The five times that Isobel Crawley was caught reading something she shouldn't have been...
Workers' Weekly -1920
"The Dowager Countess, Ma'am."
Isobel almost jumped out of her skin, hastily reaching for the bundle of unfinished knitting beside her chair and bringing it untidily to sit in her lap, hoping it might cover up her reading material. However, all of the loose strands on wool seemed to get caught on the arm of the chair and on each other, making even more of a mess of the knitting than it had been when she begun.
"Oh, heavens, Ethel," she sighed in tangled exasperation, "Can't you hold her off for a moment?"
"And why should she want to do that?" came Violet's voice, "If this is a bad time to call you need only tell me."
Isobel looked up sharply. Imagining what she must look like- a little flustered, covered in rapidly unravelling and somehow still tangled knitting, trying in vain to hide a copy of her rather eye-catching reading material- she should have thought it was transparently obvious that this was a bad time, for Violet of all people, to pay a call. It wasn't that she was ashamed of reading Workers' Weekly, in fact she rather be caught with it than any of the pathetic drossy novels people expected women to read- even in these enlightened times- it was just that Violet, of all people was likely to make a fuss about it.
Despite the fact that they both knew she did not want to be called upon at the moment, she smiled a little dryly.
"Of course not," she replied as politely as possible, "Please, do sit down."
Violet returned an equally perfunctory smile, sitting down with her usual stately demeanour.
"Ethel will bring us some tea, won't you?" she asked. She almost added "dear", but stopped herself.
It seemed that the newspaper had escaped Violet's attention, but that most certainly would not. But it was true, increasingly she was starting to feel quite motherly towards Ethel. She was fond of the girl, and she certainly worked hard, poor thing. In fact it would be no exaggeration to say that often, when she was alone in the evenings, she felt tempted to go to the kitchen and eat her supper with Ethel, it was ludicrous that they should both have to live in isolation. She rather suspected she was feeling so affectionate towards the girl because she no longer had Matthew at home to mother, but no doubt Violet would see it as her trying to affect a class revolution and starting in her own home. She sighed quietly to herself, but obviously not as quietly as she thought.
"What's the matter?" Violet asked her, in what she was sure was an attempt at kindliness that couldn't help but come out sounding sharp.
"Oh, nothing," she replied, "I suppose I might just be a little tired."
"Oh," Violet seemed rather put out by this assertion, "I had thought you might, perhaps, have read something unsettling?"
So she had seen the newspaper! There was no way she couldn't have, it was obvious, she asked the question so pointedly. Really, nothing got past her.
"No, not quite unsettling," Isobel replied, refusing to apologise for what she read in her own home, "Except if you mean that it pointed out a few rather troubling things about society as it is. But as a whole I would say it was more... interesting than unsettling. Yes, interesting, definitely."
It was very difficult, it had always been very difficult not to burst out laughing under one of Violet's disapproving looks. Really, she had stopped finding them intimidating in 1912.
The rather stony silence was broken by the sound of Ethel opening the door, tray in hand.
"Ah, the tea," with some difficulty but little concern, Isobel shifted the woolly mess back onto the side table next to her chair so she could stand up and help to pour, "Thank you, Ethel dear."
A Further Study into Infection in Children- 1913
She never had been able to resist the look of a manuscript. There was something wonderfully secret and exclusive in looking at the raw pages of unpublished work. For a moment, she forget where she was, forgot the implications of who the book might belong to and drew her right-hand glove off, the better to turn the pages.
She had been told that she could wait for Dr. Clarkson in his office, and she had been content to do so peaceably, until she had spotted the obvious wedge of papers sitting in the centre of his desk.
On the title page were words that almost surprised her into stopping, but ultimately only acted to ignite her curiosity even further:
A Further Study into Infection in Children by Dr. Richard Clarkson
She paused, digesting this information, and all it revealed to her about the man whom she worked with. She hadn't known that he was writing a book, he hadn't mentioned as much as a word about it to her. Puzzled and slightly hurt that he hadn't divulged this secret to her- even on a professional level- she turned to the next page. The words she read almost caused her to need to sit down in the chair behind the desk.
This work is greatly indebted to the previous work in this field done by Dr. Reginald Crawley. This work by no means intends to undermine Dr. Crawley's findings, but to extend their development and make some very minor corrections. The author also acknowledges his deep gratitude to Mrs. Reginald Crawley- to whom this modest volume is dedicated- for the posthumous publication of her husband's research, as well as the invaluable assistance and support she has most competently afforded.And unwittingly!- Isobel addedto herself as she read that last sentence over again. Really, she had no idea that he was planning any of this, much less that he had dedicated his work to her. What a foolish notion! What a ridiculous, hysterical, sentimental, foolish, beautiful notion.
So wrapped up was she in surprise and contemplation that she did not notice that the door had opened until it shut with a small snap. Her head jerked upwards and her eyes met firmly with Dr. Clarkson's, her fingers still resting guiltily between the pages of his manuscript.
For a long long moment neither of them said anything. His eyes slowly traced up her arm from her fingers to her face, taking in what she was doing. She felt very much as if every inch of her skin that his eyes covered was blushing frantically.
