But therein lay the rub. Even if there had been someone who showed interest, she did not want to marry. She wanted her books and her father and the lively conversations they had had, the visits with his contemporaries, the intellectual stimulation…she wanted her life back. A thing not on offer.
For an instant, she considered telling the solicitor exactly that, but the hopeful expression that wreathed his features made her hold her tongue. He would not understand. In his estimation, women had their place.
She had learned that very lesson when, at the age of fourteen she had been sent to Mrs. Trevisham’s School for Young Ladies. Papa had been concerned that there was no feminine influence in her life, and that as she came of age, the lack would do her a disservice. But she had quickly come to understand that she was not the sort of young lady Mrs. Trevisham’s School preferred.
She had lasted five weeks.
Her return home had been accompanied by a lengthy letter from Mrs. Trevisham which had included observations such as: Her needlework is appalling. She cannot play the pianoforte at all. She has no knowledge of watercolors. She does not interact well with the other young ladies. Too outspoken…not feminine…was caught reading a book of human anatomy…disruptive…cannot be tolerated…
Papa had burned the letter and continued to educate her himself, encouraging her not only to finish that book on human anatomy, but read another should her interest lead her in such a direction. She had been glad to be home, even if she had missed some of the girls she had met at the school and had wished she had the chance to pursue those friendships. She had written and, in the beginning, they had written back. But the foundation of her association with them had been too brief and the passage of time had seen the letters grow infrequent and then stop altogether.
Which left a simple but unyielding truth: with Papa dead, she had nowhere to go, no one to rely upon. She was completely and utterly alone.
“I have had no offer of that sort,” Isabella said.
“I see.” Mr. Christopher continued to frown down at his fingertips. “Will you accept employment with Mr. Caradoc?”
She ought to say no and end the matter. She ought to remove that option completely.
Instead, she murmured, “It would mean leaving London,” effectively ending that line of inquiry while avoiding a direct reply.
She looked around the room at the shelves upon shelves of her father’s treasured books. How many times had Papa run his gloved fingers over these leather-bound spines, whispering their titles like prayers? How often had he told her that these books were his life’s work, and hers by inheritance.
A hollow ache bloomed beneath her ribs. Each title felt like a farewell.
She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I will sell my father’s collection.”
The wind rattled the windowpane as though in protest, a long, hollow sigh threading through the cracks. Isabella ignored it, steeling herself as she met Mr. Christopher’s gaze. Somewhere deep in her chest, an ache formed, a premonition, perhaps, that this decision would lead her down a road from which there would be no return.
Mr. Christopher’s eyes widened. For an instant, she thought he was merely surprised that she would part with these treasures. But then his frown deepened, and he said, “I’m afraid your father sold the collection in its entirety several months ago.”
Shock and hurt rendered her speechless. She felt wounded that Papa would have done such a thing, sold the collection and said not a word. He had made no mention that their straits were so dire…
But as she thought back, she realized that while he might not have said anything, there had been indications she had chosen to ignore.
The small gifts Papa had loved to bring her—a ribbon, a book, a bag of sweets—had grown infrequent and then absent. She had thought it was because he was ailing and left the house less often. They had not hired an upstairs maid to replace the one who left. She had told herself it was because they had no need of an upstairs maid in their small and comfortable household, that their maid of all work was adequate. Most telling, Papa had stopped purchasing rare books, even when she heard whispers of the availability of an original English translation of a Cornelius Agrippa text from 1670. He had explained away his uncharacteristic disinterest with a wave of his hand and the excuse that his shelves were full.
Isabella had known that they had grown ever more careful with their money, but she had not known— or was it that she had not acknowledged? —the whole of it. There had been coin to pay the bills. No creditors had knocked at the door. She had allowed herself to believe that was enough.
“If the books were sold, why are they still here?” she asked.
“Mr. Caradoc agreed to let your father keep them here until the collection was fully catalogued.”
Isabella stared at him as the name registered. Mr. Caradoc.
After a moment, she gathered herself and said, “The collection is fully catalogued. I completed the work myself.”
“Yes. And with your father’s demise…” Mr. Christopher cleared his throat. “Mr. Caradoc has already contacted me to arrange for transfer of the collection.” Mr. Christopher waved a hand to encompass the shelves that lined the walls and the stacks of books on the floor.
Isabella’s thoughts spun to the locked trunk in Papa’s chamber. Not all his books had been catalogued; not all had been sold. Not the ones in that trunk.
They had titles like Petit Albert, Dragon Rouge, and Grimorium Verum. Some had no titles at all and were more journal than tome, diaries of spells and conjuration, written by souls long passed from this earth.
The key she had taken from Papa’s closed fist the night he died hung around her neck. Cold and impossibly heavy, its presence was a dark whisper against her skin.
“Do you know Mr. Caradoc well?”
His gaze slid back, open and honest. “Well enough. He is a gentleman.”
