Lemuel Gulliver would live to see another day.
Tucked in a dry corner of the library, far from the devastated window, Gwen mended a copy of Gulliver’s Travels. More books lay on a table before her in neat rows. A sliver of bare space divided the books into two sections—the right section needing light, eventual repair and the left needing significant, immediate repair. She still couldn’t believe Lord Carlyle had granted her request to station a literary triage in the library. From here she could reach and treat her paper patients faster. As well as keep an eye on the library’s reconstruction.
Across the way, Lord Carlyle attended to his automaton inventions while male servants removed debris. Three days now and still they worked. Hauling away furniture and branches. Sweeping up tricky glass shards that hid in plain sight. Cutting the tree into smaller pieces to be removed, stored, and used for firewood. She shook her head. Who knew one storm could wreak so much havoc?
A young footman approached, carrying a book in each hand. “Here you go, Lady Carlyle.”
Gwen forced herself not to cringe as she received the volumes. Would she ever be able to hear that name without envisioning Cynthia? “Thank you, Tomlin. These books on the right may join the other lightly battered volumes in the dining room. Gently, now.”
With a nod, Tomlin gathered the indicated books and departed. Gwen turned her attention to the new finds in her hands. Let’s see. A text entitled The Mechanics of Clockworks, suffering a broken spine and complete page detachment. This would require urgent pasting lest any pages be lost amid the shuffle of workers. She placed it on the left side of the table. Next to the copy of Pilgrim’s Progress, which was in fact a first printing and, thankfully, still in near-mint condition. One of the few that had managed to come through the gale unscathed. She placed the book in a crate beside the table and then wiped her hands on her apron. Now back to Gulliver.
As Gwen worked, a faint clank alerted her that Lord Carlyle had placed yet another invention on the table situated to her left, his automata triage. The whole morning long he had gone by her, back and forth. First, gathering his inventions on the table and assessing the damage. Then transporting the ones in need of repair to his workshop and boxing the remainder to be stored until the library’s restoration. All in complete silence.
Lord Carlyle had yet to grace her with even a glance since she had marched in the other day proclaiming her skill and demanding to help. A reaction she’d quite expected. After all, working in the same room did not equate working together.
A lowering crate entered Gwen’s line of view as it touched the floor in front of the table. More patients, no doubt. “Thank you, Tomlin.” She raised her head. “I will see to those—”
Lord Carlyle stood behind the crate, staring at her dead-on.
“I…I th–thought you were Tomlin.” Her cheeks warmed to a scalding temperature. Brilliant, Gwen. Care to mumble any more statements of the obvious?
A small smile broke through the corner of Lord Carlyle’s mouth but was quickly boarded over and secured with the cold spikes of indifference. He began to open the crate. “These are the books Mr. Bradbury sent from London. I want to inspect them myself, so you may be properly compensated for any damage.”
An almost sweet notion, if it hadn’t been voiced like an estate agent or solicitor.
Lord Carlyle at last succeeded in prying open the crate. Reaching inside, he selected one of her books and started his examination, slow and thorough. Almost every single page of the paneled leather-bound text received his careful scrutiny. Gwen’s head tilted to the side. He did seem legitimately concerned about the welfare of her personal collection. A greater tenderness than she ever expected to receive from him.
Perhaps she ought to return his kindness in like by offering an update on the status of his books? Gwen lightly cleared her throat. “Y–your books are pulling through nicely. Overall.”
This failed to evoke from him a glance. “Really?”
“Indeed. I’ve been pleasantly surprised at the number of volumes that incurred no scars whatsoever. A few books more and this crate can be closed. It will be the fifth box of undamaged volumes to go into storage. Also, all the books in the dining room promise to make a full recovery with a little effort and…” Gwen let the sentence drift off and hang, incomplete. Why was she rambling on so? Lord Carlyle obviously had no interest in listening to her speak.
Stay out of the way. Keep silent. Lowering her gaze to the worktable, Gwen beseeched her attention to return to her previous task.
