Chapter Two
The next three days passed for Bella in a blur of scrubbing floors, removing, airing and replacing heavy drapes, tedious dusting of vases and other bric-a-brac and numerous other tasks. In a house the size of Wrenfield Hall, there was a never-ending list of chores, and Lord Masen was intent on keeping the great house in top order. His interest in upkeep stretched beyond the borders of the house, too. Daily he rode for miles around the estate, checking on fish ponds, making sure fields were not being overgrazed, visiting with tenant farmers to inquire after the harvest, meeting with the overseers of the vast woods to mark mature trees to be felled, ensuring that others were left to continue to grow and keep the forests healthy.
Masen loved the estate, its gardens, buildings, fields, woods and ponds. It was his home, more than the London house had ever been. Even as a boy, he had never felt entirely comfortable in the city – there were too many people! Too much dust, grime and noise. As a younger man, he attended balls, parties and other social events, mostly out of obligation and to make his mother happy.
Elizabeth Masen knew her older son did not enjoy city life. He was so much like his father! The previous Lord Masen also endured his time in London for the sake of his dear wife and with the hope that his sons would find suitable wives. But he counted the days on the calendar until he could return to the country, no matter the season.
Lady Masen was at home both in London and at Wrenfield and her two sons seemed to each show a strong preference for the two sides of her personality. James, the younger boy, loved parties, late nights, the theater, playing cards and general carousing. He was charming and sociable with a devilish grin that made the ladies giggle and blush and whisper together in corners. He wore his blond hair longer than most men, tied low at the back of his neck. He found that the ladies loved it.
If James loved the night, Edward loved the day. He loved to arise early, walk the grounds, meet with the tenant farmers, go over plans for improvements to house and land. He loved good food but was just as satisfied with a meal of new potatoes with butter and dish of fresh blackberries as he was an elegant 10-course meal of exquisitely prepared delicacies and fine meats. He read incessantly in the evenings, and kept up faithfully with correspondence.
In short, Edward was well suited to country life. He was happy at Wrenfield – at least as happy as a lone man could be.
-xxx-
Bella stood, neck craned upward, feather duster in hand, as she contemplated the tower of books before her. She was tasked with dusting the dark wood-paneled library, a job that likely would take her the remainder of the afternoon. Bella welcomed the chore, despite the tedium – she felt more at home here in this room, even with it's startling ceiling paintings of all-seeing eyes framed by golden rays, than in any of the other great rooms, where she always felt insignificant and out of place.
But here – the books seemed both friendly and exciting to her. She had always loved books, ever since her father patiently taught her to read as a five-year-old. Bella allowed herself a moment of sadness – grief, even – as she thought of her father's small library at her old home. It filled one cabinet, probably about fifty volumes, but it was an entire world to Bella. He father had carefully chosen the best books he could afford – world geography, modern science, Shakespeare, the classics, poetry, even popular novels like Gulliver's Travels, Charles Dickens and the works of Jane Austen, a gift to Bella.
The library here held many times the small collection of Charles Swan. Bella began to count but the brown and red spines with their gilt lettering swam before her eyes and she gave up the project. Thousands of volumes, at least, she guessed.
After drawing back the heavy drapes, letting in sunlight to make seeing the dust on every book easier, Bella set to work.
All afternoon, Bella doggedly and carefully dusted row after row, cabinet after cabinet. The shelves were behind glass, nonetheless, some dust did creep in and required attention.
Finally, she was done. For three hours she resisted the temptation to remove a single book from its resting spot on the shelf and peek inside. She had to be satisfied with reading the titles and imagining what lay inside the covers or remembering the contents, whenever she chanced upon a book her father had owned.
But as she climbed down the oak library ladder that ran on a track along the huge case of books, she caught her eye on a familiar volume: The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy by Jacob Burckhardt. It was a newer acquisition of her father's, one she was in the midst of reading when her father abruptly died.
Carefully, she slid the book from between its companions and made her way down two more rungs to the floor. Lovingly she opened the red leather bound book, found where she had left off and began to read.
Minutes passed, twenty or more, as Bella grew more engrossed, perching on the library ladder, not daring to sit in one of the inviting leather chairs that flanked the great fireplace opposite the large bookcase.
It was this scene that Edward encountered as he entered the library. His boots were muffled by the thick Turkish carpet runner that led to the doorway and Bella did not hear his approach. She continued to read, book in one hand as the other absentmindedly tapped her lower lip.
Edward watched her for a moment. The late afternoon sunlight streamed in, dust dancing in the shafts of light. Bella's dark hair shone under her cap and a stray lock curled loosely down her cheek.
He contemplated leaving her – he understood what it was like to get lost in a book and hated to interrupt anyone who was occupied thusly, even if it was his own servant girl who undoubtedly had other work to get to and had no permission to handle the books, except in the course of her duties.
But Edward found he liked that she was reading one of his books. He recognized the red cover and silently complimented her on her choice. He had selected and purchased the book himself last year in London.
He was suddenly overcome with the desire to converse with her about the book, to ask whether she agreed with Burckhardt's decision to include the examination of social institutions in a volume of cultural history or to ask who her favorite Renaissance painter was, anything…
He approached. As his boots clicked onto the hard floor, Bella gasped and straightened, the book tumbling out of her hand and falling with an echoing thud to the parquet floor.
Her face flushed red as she bent to retrieve the book.
