“I see. I’m a puzzle now.”
I sip my wine, in no hurry to answer. “Every woman is a puzzle,” I say finally. “Some harder to solve than others. But then, I’ve found it’s the difficult ones who are most worth the effort.”
It’s rubbish, really, man-about-town nonsense made up on the spur of the moment, but it sounds right coming out of my mouth. Mysterious and just the tiniest bit lurid, a velvet gauntlet thrown down in the middle of dinner. I’m rather pleased with myself when I see a faint bloom of pink creep into those pale cheeks. A blush suits you.
“You’re wrong,” you assert in a tone too warm to be convincing. “I am the stable type. Or at least I’m trying to be.”
“Because good wives are interested in the things their husbands are interested in?”
“It has nothing to do with Teddy. Or almost nothing. Last spring he took me to Saratoga to see some of his Thoroughbreds. They were getting ready for their first baby race. We got up early to watch the exercise riders take them through their paces. They were so beautiful, sleek and strong and fast as the wind. I knew then and there that I wanted my own. We keep a few horses at our place in the Hamptons, but those are just for riding. Thoroughbreds are athletes. It took some doing, but I eventually talked my father into buying me a pair for my birthday.”
I stare at you, digesting what you’ve just said and the way you said it. As if it were nothing at all. “Your father bought you a pair of racehorses . . . for your birthday?”
“A sweet bay filly and a chestnut colt. And a made-over stable to keep them in. I know, it sounds frightfully stuck up, but it was mostly just to shut me up. He’s convinced I’m going to lose interest now that he’s given in. He says I have a short attention span.”
“Do you?”
“It depends.”
“On?”
“On how interesting I find something.”
“And you find horses interesting?”
“I do. There’s so much to know. There’s an entire language to it. That’s the first thing you learn if you want to be taken seriously, and I do. I’ve also had to bring myself up to speed on the whole breeding business. I had no idea there were so many factors to weigh when it comes to males and females. You really have to know what you’re doing for everything to work right.”
You’re so charmingly chatty, so absorbed in discussing your new hobby as the dessert is served, that you don’t realize that a casual eavesdropper, such as the young man currently placing a slice of pear tart in front of you, might mistake our conversation for something else entirely. It’s all I can do to keep a straight face.
“Is that so?”
“Oh yes. It’s an actual science. There’s loads of literature on the subject, but a book will only take you so far. My friends think me terribly unladylike for being interested in that end of things, but I’ve found if you want to get good at something, you need actual experience.” There’s a kind of purr to your voice now, throaty and feline. You pause, flashing me a cunning little smile. “You can’t be timid about things. You have to jump right in and get dirty. Wouldn’t you agree?”
I nearly spit out my wine. I mistook you for an innocent, inexperienced and naive. Now I see that I was wrong. You’re perfectly aware of what you’re saying—and of how it might be misconstrued. In fact, you’re enjoying yourself enormously. “Yes, I suppose I do,” I say, fighting to keep a straight face. “And what has jumping in taught you?”
“Oh, lots. For instance, one must be very selective when choosing a male. There’s temperament to consider. And past performance. Size and stamina. All very important to a satisfactory outcome.”
I put down my glass and take a moment to dab at my mouth. If you’re inclined to play games, who am I to spoil your fun? I’m fond of games myself. But I play to win. “And have you chosen wisely, do you think?”
Your smile widens. You’re pleased that I’ve decided to play along. “I’m afraid it’s too early to know at this point. Time will tell, I suppose.”
I nod my thanks to the young man who has just filled my coffee cup, then lift the cup to hide my own smile. “I should like to see these horses of yours.”
“And I’d like to show them to you,” you answer sweetly as you slice into your pear tart. “Perhaps we can manage it sometime.”
“I’m free tomorrow afternoon, as it happens, and I rather fancy a trip to the Hamptons. I hear it’s pretty country.”
Your eyes skitter to mine, a rabbit in a snare. You haven’t prepared for this—for what happens when the hunter you’ve led on such a merry chase finally catches you—but having sprung the trap, you bear up nobly. “Do you ride?”
“Passably,” I reply coolly, delighted to watch you squirm. “It’s been a while, but it’s not the kind of thing you forget, is it?”
“I don’t suppose it is, no.”
“Are we on for tomorrow, then?”
To my surprise, after the barest of glances toward Teddy, you agree to meet me at your father’s stables at two the following afternoon. I catch Goldie’s discreet congratulatory nod. She can’t know about the date I’ve just made, but she senses that I’m pleased with myself.
Perhaps too pleased.
The meal is quickly winding down, and I’m aware that the moment we leave the dining room, we’ll part company for the night, and that for now I must watch you hover at Teddy’s side and content myself with thoughts of tomorrow.
FOUR
ASHLYN
We read not to escape life but to learn how to live it more deeply and richly, to experience the world through the eyes of the other.
—Ashlyn Greer, The Care & Feeding of Old Books
September 27, 1984
Portsmouth, New Hampshire
Ashlyn flinched as she flipped on the bindery overheads, wishing she’d had that second cup of coffee. She’d come down early to begin work on Gertrude Maxwell’s latest garage-sale rescue—a set of clothbound Nancy Drew mysteries intended as a Christmas gift for her granddaughter—but she wasn’t feeling particularly motivated.
Her eyes felt gritty and she could still feel the remnants of a headache at the back of her skull. She’d stayed up too late again, revisiting passages from Regretting Belle she found particularly intriguing. And it was all intriguing. Hints that the author’s motives might be less than honorable. Cryptic references to the illustrious Goldie. The delicious wordplay exchanged during dinner.
It had taken a supreme act of will to finally set the book aside and turn out the light. She longed to know what had transpired the next day at the stables, but first and foremost, she wanted to solve the mystery of the book’s origins.
Perhaps it was a lost manuscript, abandoned by its author, then unearthed and bound sometime later. Or more likely, the work of an aspiring writer who’d been unable to find a publisher. But neither scenario explained the lack of an author name.
Which left . . . what?
She’d all but ruled out an oversight on the binder’s part. It was possible, of course. But she found it unlikely that anyone capable of turning out such a beautiful book would have been sloppy enough to omit the author’s name, the publisher’s name, and the copyright page. And there was the prose itself, dripping with disdain. For Belle’s father. For Teddy. At times, for Belle herself. But nothing that might give away the names of the actual players. It all felt too careful.