“What is your middle name?” Lord Carlyle’s smooth voice erased all thought of work.
Why would he suddenly make such an inquiry? Gwen elevated her gaze only slightly, peering at Lord Carlyle over the rim of her spectacles. “Louisa.”
A spark of interest brightened Lord Carlyle’s eyes. Lifting the book in his hand, he indicated the cover with a pointed finger. “By G. L. Bradbury. Did you write this novel?”
Gwen’s stomach leaped to her throat and then plummeted. Every word on all three hundred and fifty pages. And she did not wish Lord Carlyle to be her first reader. She straightened and adjusted her lowered spectacles. “That? It–it’s nothing. Mere coincidence.”
“Coincidence is ruled by chance, and I don’t put stock in chance. It’s a simple word utilized by simple men to label a truth they don’t like, a miracle they refuse to credit to the Divine, or facts they can’t explain away with their finite reason.” Lord Carlyle smiled again, broader, fuller. “The facts here are quite easy to explain.”
Yes, but she’d rather he avoid such enlightenment regarding her writings. Gwen placed a shaking hand on the table. “Shouldn’t we get back to work? There is still much to be d—”
“Fact one.” Lord Carlyle opened the cover of her novel. “The book’s author shares your initials. Fact two, it was in your possession. Fact three, you have the needed skill to bind a book yourself. And lastly…” He turned to the first page and met her gaze. “You have every symptom of a nervous novelist who has yet to share their work with another.”
A deflating sigh escaped from Gwen. She didn’t know whether to be irritated by his insistence or flattered that he’d referred to her as a novelist.
Lord Carlyle cradled her novel in the palm of one hand. “May I?”
Had he truly just asked for her permission? And in all politeness? Gwen pursed her lips. How could she refuse his request when it was made with such courtesy? She nodded.
An air of seeming pleasure brightened Lord Carlyle’s countenance as he began to read over her first page. Then the second page, the third. Gwen’s heart beat painfully slow, and she twisted her apron string round and round with her finger. What was he thinking? Did she want to know what he was thinking?
Well into the first chapter, Lord Carlyle finally lifted his gaze and fixed it on her, really and truly. Not in a glance but in a steady manner that would not waver. “It’s…very good.”
Good. Gwen released the mangled apron string and indulged in a smile. He’d said it was good. Very good, no less! Before responding, she took a calming breath and clasped her hands before her skirt. “Thank you.”
“Whatever possessed you to write a novel?” His eye contact remained steady.
“It began as a way to pass the time, but the more I wrote, the more I desired to create something that conveyed hope. Something that might cheer another through the written word as I have been countless times.” Gwen’s gaze faltered, dropping for a moment to the book-laden table. She couldn’t believe she had just confided such feelings to Lord Carlyle of all people. Not even Papa knew about her novel or daydreams.
“Sounds like a noble ambition. You ever attempt to have it published?”
“N–no. I never felt it was ready. Besides, I knew Mamma wouldn’t approve.”
“Nonsense. You should begin inquiring among the London publishers. Try to generate interest. Perhaps transcribe a sample chapter for submission.” Lord Carlyle passed her the novel over the table. “Dreams are vital to life and should be fed, not starved.”
There was a story hidden behind that statement, one she very much longed to read. Gwen accepted the book, holding it against her chest. “Do you have a dream?” Something to do with automata, perhaps? His inventions were lengths more creative than her writing. The world should know of them.
Lord Carlyle’s posture resumed its former rigidity, every spark and smile packed into storage and boarded once more. “You were quite right before. There is much work to be done.”
Later in the evening, Gwen sat at the desk in her chamber and composed a letter for Papa.
Dearest Papa,
I am sorry you learned of the swap scheme from Cynthia’s slip of the tongue. I should have told you long before. Yet I beseech you not to grieve for me. Neither let your fear run wild. I admit that my circumstances have not been comfortable or ideal. Yet I’m beginning to develop newfound hope that, one day, Lord Carlyle might think of me fondly.
Gwen’s pen hovered above the page. Perhaps God saw her plight, after all.