Oh no, oh no, oh no…I've ruined everything! I'll lose my place here! I'll be turned out without a recommendation!
Her thoughts raced as she straightened to see Lord Masen standing several feet in front of her with a look of intensity on his green eyes.
Say something, Edward! he told himself. Talk to her…ask her about the book.
But before he could make himself do so, Bella curtsied hastily.
"I'm so sorry sir, please forgive me. I….just…I'm sorry."
Bella began to leave, then realized she still had the book in her hand. Frantically, she wondered if she should climb the ladder to replace the book but opted instead to set it gently on the massive oak table that dominated the center space of the room.
I don't suppose it matters, Bella thought sadly. I'll be let go as soon as Mrs. Mallory gets wind of this anyway.
And she left the room.
-xxx-
After dinner, as Bella and Lizzie climbed the stairs to the third floor to retire for the evening, Lizzie kept up her steady stream of chatty gossip.
"And Sarah said that the new stable boy is Grace's first cousin and that he still tried to kiss her last evening. Can you imagine?"
Bella tried her best to look shocked at this piece of news but failed, looking instead just confused and a little bit sick.
Lizzie looked at her with a careful eye.
"Are you alright, Bella? You don't look well."
"No, I'm fine. I'm just tired," Bella lied.
"Well," said Lizzie doubtfully, "I'll see you in the morning then."
"Goodnight," said Bella softly. With a sigh she turned the knob and entered her own small chamber. She would miss Lizzie, she thought, when she was let go. For all her silliness, Lizzie was kindhearted and likely a loyal friend. Sadly, Bella realized she would never get the chance to know for sure.
She saw it as soon as she stepped inside. It was such a small room it was all easily taken in at one glance.
The red volume that she had read – and dropped – that afternoon, in the presence of Lord Masen himself, lay in the middle of her neatly made bed. It was positioned to be square with the lines of the bed as if it had been carefully placed just so.
Bella's heart gave an unexpected thump. She furrowed her brow, unable to comprehend what she saw. He had the book sent up to her room – or brought it up himself. It made no sense to her. Why? What message is he sending? Does he want to make sure that I remember why I will be let go? Is it a gesture of friendship? Ridiculous, friendship! she chided herself. Gentlemen are not friends with housemaids.
She sat down weakly in the straight-backed wooden chair at the end of the narrow room, exhausted from the day, confused by this new development. With a tired hand, and never taking her eyes from the book, she removed her cap and let her hands fall to her lap. She sat that way for a long time, too tired to sort it all out in her head but trying anyway.
-xxx-
The fire in Edward's bedchamber was down to glowing embers, and still he sat in the comfortable wing chair, staring. In his mind, he again replayed the events of the afternoon and the evening – the surge of excitement he felt when he saw her in the library, how he wished to know what she was thinking, the flush on her face and the look of fear when she found she was discovered, her hasty curtsey and exit…
She left so quickly he could not talk to her as he had planned. He could not tell her to take the book with her and return it when she had finished with it. He wanted those moments with her to begin to know her and to try to determine why he felt such a pull to her.
He wished he felt such a pull to Tanya – that would make his life immeasurably easier. If only he could bring himself to care more for her! Tanya was beautiful and witty, true, but he found her wanting. He wished she had more of the kindness of his mother, the intellect of his father.
He shook his head and stood up to ready himself for bed.
A few minutes later, as he lay in bed, he permitted himself reflection on his stealthy evening adventure. While the servants ate their evening meal and he could be relatively sure of an empty corridor in the servants sleeping quarters, he had quietly ascended to the third floor, The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy in hand. He knew it was wrong, but he planned to try to deduce which room was Bella's by peeking in each of the servant's rooms.
Luck was on his side. He slowly turned the knob on the first door on the right side of the corridor and peered in. A quick look inside the small neat room and he found just the clue he was looking for – two cross stitch samplers on the wall, one with the name Isabella Marie Swan embroidered on the bottom.
Edward quickly stepped inside the door and pulled it closed behind him. He set the book down on the bed, straightened it slightly, stood back up and looked around. The room was spartan. One narrow bed, neatly made with a small, plain bedside table. One dresser with a cracked looking glass hanging over it. One straight-backed wooden chair. One wash basin and jug on a small stand.
It struck Edward that the room's occupant had attempted to make a home here. Above the cross stitch that bore her name was a smaller one, dated fifteen years earlier, done by a Renee Hastings. Her mother, Edward guessed.
A delicate piece of tatting lay flat on the bedside table and a white eyelet cloth graced the top of the dresser. On it was a hair comb and a miniature portrait of a man in profile, the kind done by traveling artists. Who was this, Edward wondered? He hoped it was her father.
A bunch of dried lavender, tied with a pale green ribbon, hung on a pin on one side of the looking glass. It's scent filled the room. On the other side was affixed a hand colored etching of San Marco Piazza in Venice. Edward leaned in for closer examination – it looked as though it belonged in a book and had been cut out.
Other than those few personal objects, the room was clean and bare. One small window nestled in a gable on the wall opposite the door, looking out over the front drive that led to the house and beyond that, miles of fields and trees that were fading from summer green to the muted yellows, browns and reds of autumn.
This is her view, Edward mused. Most of what she could see belonged to Wrenfield Hall, to him. He paused a moment, took one more look around the room, and slipped back out into the hall and back down the stairs.