Finally, he spoke.
"You're reading my book."
She flushed a little deeper.
"You're dedicating your book to me," she replied defensively.
"You didn't ask if you could," he admonished gently.
"Neither did you."
They were quiet for another moment.
"What do you think of it so far?" he asked, sounding quite abashed to be asking her her opinion of it at the moment, but firm in his question all the same and eager to know.
"So far I've only got as far as the dedication," she replied apologetically.
He looked a little downcast, but nodded as if he understood and it was only to be expected.
"But it was very good," she told him softly, smiling at him.
It worked, he looked up, into her face again.
"Really?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, smiling a little more broadly at the look on his face, "I liked it a lot."
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman -1914
"Cousin Isobel, are you reading?"
Isobel looked up hastily. Standing a few yards from her, squinting in the light of the sunny day was Sybil.
"No," she replied, throwing her young cousin- who, after all, had a sense of humour- an ironic smile, "I'm just holding up the book to shade my eyes."
Sybil smiled back.
"You are reading," she confirmed, coming closer to her and taking the book from her, "I saw you turning the pages. And in the middle of Mama's garden party too!" she added, pretending to be shocked.
"Yes. And I suppose it makes me a very dingy middle-class intellectual, does it?" she asked her.
"Well, that depends on what it is," Sybil told her, inspecting the front cover, "A Vindication of the Rights of Woman by Mary Wollstonecraft," she read, the hint of mocking seeming to suddenly drain from her eyes, the glint in her eyes being replaced by a more serious expression.
Isobel smiled at the silence that followed.
"I was surprised there was a copy in your father's library," she told her conversationally, lifting the volume gently out of her hand, "Somehow I didn't quite think it would be his cup of tea. I used to have my own copy, but it got lost when we moved here from Manchester."
"What's it like?" Sybil asked, her voice suddenly full of more gravity.
Isobel smiled again.
"You know, once I've finished with it, I think you might like to read it for yourself."
4. The Daring Adventures of Captain Matthew Reginald Crawley, the Bravest of the Brave- 1896
Isobel smiled to herself, leaning over her son's shoulder and reading what he was writing. Bent intently over his desk, he had not realised that she was there, and he went on writing in his slow, careful handwriting, oblivious to her watchful eye. The story, as far as she could tell, was going to be about fighting a dragon, that looked very much like their cook. She bit her lip to stop herself laughing, but me must have heard her stifled laughter because a moment later he sprang out of his chair, hurriedly hiding the papers he was writing on.
"Mother!" he shouted at her indignantly, "What are you doing? You can't read this, it's private!"
"I'm sorry, my darling," she told him, still trying not to laugh, "I had just come up to tell you that your father and I are waiting for Captain Matthew Reginald Crawley to come downstairs so we can have out supper."
Really, she'd never had her son down as an aspiring novelist. The thought had just never really crossed her mind. He scowled at her deeply, and refused to move.
"I'm sorry, my darling," she told him again, more seriously this time, bending down a little to his level, "I didn't mean to make fun of you or your story. I'm sorry I read it. Now will you please come down and have your supper with us, like a gentleman?"
He was quiet for a moment, his frown relaxing.
She smiled at him, at his face that to this day she found so very beautiful, a beautiful as the day he was born, and extended her hand to him. His little hand slipped into her larger one.
"I wouldn't mind if you did read it, mother," he told her tentatively as they made their way downstairs, "You could tell me if you liked it."
She smiled.
"I'd like to do that, Matthew," she told him sincerely, "We'll read it together first thing tomorrow."
5. The Scarlett Letter -1920
Really, she knew she shouldn't be reading this. It was a silly thing to do, apart from anything else. But the slightest suggestion of there being anything inappropriate in reading a book, and Isobel never seemed to be able to resist picking it up, especially if Violet was going to be so disapproving of it; that practically made it essential reading. If anything, she was rather put out by the implication that Mrs Hughes had read it, when she hadn't, it made her feel rather behind.
So she had found herself a copy, and was now settled on the sofa before the fire, reading it, with, it could almost be said, quite some absorption.
Except, she realised now, the someone was watching her. She lowered her book, smiling rather incredulously.
"You let yourself in very quietly," she remarked to Richard, who was standing before her in his shirt sleeves, "You never usually do anything quietly."
Smiling, he sat down on the settee beside her, their bodies automatically leaning together.
"It was worth the effort," he told her, "To come in here and catch the sight of you unawares reading," he took the book from her to look at the front cover, "Gracious, The Scarlett Letter!"
She smiled, she liked being able to surprise him.
"Yes," she replied shortly, "The Scarlett Letter. Have I shocked you?"
"Not really," he decided, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, "To be honest, it was more of a surprise the time I found you in the bath reading Madam Bovary."
"I'll bet it was," she replied, smiling.
He kissed the top of her head, and she closed her eyes softly, liking the way the warmth of his body added to the warmth from the fire.
"Are you tired?" she asked him.
"A little," he replied, "Not very."
"Would you like to go up to bed?" she smiled, a little coyly.
He looked down at her face, kissing her lips once and smiling back.
"Yes, please."
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