Three Weeks With Lady X(25)

These days, India felt herself to be the very opposite of adorable. She  looked haggard. She was so exhausted that she felt as if a horse had  ridden over her. Everywhere she looked, she saw more things that needed  attending to. Indeed, as she watched Thorn's letter burn, she realized  that the space over this fireplace needed a painting.

A family portrait would be perfect: perhaps Lala and her children in the  garden, and Thorn leaning against a tree just behind them, with that  fierce look he had, and the contained power of his body.

She shook her head, taking herself out of the room nearly at a run. She wouldn't answer his letter.

In fact, she shouldn't answer any more letters at all.

Dear India,

You will be happy to learn that I have solved the problem of the  governess. I found a tutor instead, a young sprig by the name of Twink.  He graduated from Cambridge about three and a half minutes ago, but he's  a good fellow. He laughs, which Rose needs.

Her nursemaid's name is Clara. She's a good girl from the Highlands and  will probably fall in love with Twink, but there's nothing I can do  about that. They will both accompany us to Starberry C. and stay in the  dower house.                       
       
           



       

Thorn

India had spent the whole of the afternoon in the library, sorting  through books in order to shelve them, and she still wasn't finished. In  her opinion, a library was the heart of a house. A library's  book-filled shelves conveyed the impression that a family has lived in  one place for generations: curious minds bequeathing their collections  for their descendants to read.

Obviously, Thorn didn't have that.

Nor, it seemed, had Jupp. Either he hadn't owned many books, or an  especially literate thief had ransacked the library, since most of the  bookshelves had been bare.

Never mind: India had bought three large crates of "miscellaneous books"  from the Temple of the Muses bookshop in Finsbury Square, and they'd  arrived that morning. The shelves had been scrubbed and oiled; now they  gleamed in the June sunlight, waiting to be filled. India began by  emptying the crates and piling the books on the floor according to  subject matter: literature and poetry (of which there were very few)  here, military history and the like (at least fifty) over there,  householdry and farming (three tall stacks) across the room. There were  books of essays, books of sermons, and fourteen Bibles. (Apparently the  bookseller hadn't thought she'd actually look at her purchases.)

When she had them sorted, she turned her attention to the books that  remained of Jupp's collection in order to distribute them among the  piles.

It was at that point-and perhaps she should not have been surprised-that she discovered his naughty books.

The first one she picked up was called Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure.  That was followed by Venus in the Cloister: or, The Nun in Her Smock;  The Rape of the Sabines; and The Amatory Adventures of Tilly Tucket.

"Tilly Tucket"? What sort of name was that? India sank to the floor and  opened the book at random, finding herself staring at an engraving of a  frolicsome couple. Like a silly chambermaid, she gasped and slammed the  volume shut, opened it again, and examined precisely what was happening.

She could feel her cheeks were pink by the time she put the book to the  side; perhaps she would buy a bookshelf that locked. After one quick  look at The Rape of the Sabines, she dropped that one onto a pile  destined to be thrown away, followed by a few others that were equally  horrid.

But then she picked up The Genuine and Remarkable Amours of a Light  Gentleman and turned to the first page. The book followed the adventures  of a young man called Francis Feather. "Feather" turned out to be not .  . . feathery. In fact, she had no idea that men's parts were so large.  Feather's was easily the size of his lower leg. It didn't seem  anatomically possible.

The volume was lavishly illustrated, and there was definitely something  riveting about the engravings. In one, for example, Feather and his  inamorata were making love on a table.

She could tell it was a dining table, because a teacup and two plates  had smashed on the floor, presumably owing to the frenzy of their  activity. It made her think differently about household cleaning, though  surely the depiction was merely there to shock.

Adelaide had explained that these things happened under the covers, in the dark. Once in a while.

Well, maybe Adelaide hadn't specified that, but India had inferred it.

Feather observed no such restrictions: in another engraving, he was  depicted on a riverbank, and when he did appear in a bed, he had a woman  nestled on each side, just like the Greek statuary now residing in the  attic.

At that point, India turned back and began reading the actual story. She  only came to herself thirty minutes later, when the light was slanting  low through the library windows. Pushing her hair behind her ears, she  realized that her fingers were trembling.

It was an interesting book, she told herself. Merely interesting. She  closed it, willing herself to forget the images inside. It was just that  the engravings looked so, well, erotic . . . and the women didn't  appear to be shy or ashamed. They appeared to be very jolly.

Eager, even.

Though how could they possibly be? It wasn't physically possible. But  there was that picture of the table, with the woman's head hanging off  the edge, her hair sweeping the floor. That had to be ecstasy on her  face.

It was hard to tell. India opened to the page again and turned it upside down, the better to examine the woman's face.

Her mouth was open. Was she in extreme pain, or was she experiencing pleasure?

She was mulling this over when a noise broke her concentration and she  looked up. Thorn stood in the doorway, regarding her. She slammed the  book shut and scrambled to her feet, feeling like a child caught  sneaking bonbons. "What on earth are you doing here? You aren't due for  two days!"                       
       
           



       

Thorn raised an eyebrow. "You didn't answer my last two letters. I  thought I'd better make sure you hadn't collapsed with exhaustion."

"Of course I haven't," India said, dropping her arm so the book was hidden by the folds of her skirt.

"I've been at the factory all day, so I stopped by on my way back to  London." He looked around at the stacks. "Tell me you're not trying to  organize these books."

India cleared her throat. "Just in a general way, by subject. I'll put the literature in one section, histories in another."

"I suppose the library is one good thing that comes from owning a  country estate." He walked over to the table and picked up a book on  animal husbandry. "I can send out the books I have sitting around in  London. They've outgrown the bookshelves in my library and are stacked  against the walls, much to my housekeeper's dissatisfaction."

India casually slid Remarkable Amours on top of a stack of books  describing travel. Thorn picked a book from another stack, and looked at  its spine. "Are these all books of sermons?"

"I'm afraid so," India said. "That stack and the one over there, and all those on the far table."

"Jupp never fails to surprise. Get rid of those, will you? That will leave space for my London books."

India nodded. "What books do you enjoy?"

"Anything I can get my hands on, though not sermons. What else is in here?"

The naughty books came to India's mind, but she had no idea how to refer  to them. "Let's see . . . There is a short stack of grammar books, two  of Greek grammar and three of German."

Thorn turned up the lamps fixed to the walls, and another on the  mantelpiece. "I suppose I can give those to Rose. She's such a solemn  little thing that she'll probably work through them in a matter of a  week."

"I found a couple of children's books that she might like. I put them in the dower house."

"We've already made two trips to Hatchard's bookshop," he remarked  casually, returning to the table and picking up a travel narrative.

India felt her insides clench. If he glanced at the next stack . . .

"I didn't think that you would conduct such errands yourself," she said,  edging closer to the questionable volume and leaning her hip against  the table. In a moment, she would nonchalantly pick up the entire stack  and carry it over to a shelf.

"Rose's governesses have barely stayed in the house long enough to  unpack. But from now on, Twink can take her to the bookshop. You know,  you could have simply piled these books onto the shelves." He laughed at  the expression on her face. "I gather you're a perfectionist."

"I wouldn't be very good at this profession if I weren't."