him, miss. The master is out riding and has not yet breakfasted. It will be a good hour or more before he settles to his estate work.’
There were books, books, and more books. But nothing, it would seem, that was remotely useful on an immediate basis. Driven partly by consciousness of swiftly passing time, and partly by the fear of being discovered here by the master of the house, Prue knew her search had been cursory.
At sight of the eight huge bookshelves that lined the walls of the library, she had almost run away again. But Mrs Polmont had been standing in the doorway, and Prue could not make the ignominious exit for which she longed. Instead, she had assembled her courage and walked deliberately into the middle of the room, looking about in a manner that she had hoped appeared resolute.
The housekeeper had stood poised a moment longer, and then thankfully retired, closing the door behind her. Prue had discovered that her knees were shaking, and fairly staggered to a seat by one of the long windows. From here, she had taken in the daunting prospect ahead of her.
The library was a long room, dominated by the big oaken desk—placed to take advantage of the heat from the fire—which was apparently Mr Rookham’s working headquarters. Prue remembered that at least, but her arrival yesterday had been so taken up with the dreadful recognition of the master of the house, that she had not taken in much more.
Now she noted that the desk was awash with stacks of piled papers, and an overlarge blotter formed the only open space upon its surface.
A series of windows let in light, with scrolled seatsbefore them. But all across one end and down the long wall opposite, interrupted only by the fireplace and a single door, stood the massive bookshelves, loaded down with the biggest collection of volumes Prue had ever seen. A far cry from the library tended by Mr Duxford at Paddington.
On the walls either side of the main door hung charts and pencilled drawings, which looked to encompass a form of design work. They were far from neatly placed, one having been piled on another and tacked to a boarded surface against the wall, so that they overlapped everywhere like an undefined mosaic. Prue had wondered briefly at them. But catching sight of the time on a case clock over the mantel, she had jumped hastily to her feet and darted across to inspect the first of the bookshelves.
But her search had been in vain. There was plenty of Latin and Greek, but she had abandoned any hope of discovering anything for children in simple English.
Just as she was about to give up altogether, she discovered a bank of books in foreign languages. She reached thankfully to pull one out for examination. But a rapid review of the Italian it contained proved it to be far beyond her grasp of that tongue. Those in French might be more within her capability, but she was uneasily aware that the twins must outstrip her in that language. But still nothing for children! Impatient, Prue exclaimed aloud.
‘Oh, this is too bad! You would think that with such a multitude of books, there would be something I could use!’
A voice spoke from the door near the fireplace, making her leap with shock. ‘I must apologise for the deficiencies of my library.’
Chapter Three
H er pulses crazily fluttering, Prue burst into intemperate speech. ‘Must you do that? I do wish you would not creep up on me in this tiresome fashion, Mr Rookham!’
He gave an ironic little bow. ‘Once again, my apologies. I have been watching you for several moments. You were so absorbed, I hesitated to interrupt you.’
But Prue had recollected herself. ‘I b-beg your pardon, sir. I should not have—I mean, I had no intention…’ She faded out, horribly conscious.
‘You had the intention of finding a book, I gather.’
‘For teaching.’ She made a desperate effort to steady her breath. ‘Your housekeeper said I might come in here. She told me you were out riding, or I would
There were books, books, and more books. But nothing, it would seem, that was remotely useful on an immediate basis. Driven partly by consciousness of swiftly passing time, and partly by the fear of being discovered here by the master of the house, Prue knew her search had been cursory.
At sight of the eight huge bookshelves that lined the walls of the library, she had almost run away again. But Mrs Polmont had been standing in the doorway, and Prue could not make the ignominious exit for which she longed. Instead, she had assembled her courage and walked deliberately into the middle of the room, looking about in a manner that she had hoped appeared resolute.
The housekeeper had stood poised a moment longer, and then thankfully retired, closing the door behind her. Prue had discovered that her knees were shaking, and fairly staggered to a seat by one of the long windows. From here, she had taken in the daunting prospect ahead of her.
The library was a long room, dominated by the big oaken desk—placed to take advantage of the heat from the fire—which was apparently Mr Rookham’s working headquarters. Prue remembered that at least, but her arrival yesterday had been so taken up with the dreadful recognition of the master of the house, that she had not taken in much more.
Now she noted that the desk was awash with stacks of piled papers, and an overlarge blotter formed the only open space upon its surface.
A series of windows let in light, with scrolled seatsbefore them. But all across one end and down the long wall opposite, interrupted only by the fireplace and a single door, stood the massive bookshelves, loaded down with the biggest collection of volumes Prue had ever seen. A far cry from the library tended by Mr Duxford at Paddington.
On the walls either side of the main door hung charts and pencilled drawings, which looked to encompass a form of design work. They were far from neatly placed, one having been piled on another and tacked to a boarded surface against the wall, so that they overlapped everywhere like an undefined mosaic. Prue had wondered briefly at them. But catching sight of the time on a case clock over the mantel, she had jumped hastily to her feet and darted across to inspect the first of the bookshelves.
But her search had been in vain. There was plenty of Latin and Greek, but she had abandoned any hope of discovering anything for children in simple English.
Just as she was about to give up altogether, she discovered a bank of books in foreign languages. She reached thankfully to pull one out for examination. But a rapid review of the Italian it contained proved it to be far beyond her grasp of that tongue. Those in French might be more within her capability, but she was uneasily aware that the twins must outstrip her in that language. But still nothing for children! Impatient, Prue exclaimed aloud.
‘Oh, this is too bad! You would think that with such a multitude of books, there would be something I could use!’
A voice spoke from the door near the fireplace, making her leap with shock. ‘I must apologise for the deficiencies of my library.’
Chapter Three
H er pulses crazily fluttering, Prue burst into intemperate speech. ‘Must you do that? I do wish you would not creep up on me in this tiresome fashion, Mr Rookham!’
He gave an ironic little bow. ‘Once again, my apologies. I have been watching you for several moments. You were so absorbed, I hesitated to interrupt you.’
But Prue had recollected herself. ‘I b-beg your pardon, sir. I should not have—I mean, I had no intention…’ She faded out, horribly conscious.
‘You had the intention of finding a book, I gather.’
‘For teaching.’ She made a desperate effort to steady her breath. ‘Your housekeeper said I might come in here. She told me you were out riding, or I would
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