Free Lady Hathaway's House Party by Joan Smith

nature and philosophy. Alfred used to read it. I don’t know how he could bother wasting his eyes on it. I’ll put in Byron’s Childe Harold. I have a nice autographed copy he left me when he was here.”
    “No.” He waved his hands impatiently. Belle didn’t care for Byron—surely the only lady in London who didn’t. “Cowper for her and—now, what the devil was I reading? Something French. Voltaire I think it was. Yes, Candide —the one about the best of all possible worlds,” he told her, with a sudden nostalgic smile. “Do you have them?”
    “Why not just make it sermons and farming journals? They’d be no worse than Cowper and Voltaire. My, what an odd pair. An idealist and a cynic. Very telling, that. Really, you two are sadly mismated.”
    “We’re not mated at all at the moment, Kay. Just get the books.”
    “I don’t know that I have them, and haven’t time to be rooting through all the shelves. Go and get them yourself.” This was her way of adjusting conscience to expediency. He went and found the required standards and set them on the table before the fireplace.
    Belle was not really desirous of hearing the Italian soprano, but was reluctant in the extreme to have a private tête-à-tête with her husband, and professed a strong interest in the concert.
    “She’s here for the whole visit,” Oliver reminded her. “We must talk, Belle. This is the perfect opportunity, while everyone else is busy. You can hear her tomorrow night. You promised.”
    Indeed she had been so foolhardy as to promise, and went like a lamb to the slaughter to the carefully prepared room, whose significance escaped her. She mentioned that Kay must be mad to have such a huge fire blazing in an empty room on a warm night, and sat well back from the inferno, so that the books resting on the table slipped her notice, and to call them to her attention, the same books they had read at Crockett, would be too revealing of the groundwork done. He didn’t want her to feel he was managing things, but did wish to awaken her memory to Crockett, and proceeded to attempt it.
    “A nice room,” he said. “I like these oak-lined studies. Very homey. I have seen one like it somewhere.”
    “There are dozens of rooms similar to this. One may see them anywhere. Papa had one quite like it at home, but smaller.”
    “I have one similar at Belwood too, but larger. I have seen one just the same size somewhere. I wonder where it was.”
    “Does it matter?” she asked with great indifference, and began to fan herself, for the heat emanating from the grate was strong.
    “No, of course not. You are warm. Let us have a glass of wine,” he offered, and arose to open the champagne.
    “More champagne! My, your cousin is doing herself proud. I have had just about enough champagne. I wish it were sherry.”
    “I’ll get some!”
    “No, no, I don’t really feel much like wine at all. Don’t bother.” But he had already poured her a full glass, so she accepted it and set it aside on the table and ignored it. “Well, we are here to talk. Let’s get on with it,” she said in a businesslike manner. She was agitated, but as she sat waving her fan the only emotion she showed was impatience.
    Oliver had envisioned a cozy chat before the fire, idly picking up the books and leafing through them between sips of champagne. Some fond reminiscences of Crockett, some regrets that those best of all possible days were gone, and the final plea that they could be recaptured.
    Yes, he had decided to plead to her to come back, a thing he had not thought he would ever do, but he had found her so much harder set against him than he had anticipated that he had decided to plead. But as she sat fanning herself, ignoring the wine, not recognizing the study for a nearly dead replica of Crockett, and looking at him with something akin to hostility, he saw his plan was failing miserably. The soft words died in his throat, and when he spoke he said, “I don’t