An Unsuitable Bride by Jane Feather Page A

ma’am, you can’t expect me to believe you get no personal pleasure out of being among these treasures.”
    “They don’t belong to me,” she said with an unmistakably bitter edge to her voice. “I cannot afford to have any personal feelings for the books.”
    Perry suddenly felt as if he was intruding on something very private. He didn’t know why he felt that, but he decided it was time to leave well enough alone for the moment. He said cheerfully, “Could you at least point me towards the Decameron, ma’am? I don’t wish to take up too much of your time.”
    Mistress Hathaway rose from her chair and came out from behind the desk. “ ’Tis over there, in the far corner.” She moved a tall library ladder to the shelf in question and climbed up, reaching to the top shelf.
    “May I help?” Perry asked, coming swiftly to her side. Ladies past their youth were usually not too agile when it came to ascending rickety ladders.
    “No, I have it, thank you.” She drew the volume from the shelf and jumped down from the top step of the ladder. “See how fine the binding is.” She walked swiftly to the desk and put the volume under the light. “This copy is from 1492.”
    Peregrine followed. Maybe years of practice had given Mistress Hathaway the ability to climb up steps and jump off them without giving a thought to the maneuver.
    And maybe it is snowing in Lucifer’s inferno.
    He stepped up beside her. Mistress Hathaway had drawn on a silk glove and was opening the volume with practiced skill, turning the pages with the utmost delicacy and a reverence that made nonsense of her earlier statement about taking no personal pleasure or interest in the books themselves. He became aware of her scent, a most delicate flowery fragrance that seemed to emanate from the back of her bent neck, where a heavy coil of gold-flecked hair lay against the very white column. He inhaled deeply, trying to identify the particular flower. A lemony scent, he thought. Very light and fresh, almost girlish.
    As if aware of his concentration, she looked up at him, her expression both puzzled and wary. “Is something the matter, sir?”
    “Not in the least.” He bent over the volume.
    Alexandra forgot her unease in the sheer joy of sharing this treasure with someone whose awe and reverence matched her own. Her delight bubbled in hervoice as she showed him the illustrations. “Don’t you think Bacchus is delightfully mischievous here? He’s so often portrayed as rather malevolent, but this depiction shows a quite different interpretation. At least, I have always thought so.”
    “Yes, indeed.” Peregrine took the magnifying glass from her and peered closely at the illustration. “He does have a wicked look about him, and you’re right, ’tis not malevolent.”
    “You must see my fa—” Alex caught herself in time. She moved away from the desk. “Let me show you this edition of the Canterbury Tales . It was thought to be a first edition, but unfortunately, ’tis not. However, ’tis a very early one.” She hopped up the ladder again and came down as swiftly as before, bringing the volume to the desk, opening it with the same reverence.
    Perry examined the exquisitely illustrated volume with all the pleasure of a connoisseur, but he was aware that a significant part of his pleasure came from sharing it with his like-minded companion. There was something immensely appealing about the way her voice vibrated with enthusiasm when she talked about the finer points of the illustrations, the beautifully formed letters, and the ease with which she followed him when his thoughts were sidetracked to early printing methods and the different types of ink the monks would have used for different types of illustrations. It occurred to him with something of a shock that Mistress Hathaway knew at least as muchas he did, if not more, about the intricacies of manuscript creation.
    Neither of them was aware of time passing until a discreet cough and