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Whenever she had visited the library, be it morning or night, a different book had sat waiting as though its reader had not a moment since departed the room.
And not books that she supposed most gentlemen would read of an evening – on carriage maintenance, angling or pistol polishing – but novels and poetry by Rousseau, Byron or Scott.
Tonight it was Edmund Spenser’s Faerie Queene.
She roamed to a chestnut bookcase and caressed the ornate spines for bedtime reading.
Byron? Too romantic.
Blake? Too sad.
Her hand faltered upon the essays of Michel de Montaigne – an antique leather-bound book, and she removed it from its slot, breathed in the pages and brushed the golden gilding.
Father’s favourite.
After dinner, he’d oft recited these philosophical essays in the original French, Mother listening intently to his deep restful tone, herself flicking through drawings of the Molucca Islands.
She’d been sheltered, certainly, in her upbringing, and many a night she had wished to be elsewhere, exploring an exotic island or in the trees with her birds, yet now Matilda wished she’d relished those peaceful hours with her parents, taken from her all too soon. Philosophy had not been her own inclination, but she missed their presence and guidance and…
She missed them.
“Miss Griffin? Are you…”
A pristine white handkerchief was thrust before her and she realised that two fat tears were trundling down her cheeks, that her employer had silently stalked into the library. “I… I am quite well, Mr Hawkins. Merely tired, I think.”
“I apologise then, most sincerely, for keeping you from your bed.”
Twisting, she took the handkerchief from his hand and dabbed at her face. Mr Hawkins’ eyes were narrowed in concern – intense and striking.
“No, not at all. I’m unsure sleep would be forthcoming in any case.” And Matilda made to replace the book.
A broad hand stayed her own for a moment. “Have you a taste for philosophy?” Then let her slide it home.
“Not really, but it was my father’s favourite.”
“Ah, I see.” And she had a feeling he truly did see. “It was remiss of me not to enquire before, but I assumed your parents died long ago.”
“Three years this autumn,” she replied, holding the handkerchief out to him.
Mr Hawkins accepted the soggy bundle with nary a frown. “Not that long at all. I am so sorry. Was it illness?”
Matilda swallowed, never having spoken at length to anyone about her parents’ death.
“No… I do not wish…” Her words trailed off, unsure what she wished for.
“If you do not wish, Miss Griffin, then that is your prerogative, but I cannot abide seeing my governess in such distress. So if at any time you wish to share, I do have broad shoulders.”
Matilda gazed to those shoulders, as mighty as Atlas’ to bear the world. Forever she had assumed to be self-contained, taught to restrain emotion, but tonight, she…she hurt.
Her gaze flicked up to his face, half-shaded in the lantern light, rough, stubbled and with that scar, but also calm, sincere and with that kindness.
Cousin Astwood had shown little care for her parents’ death, the vicar had advised her to bear the grief with stoic valour as such was the transience of life, and one great-aunt had declared it a blessing they’d at least gone together…
Maybe.
But it hadn’t felt like a blessing to Matilda.
The wind gusted outside, a swash of rain pelting the velvet curtained window.
