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“Do youwantto marry Matilda Treadgold? Is that it? Do you want to be caught in a compromising position with her and be marched to the altar?”
“Of course not. But—”
“Shush. Now go.”
She pushed him into the library, shut the door, and threw herself into the still-warm cushions of his chair. She picked up his brandy glass and arranged his book on her lap.
The door to the hallway eased open.
For the sake of her performance, Arabella focused on the words on the page, and almost dropped the book. Oh good grief, whatwashe reading?
A click: She looked up to see Matilda Treadgold turning around from closing the door, Matilda Treadgold wearing nothing but a nightgown and a grimace of horror.
“Good evening, Miss Treadgold,” Arabella said calmly.
“Miss Larke! What—” Miss Treadgold looked around. “What are you doing here?”
“This is the Reading Room and I am reading.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And you are drinking brandy?”
“Aren’t you cold, wandering around in only your nightgown?” Arabella said, dodging her question. “Who knew whom you might have encountered?”
“I could not sleep, so I came downstairs looking for a book. I did not expect to encounter anyone.”
Arabella raised an eyebrow.
“What?” Miss Treadgold sounded almost belligerent. “Don’t you believe me?”
“Of course I believe you. It happens all the time.” Arabella put down the book and glass and crossed to join her at the shelves. “You could have tried the library. Why the Reading Room?”
Miss Treadgold’s eyes darted every which way. “I wanted a book I could read.”
“A book you can read. Those are my favorite too.”
“I mean, there are two kinds of book, aren’t there? There are the books that one reads and the books that one doesn’t. And it seemed to me that the books that find their way into the Reading Room must be the kind of books that one reads.”
Even Arabella could not argue with this impeccable logic.
With a tight smile, Miss Treadgold turned to peruse the shelves. On one shelf perched a stuffed canary that had somehow wandered out of Papa’s study. Oh dear: The poor girl had said how much she loathed and feared the dead birds! To spare her, Arabella went to move the canary out of sight.
But Miss Treadgold saw the canary first. She paused, staring at it—and then touched a finger to the bird’s little yellow head. Her expression rapt, she stroked the feathers down its back and caressed the scaly feet and talons, which only a week ago she had described as hideous.
“The truth is, I like the birds. The dead ones, I mean,” Miss Treadgold said abruptly, her bright eyes on the canary as she petted its cold, feathered head. “Especiallythe dead ones.”
“The dead ones. I see.”
“And the crypt too. I was only pretending to be scared earlier. The truth is, I go down there by myself. I like looking at the sarcophagi and thinking about their bones.”
“Their bones. I see.”
“But Aunt Frances says I ought not like dead things, like stuffed birds and bones in the crypt,” Miss Treadgold went on in uneasy tones. “She says it is not becoming and that men don’t like women who like dead things. But it isn’t as though I likealldead things.”
Arabella studied her. Miss Treadgold was still undeniably amiable and likable—yet rendered interesting and new, with her surprisingly Gothic taste for the macabre so at odds with her ribbons and blushes. To think: All this time, Matilda Treadgold had been performing too. And one day, Matilda would perform her way to the altar, where she would marry a man who did not know her, and she would perform for the rest of her life.
“If you like dead things, you should say so,” Arabella said. “That is who you are, Matilda, and you ought not conceal your nature to please others.”
“I couldn’t! A young lady must not express opinions or disagree with anyone, Aunt Frances says.”
