That evening, after the supper dishes had been washed and put away, Madeline ventured into Adam’s study to look at his books. It would do her good, she thought, to immerse herself in an intriguing story for the next few days, to help pass the time.
Candelabra in hand, she made her way down the dark center hall, the heels of her shoes tapping lightly over the wood floor. The door to Adam’s den was open, but inside, the room was black, the curtains drawn and keeping out the moonlight.
She carried her candles in to the tall bookcase on the far side of the fireplace and held the light up to the spines of all the books, delighted by the simple pleasure of smelling them.
There were so many. Surely every one of Shakespeare’s plays. She had not yet read King Lear. Perhaps she would begin with that one.
As she knelt down and let her fingers graze over others closer to the floor, she found new temptations—Homer, Hobbs, Norton, Milton, as well as a number of other authors whose names she did not recognize.
She pulled out something by Samuel Richardson—a thick novel calledClarissa, or The History of a Young Lady.Madeline set her candles on the floor and opened the book. Just then, she heard footsteps come into the room. She stood quickly, stepping sideways in a panicky effort not to singe her skirts on the candles.
Carrying his own candelabra, Adam slowly approached and bent to pick up hers. He set it in a safer place upon a desk.
“Did you think I was a ghost?” he asked.
She smiled. “I wasn’t sure. You surprised me.”
“I do apologize. I thought I heard you come in here. Have you found anything that interests you?”
Heart still racing, Madeline cleared her throat to speak. “I was just about to look at this one.”
He came to stand next to her and held his candles over the book she held. “Clarissa.Are you sure? I believe it’s the longest novel in the English language.”
Madeline laughed.
Her reaction seemed to amuse him. With a smile, he said, “It’s no joke, my dear,” and furtively slid the book out of her hands. His were large and strong, yet graceful as he ran his fingers over the lettering. “Do you know anything about it?”
“No, nothing.”
“The characterization is magnificently sustained, but it’s very tragic. I wouldn’t recommend it to everyone. It all depends upon your tastes.”
“I’m open to anything if it’s well written. I’ve read my share of tragedies.”I’ve lived my share, too.
“Well, don’t let me influence what you choose. Taste in literature is very personal.”
He handedClarissaback to her. Their hands touched briefly, but he shied away, as if her fingers were hot to the touch. Madeline thought of their conversation in the kitchen that morning and colored fiercely. Did he regret confiding in her, and had he been uncomfortable with the way she had held his hand? Perhaps this was his way of telling her that he knew she was attracted to him, and he intended to discourage her.
She was glad she would be leaving soon.
Madeline putClarissaback where she found it. “Can you recommend something else? Perhaps something shorter?”
Adam held his candles up to the titles on a higher shelf. Madeline stared at the strong line of his jaw in the flickering candlelight and wished she could reach out and run her fingers along the shadow of stubble.
He looked over the spines for a few seconds. He seemed intimately familiar with where everything was. “Have you read any Shakespeare?” Then he smiled down at her. “Of course you have.”
She returned his smile. “Yes, but not everything.”
“What aboutMeasure for Measure?”
“Yes, I’ve read that one.”
“What did you think?”
“I thought the ending was hurried.”
He continued to look over the titles on the spines, tilting his head to the side to read them, running his fingers over the embossed lettering. “I thought so, too.”
Madeline stood back, watching, enjoying these precious moments of conversation with him, talking about books. She realized now that she had come to understand him on a deeper level these past weeks—staying up late to talk about the marshlands and what he wanted to accomplish to ensure their survival.
