Matthew nodded reluctantly, as he did not see how he was to refuse. “What is the book and where did you leave it?” he asked Juliet.
“It is my book of poetry and it is on my dressing table,” Juliet replied. “Do not go snooping into my things!”
“I do not give a toss for yourthings. What is the name of the book?” Matthew asked. “I’d like to be sure of retrieving the correct one so that we do not have to repeat this adventure.”
“There is no name, it ismybook. My own book of poems I have composed.”
“It is your commonplace book, then?”
“I suppose you might call it that, if you are determined. Though, as everybody including you knows full well, there is nothing at all commonplace about my poetry.”
Matthew turned his horse and set off, rather than stay and argue the point. Though if he had wished, he certainly could have argued the point. Naming Juliet’s poemscommonplacewould be the sort of high praise they had not come close to earning. Every single one of them that he’d been forced to hear had been dreadful.
He supposed he must only be grateful that they’d not got halfway to London before her book was remembered.
The steward, a hearty fellow named Lewis, let him in, looking rather surprised to see him back so fast.
“Lady Juliet has forgotten her commonplace book, which apparently she cannot live without,” he said, by way of explanation.
Lewis, having served the family for above twenty years, nodded in sympathy.
“She says she left it on her dressing table,” Matthew said. “Can you escort me there?”
Lewis glanced at the stairs. “Up there?” he asked. “I’ve only been up there the two times the house was on fire. To bring up more sand buckets, you see. I do not know which lady sleeps in which room, nor do I want to know. If I had ever an occasion to know, I have forgotten!”
Matthew was confounded. The earl might have told him where to go. Juliet might have told him where to go. But instead, they’d left it to poor Lewis who’d only twice brought up sand buckets and if he ever knew anything about it, he’d forced himself to forget.
“Very well,” he said. “It is on her dressing table, at least so she says. Come up with me and we’ll have a look.”
Lewis shook his head violently. “You’ll only see me up there when there’s a fire, Lord Van Doren.”
Matthew sighed. It was to be the usual Bennington family shambles. There was nothing for it, he dared not come back emptyhanded lest Juliet weep, then her sisters weep, and then the whole caravan would be turned round as the earl could not bear to see his daughters weeping.
He jogged up the stairs and began searching rooms. The earl’s bedchamber was obvious enough, as it was the largest and very clearly a man’s room, full of dark wood.
The rest of them were all in shades of pastel. He well knew when he’d stepped into Beatrice’s room. For months last year, she’d waxed on about which design of paper-hanging she would choose, finally settling on a chinoiserie of pale blue dominated by pink peonies.
He did not know what sort of picture her descriptions had created in his mind, but the reality of it was jarring. For one thing, she’d not mentioned all the birds perched on branches or just how many over-sized peonies were involved. It was rather like one had fallen into a giant garden of improbable flora.
Matthew could not imagine how she slept surrounded by such riotous images.
His eyes drifted toward the bed. There was something alarming about viewing where Beatrice laid her head.
He slowly backed out of the room.
Finally, he entered a bedchamber and saw an open book on a dressing table. He’d not been in every single room and, as the book was open, he thought he’d better at least glance at it to confirm it was Juliet’s book of poetry.
Ode to the Orb
Wonderous orb, you did not forsake me
Instead you return to gently wake me.
Be of good cheer life-giving circle
That you are yellow and not tragically purple.
“This must be it,” he muttered. “Heaven forbid we leave behind the ode to the wonderous yellow orb circle, otherwise known as the sun.”
