? If only—”
“Vivien,” he said quietly, his smile fading. He reached her in three strides, helping to steady the jostling pile in her overburdened arms. As Vivien read the frown of concern on his face, she knewthat she must appear half mad. More words bubbled to her lips, but he hushed her gently.
“Let me,” he said, taking the mass of heavy volumes out of her unsteady grip. He set them on a nearby table and turned to her. Clasping her shoulders in his large hands, he eased her against his body. He held her in a reassuring embrace, his hand smoothing over the back of the velvet gown and lightly rubbing the lowest point of her spine. As he spoke, his breath stirred the fine hairs at her temple. “Tell me what you remember.”
Vivien shivered at
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