Zoe waited until Ramsay was back one evening and in the library, but that he hadn’t been in there too long. She didn’t want him sunk in some great tome.
She made him a cup of tea and cut some fresh shortbread she and Shackleton had made together that afternoon. Patrick and Hari had also made some but they’d had their own special section, rolled by their own little hands, that they got to eat themselves, because they were so deeply filthy.
Zoe knocked on the heavy wooden door carefully. She still hadn’t seen inside the library. The children had paled when she’d said she was going up there.
‘It is absolutely quite absolutely private,’ Patrick had warned, looking as if she might get eaten by a tiger. It was strange; Ramsay seemed such a mild character, nothing at all like the Bluebeard Zoe had half-expected when she’d arrived. But all the Urquart children were definitely afraid of this.
As she walked down the darkening passage, Zoe told herself not to be ridiculous. But even so, it was in the front of the house, not the wing with the kitchen and Mary’s room and the little steps to the servants’ quarters where she normally stayed. She wondered if she should have written out a list of things she needed to ask in case she forgot. It was just her boss. She just needed to be brave. Again, she thought rather glumly.
She tapped lightly at first, then, after a moment, a little harder. She heard a voice from inside which she took to mean come in, and pushed the heavy creaking door.
Inside, the room was so beautiful that for a moment she just stood, looking.
Lamps burned everywhere, and the windows were open to the last light of the fading day, a line of gold on the far horizon. The room spanned the entire depth of the house, Zoe realised. It was double height, with walkways around the second storey, and curved metal staircases on both sides.
Books towered over her, up metres in the air to the ceiling – dark reds and golden spines and old green cotton covers. If she had thought the books downstairs in the drawing room were interesting, this was a treasure trove. Zoe stood, transfixed.
He had a little fire too, burning with sweet-scented wood, and at the end of the room under the many-paned window was a huge globe of the world that didn’t look like it had all the countries on it yet. In the roof was a large glass cupola through which the night stars were already appearing and popping out. A large telescope sat at the front of the second storey of the library in the window alcove, which had a deep window seat piled high with embroidered tapestry cushions.
Back on the ground to her right were two long desks with piles of books skewed on them, and on her left was a set of map drawers and an apothecary’s chest with many tiny drawers labelled with extraordinary things: gentian, sulphur, alumen, boric. There was an astrolabe on a shelf and a skull – was it real? – and a stuffed bird and so many interesting things Zoe immediately wanted to explore them all and turn and flee at the same time. And now she was scared to turn and look at Ramsay, who she had half-thought – and if it sounds ridiculous in this day and age, truly, you had to be there – she half-thought in fact he must be a wizard, and that she had been transported to some other place or some other time.
She gasped and nearly spilled the tea. Then she heard Ramsay say, ‘Zoe? Are you okay?’
He was standing up from behind a desk – not, in fact, a wizard; just a shambling, over-tall, slightly bemused-looking man.
Zoe turned round.
‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Sorry! I haven’t been in here before.’
Ramsay blinked. ‘Yes. I keep it locked, mostly . . . There’s some exceptional . . . well, some things . . .’
‘The children think you’ll kill them if they come in here.’
He didn’t smile, and his face suddenly looked severe and rather worrying in the dim light.
‘I don’t want them to come in here.’
Then it was as if he shook himself.
‘I mean, Patrick would be swinging from the rafters.’
Zoe couldn’t deny this so handed over the tea.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘Oh, it probably needs one of your magic clean-ups,’ he said. ‘I’ve barely changed a thing, and my father didn’t either. The house was built around the library; this part of the building is much earlier. Seventeenth-century probably. All sorts of books were smuggled here during the reformation; too out of the way for the king’s men. It became known as a safe haven. That’s where the name of the house means – The Beeches.’
‘I thought it was after the forest.’
‘Those aren’t beeches,’ scoffed Ramsay. ‘Those are oaks, can’t you tell?’
Zoe folded her arms.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Not many trees in Bethnal Green?’
‘No,’ said Zoe.
‘Well, anyway,’ Ramsay went on, ‘it’s code. The word “book” comes from the word ‘beech’. It’s what they were originally made out of. You knew you could store your library here.’
Zoe went closer, brushed her fingers across the ancient texts.
‘They’re beautiful.’
‘Some of them are. Very. Beautiful and important too. That’s what I spend my life doing: trying to match them up with a series. With their brothers and sisters. Finding who survived fires and belief system changes and clear-outs over the years . . .’
‘Books Reunited,’ said Zoe. Ramsay half-smiled. ‘Well, yes. Something like that. Did you make this shortbread?’
He looked agitated, as if he hadn’t remembered to eat, which he probably hadn’t, and devoured two pieces.
‘Shackleton did,’ said Zoe.
‘Good heavens,’ said Ramsay. He looked at Zoe with new respect. ‘And you taught him that?’
‘It’s amazing what powers “controlling the internet” brings,’ said Zoe, smiling cheerfully.
‘Well, I never. Well done, Nanny Seven. I’m kidding, I’m kidding,’ he said as he saw her face cloud. ‘Honestly, Zoe, thanks. And I wanted to say thank you again about Mary.’
