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“Indeed,” Ophelia added. “And we be ’appy to see ye were able to remove the rest o’ the leaves from your ’air,” Ophelia continued.

There it was. Livvy knew it was only a matter of time before the girls couldn’t help but mention Livvy’s odd behavior. At least August wasn’t there. Or Father.

Mrs. Moon tipped her head to the side in question as she peered at her daughter. “Leaves, what do ye mean, Ophelia?”

Ophelia exchanged glances with Portia. “Oh, it be just a little joke ’tween us and Miss May. We found the poor dear stuck in a thicket o’ bushes today.” She leaned close to her mother. “We believe she was readin’ in ’em.”

Mrs. Moon looked to Livvy, confusion in her eyes before she blinked it away. Clearly, she was doing her best not to pry. Livvy appreciated the attempt, and while everything within her told her to keep the woman guessing—that she would not satisfy Ophelia with a victory of speaking of her behavior—she supposed practicing now on Mrs. Moon would help her be more eloquent with August.

With a stifled sigh, she opened her mouth, ready to explain, but Portia spoke instead. “I don’t understand those who ’ave the desire to read.”

Livvy clamped her mouth shut. This was not a conversation in which she would linger. Father had sworn her off from speaking of reading, and Livvy would receive no joy in speaking of books with girls who did not appreciate them.

She glanced about the room to distract herself, trying not to admire the fine décor but unable to keep from doing so. The room was painted in a light blue that brightened the space far more than her own little sitting room. The furnishings were much softer, cushioned with deep blue pillows, and the walls held a few paintings of Cornish landscapes.

Her attention was pulled first and foremost, however, to the large bookshelf at the front of the room, holding over a hundred books, if not two hundred. Livvy’s mouth watered over the sight far more than the lemon and tarragon whitefish they’d served for dinner.

If she were to have an excess of money—not that she and Father were lacking in any degree—she would have bookshelves like that throughout her entire home.

“Ye must forgive me daugh’ers,” Mrs. Moon said, drawing Livvy’s attention away from the books. Mrs. Moon smiled in Ophelia’s direction, though there was a hint of chiding in her tone. “I fear they ain’t great readers.” She turned to Livvy with sparkling eyes. “We ’aven’t spoken in some time, but I trust ye remember me own fondness o’ readin’?”

Livvy nodded. Mrs. Moon was whom Father borrowed most of the new books from. She’d sent a note or two to the woman—and always told Father to thank her—but she now heartily regretted her lack of spoken gratitude for Mrs. Moon’s generosity.

“I do remember,” she said. “I’ve been meanin’ to thank ye for the books ye’ve allowed me to borrow. I’ve enjoyed each of ’em greatly.”

Mrs. Moon hardly looked upset that Livvy had yet to thank her face-to-face, much to Livvy’s relief. “Oh, I be that glad to ’ear it. ’Ave ye a favorite, per’aps?”

Ophelia and Portia exchanged glances of boredom. How someone as delightful as Mrs. Moon could have such daughters as tiresome as these was beyond Livvy.

She ought to have cringed at her own judgments. Instead, she decided to simply pray extra hard for forgiveness tonight.

“I be partial to many of ’em,” Livvy said. “Though I especially liked…” She paused. She was speaking of reading. But then, surely she would be rude not to answer the question, wouldn’t she? She would simply finish the conversation before Father came through. “I especially liked Tales of the Dead.”

Mrs. Moon’s eyes brightened. “Oh, a chillin’ collection. One o’ me personal favorites, too.”

Laughter from the men in the dining room nearby rumbled toward them like a distant summer thunderstorm, a promise of moisture to ease a sweltering day, but Livvy didn’t mind being away from them as much now. As their conversation continued with Mrs. Moon describing her plans to soon refurbish one of their rooms into a library to showcase even more of the books she possessed, Livvy also found her eyes darting less longingly to the door.

“And what ’ave ye been readin’ lately?” Mrs. Moon asked next. “Anythin’ to recommend?”

Livvy shifted her head back and forth as she thought. “I’ve read a few, yes. I only just started Robinson Crusoe. I be enjoyin’ most of it, though there be moments with which I do not connect.”

“Such as?” Ophelia asked, as if desperate to involve herself in the conversation somehow. She must have realized the two of them were going to continue speaking of books.

Livvy hesitated. “Oh, I’d never dream o’ taintin’ someone’s opinion on a book they ’aven’t read yet by sharin’ moments I didn’t enjoy—or issues I disagree with. ’Sides, every author be a product o’ their own time, and every author, I believe, does ’is or ’er best to tell the tale they wish to. Who be I to judge what one chooses to write about?”

Ophelia sniffed. “Well, I for one take no issue in judgmentin’ a book I do not like.”

Livvy stifled the response she longed to give. Perhaps if Ophelia spent less time ‘judgmenting’ books, she’d find more time learning to use proper words.

But that would hardly be the kind thing to say. Honestly, Ophelia was a clever girl. She knew how to converse and how to work a crowd, things Livvy would never be able to do. She shouldn’t judge the girl for her lack of reading or proper speech simply because her strengths lied elsewhere.

“ I can see your understandin’,” Livvy said instead. “But so much of ’ow we judge a book is based off our moods, our education, our beliefs, our temperaments, e’en our very souls. What connects with one reader might not connect with another—but does that make it the author’s fault…or the readers’?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Look like the innocent flower / But be the serpent under it.”

Macbeth, William Shakespeare