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She had looked at me as if I was asking her if the sky was blue. “Yes. I love it here, don’t you?”
I had agreed that I did, and let the subject drop. No one else has brought it up, and so even though it makes me feel uneasy every time I think of the doors slamming shut in unison with her stomping foot, I’ve pushed it to the back of my mind. Like my bad dream, it melts away in my excitement to see Mr. Barrett.
But now, at the prospect of being sent away from Mr. Barrett, Emeline pouts, looking like she might break into tears, and that’s when I realize that all of us Montrose girls are smitten with John Barrett. For a moment I’m even afraid that we might have a repeat of the other night. But the tears hold, and she shoots Catherine a reproachful look before dragging her feet back out of the parlor. Usually I would tell Catherine not to talk to her like that, except Mr. Barrett is right there, and I’m inwardly grateful that Emeline can’t monopolize his attention now.
“I’m sorry to barge in here like this,” Mr. Barrett says, “but I had a meeting with your father and it seems he’s not quite ready for me yet.”
“Oh, you aren’t barging—”
“Mr. Barrett, you are doing no such thing.” Catherine sweeps to her feet and links her arm in his. “Please, sit down and do us the favor of entertaining us while you wait.”
As he obediently seats himself Catherine arches a triumphant brow at me. The battle lines have been drawn. Let her play her game. And that’s all it is to her. She can’t possibly be interested in Mr. Barrett, not seriously. Not after the way she dropped him like a hot coal last night when she saw Mr. Pierce.
They chat a little, Catherine commenting on the weather and Mr. Barrett agreeing that the heat has been unbearable lately. If he’s suffering he doesn’t look it; his collar is crisp and his clothes pristine. I feel rumpled and stale in my dress, the straggling hair at my neck damp and unpleasant. A couple of times he directs a comment in my direction, but Catherine is quick, reeling him back in to her with a little laugh or foolish question. I arrange my book in my lap so that I can sneak a few sentences at a time; if I’m not to be included in their conversation then what’s the harm in doing a little reading?
“Miss Montrose?”
When I look up, Mr. Barrett is crouching beside my chair and I nearly drop my book in surprise. I hadn’t meant to get lost in the story and lose track of time. I dart a glance at Catherine who is scowling, but also making a great show of drawing her needle in long pulls through her embroidery.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says. “That must be quite the book.”
“Oh, yes.” I don’t know where to look. Certainly not directly in his eyes because then I wouldn’t be able to think straight.
Unperturbed by my ghastly manners, Mr. Barrett tips his head to see the title.“The Monk.”
The book is well-worn with little slivers of paper marking some of my favorite passages, and the spine is as creased as a bellows. “Yes,” I say again, even though he wasn’t asking anything.
“I’m not familiar with it.”
A loud sigh escapes Catherine from the other side of the room.
“You’ve really never heard of it?”
“I confess I haven’t,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “Will you enlighten me?”
There’s a warmth in his eyes that I haven’t seen before, bolstering my confidence, and I’m relieved to have the opportunity to smooth over my careless comments from dinner last night. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m giving him a detailed summary in a breathless rush, going back when I forget certain parts, and miming the best scenes. When I finally realize how long I’ve been talking I clamp my mouth shut, the blood rushing to my face.
I think he’s going to laugh—I’m certain I heard Catherine snickering once or twice—and my cheeks burn as I study the gilded cover. But when Mr. Barrett speaks there’s no hint of ridicule in his voice, and to his credit he looks only slightly overwhelmed.
“Well,” he says at last, “I can see why it has so captured your attention.”
I want to insist that he borrow it. How it would thrill me to know that his eyes passed over the same lines of text as me, to know that his soul is stirred as mine is by the passionate love of Alphonso and Agnes.
“Are you a reader, Mr. Barrett?”
“I’m confess I’m not much for books,” he says.
Catherine seizes her chance. “Of course not, you’re much too busy running the mill, I expect.”
“Business does have a large claim on my time, yes.”
“Oh,” I say, disappointed that I’ve lost a chance to make a connection with him, my imaginings of shared stories quickly destroyed. “Of course.”
“In my spare time I do rather enjoy birds though,” he adds.
“Ah,” says Catherine, pleased. “You shoot then.”
“I enjoy the study of birds, I mean.” He turns his attention back to me. “I’m afraid most of the books you would find in my library would be on that subject.”