Zoe felt the ground tilting slightly under her feet. Ramsay looked straight at her.
‘I have to ask you,’ he said. ‘Why have you been so kind to her? Mary has been absolutely horrible to you.’
Zoe glanced up at him, amazed he’d asked the question.
‘Why is that her fault?’ she said. ‘Why would that ever be a child’s fault?’
Ramsay coloured, and he looked away.
‘I don’t think it’s your fault either,’ she added quickly, aware she had injured him deeply.
But he didn’t – or couldn’t – answer that and Zoe felt the moment slipping away.
‘Anyway,’ she said quickly, putting a brightness in her voice she didn’t quite feel. ‘I need to ask you about Mary.’
‘What?’
‘She needs new clothes. For the winter.’
Ramsay thought about it. ‘Of course. I keep forgetting she’s getting bigger . . . So much time has passed . . .’
His face drifted away, lost in thought.
‘. . . and I’ll need some money to take her shopping.’
He looked up, worried.
‘Ah,’ he said.
‘Not much,’ said Zoe. ‘Clothes aren’t that expensive these days, but she’ll need boots and a winter coat. I’ve had a look . . .’ she said, pre-empting his objections – she’d been through the boot room already. ‘There’s lots of old men’s coats. There’s . . .’ She wasn’t sure how to say this without sounding insensitive. ‘. . . no women’s clothes.’
The sentence hung on the air, as a log slipped in the grate and crackled into life. Otherwise, the room was incredibly quiet with only some classical music in the background Ramsay had turned down as soon as she came in.
‘Yes. I see,’ he said, frowning. Then he sighed.
‘And there are other things we need?’ he said. They both thought back to the dishwasher.
‘You’re going to need a new washing machine,’ said Zoe. ‘And a new hoover probably – you could make Mrs MacGlone’s life a lot easier; that old upright is her age. And a coffee machine,’ she added quickly.
‘How could anybody possibly need a coffee machine?’ said Ramsay.
‘How could anyone possibly need a gardener?’ shot back Zoe.
Ramsay blinked.
‘But Wilby is on legacy.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He’s . . . I inherited him. He got a sum in my father’s will – an annuity. So did Mrs MacGlone. It’s how servants retire, didn’t you know that?’
‘Yes, I grew up with a hundred servants on my estate,’ said Zoe. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘So I don’t pay them. The estate does, from ages ago. They don’t have to work for the money – they’re both technically retired.’
Zoe frowned.
‘And they come and work for you anyhow?’
Ramsay looked rueful.
‘Um, it appears so, yes.’
Zoe thought about that.
‘Mrs MacGlone comes in . . . when she doesn’t have to?’
Ramsay looked awkward.
‘I have told her to take holidays but . . .’
Zoe shook her head. ‘That’s . . . that’s . . . so you have no money at all? Does Larissa know that?’
Ramsay blinked.
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Sorry,’ said Zoe. ‘Nothing. Pretend I haven’t spoken.’
Ramsay frowned. ‘What’s Larissa got to do with anything?’
Zoe stepped forwards. The room truly was beautiful. Behind the shelving was solid oak panelling that covered the walls and the ceiling too. Circular rough iron plain chandeliers – if you could really have such a thing as a plain chandelier – hung down from the roof, small lights burning in it. There were low green lamps here and there.
She moved forward to the wall.
‘There must be,’ she said. ‘There must be some things here you can sell?’
Ramsay looked pained and lifted his hands.
‘I feel . . . I feel they’re not mine to sell.’
‘The books own you?’
Suddenly he looked like an overgrown version of the boy he must have been.
‘They built me,’ he said quietly. He looked around. ‘I’ve spent half my life in this room.’
Zoe smiled.
‘What if I did it when you weren’t here?’ She looked up. ‘Mind you, I’m not sure I’d know where to start . . .’
‘There’s the almanac . . .’
Zoe looked at him and he looked like he’d said more than he’d meant to.
‘What’s that?’
Ramsay glanced at his messy desk. ‘It’s an annual list of rare books . . . what they might fetch, whether you have them.’
‘So I could go through the list, see what’s here?’
Ramsay looked pained.
‘Do I have to watch?’
Zoe shook her head. ‘I will be very, very gentle with them,’ she said. ‘And I won’t take anything away without permission.’
She picked up the heavy almanac with its tiny print.
‘Oof,’ she said. ‘Maybe I can get the kids to help.’
‘No!’ said Ramsay suddenly in as sharp a tone as she’d heard. ‘The kids can’t be in here.’
Zoe glanced up.
‘. . . Ookkkay . . .’ she said.
Ramsay blinked.
‘There’s . . . there’s stuff in here they shouldn’t be touching,’ he muttered. Zoe looked around. It was such a beautiful place. It seemed a shame.
‘Okay,’ she said decisively. ‘I’ll do it. I’ll find some things to sell.’
‘When?’ said Ramsay. ‘You seem pretty busy to me.’
‘Multitasker,’ said Zoe, smiling.