The Jane Austen Society(22)

Two thousand books. And all now just for her.

Even more ironically, she had only read a few of them. Mainly the Bront?s, the Georges Eliot and Gissing, and Thomas Hardy and Trollope. Over and over again.

This had started in her thirties, after the death of her mother from pneumonia and her older brother in a shooting accident just two years later. Not at all close to her one remaining relative, her distant and judgmental father, Frances had retreated into these familiar worlds of literature. Something about her favourite books gave her tremendous comfort, and even a strange feeling of control, although she could not quite put her finger on why. She just knew that she did not want to invest her time trying to figure out a new world, whom to like and whom to trust in it, and how to bear the author’s choices for tragedy and closure—or lack thereof.

When she was younger, before the Great War, she had read widely and profusely, eschewing the outdoor activities so beloved by her rambunctious and rebellious brother—the riding, the hunting, the daredevil activities that young boys always seem to devise—and choosing instead to remain indoors, sitting in one of her favourite windows, with a stack of books by her side. Reading, she now understood, had been her own choice of rebellion. A most private activity, it was the perfect alibi for a young woman in a demanding household like theirs. She could maintain a healthy distance from both her parents and their dwindling expectations and increasing disappointment in her. She could simply never do right by them, and they all knew it.

She had also been the only true reader in the family, her mother having been extremely social and her father preoccupied with the failing income of the estate. The history behind all these ancient family books, and the legacy of Jane Austen in which the Knights had a share, was of little interest to them. Even today her father bemoaned the presence of random gawkers at the gate, especially the American ones, searching for any trace of their beloved author.

She heard someone stop in the threshold of the open doorway, followed by the slight rustling of paperwork, and she turned to see Andrew Forrester, her father’s solicitor, standing there.

“Miss Knight,” he said with an abrupt bow of his head. He was a very tall, ramrod straight man of her exact age—forty-seven—with a long face, high Roman cheekbones, and a severe boyish side part to his dark brown hair.

Frances gave a slight nod back. She always had such a wistful, faraway look in her pale grey eyes, a look he did not enjoy seeing, and he hesitated before venturing farther into the room.

“I hope I am not disturbing you.” He looked about a little awkwardly.

“Not at all. How did you find my father?”

Andrew took a few steps closer, then stopped to fold the set of papers he was holding and discreetly slipped them into his brown leather lawyer’s bag. “The same, I’m afraid. Has Dr. Gray been round yet this week?”

Frances nodded. “Yes, he still comes every Tuesday and Thursday morning. Early, when Father is at his most lucid.”

“And his least intimidating,” Andrew replied, then quickly stopped himself. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, Frances—I mean Miss Knight. That was extremely impolite of me.”

“It’s fine, really. And anyway it’s true.” She turned to the tray of tea still warm before her. “Would you like a cup of tea before you head back into Alton? The sugar buns are straight out of Josephine’s oven this past hour.”

Andrew hesitated briefly, then went over to the wingback chair across from hers. Sitting down, he reached for the cup she held out to him, noticing she had remembered to add the squeeze of lemon he always preferred.

“You must have a great deal of business to talk over with Father. I know our investments are scattered at best.”

Andrew took a long sip of his tea before answering. “How much has your father involved you in any of that?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. Apparently I do not have a head for business.”

Andrew stared up at the ceiling as if remembering something. “That surprises me. After all, back in our schooldays, you used to trump both Benjamin Gray and me in mathematics.”

She shrugged. “I used to be able to do a lot of things. Not so much anymore. And you—how is business?”

Andrew was listening carefully to her words, and she noticed for the first time the frown lines of anxiety between his eyes.

“Business is good, just fine. Always is. Although I’d rather not be busy with the estates work.”

“It must be difficult for you. And for Benjamin, too, I suppose. Tending to the hard times in the lives of the people with whom you have grown up.”

“Well, we none of us moved away for a reason, I suppose. Nothing is perfect—certainly being able to stay in Alton has had its share of recompense.”

She found that an interesting statement given that Andrew, despite everything, had never married nor had children. She wondered what else could have been so gratifying about staying so close to home—she certainly knew it fell plenty short for her at times.

“And helping people—especially people one knows—is rather a privilege, I think,” he added.

“They say it is the key to happiness.”

Now it was his turn to wonder at her words, knowing how rarely she left the Great House, knowing how little she now interacted with the world outside it.

“I guess that statement speaks for itself,” she added quickly, catching the look on his face.