Jessica wasn't about to abandon John like that. "No, Aunt, you go ahead. I must ask Uncle about something before we leave."
Her aunt was too eager to exit to offer much of a protest, only murmuring her apologies as she left through the door John held for her. Once she was gone, though, no one spoke for an agonizing moment. Finally her uncle nodded to John.
"Ah, here you are, Dryden. I was just telling Mr. Wiley that you should see to securing the library until July 23. See to those bars for the windows, and substantial locks for the doors, and guards round the clock. What do you say?"
"I've already engaged the guards. They are in place at this moment. If you wish, I can take care of the rest tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? Good. Perhaps after that you can stay for—"
Jessica caught her uncle's eyes and shook her head vigorously. The prospect of John, Mr. Wiley, and Damien all to dinner was enough to dampen anyone's appetite. Lord Parham wasn't quick, but he did cut off that dangerous word "dinner," lamely substituting "a drink, to tell me what you've accomplished."
"As you wish."
John was at his most remote again, as he so often was in company, guarded, standing back near the door with his arms crossed. He didn't look at her, but Jessica knew better than to take offense. She was an ally; he didn't have to watch her.
Instead he watched Mr. Wiley, who stood silent and still in the middle of the carpet. He shook his head when Uncle Emory suggested they sit down, and so they all kept standing in an awkward circle.
"You can take your holiday as usual in July, Mr. Wiley."
No doubt her uncle meant this conciliatorily, but it didn't work. The librarian's stillness broke in an abrupt gesture of his arm. "And leave my library to this upstart?"
"It's not your library," Jessica said, but her protest was drowned out by her uncle's hearty voice.
"Now, now, Mr. Wiley, no need for that. Dryden works for the Regent, recall. He comes highly recommended. The library will be quite safe with the measures he puts into effect."
"Will it be safe from him, that is what I ask."
As Parham repeated, "Now, now, Mr. Wiley," Jessica stole a glance at John. He was still watching Mr. Wiley, with the disinterested academic regard a natural scientist might give an insect. Don't look at him like that, she wanted to plead. Don't you know it drives him mad?
But perhaps that was John's plan. If so, it was succeeding. Mr. Wiley drew himself up, ostentatiously addressing her uncle alone. "I will stay here. Stay in the library."
"No." John never looked away from Mr. Wiley, but his objection was directed at Lord Parham. "If the library is to be closed, it must be closed to all. I can't vouch for the security of the holdings otherwise."
"You are right, Dryden. I regret, Mr. Wiley, that until I can transfer the library, you too must be excluded. You can, of course, retrieve your personal possessions from your office."
Jessica closed her eyes, sending out the fervent hope that John would not suggest that a guard accompany Mr. Wiley back to his office.
But she needn't have worried. John had no chance to speak. With a cold fury that seemed to erupt from deep within, Mr. Wiley said, "Lord Parham, is this what you intend? To trust this scoundrel with the Parham Collection?"
"Mr. Wiley!"
To Jessica, the insult sounded like just another shot across the bow in this secret battle, but her uncle was clearly shocked. He swallowed convulsively and found his voice again. "You go too far! You have defamed Dryden's honor!"
The librarian laughed bitterly. "He has none to defame. Or he would defend it, as a gentleman would! But no, he will not call me out."
John finally moved, uncrossing his arms and leaning casually against the door frame. His voice was almost peaceful. "No, Wiley, I shan't call you out."
Parham stirred uneasily. "It is your right. You needn't stand for insult."
"If I called out every man who insulted me—" John shook his head. "I should have no time to work. Anyway, this isn't a proper discussion to conduct in front of Miss Seton."
"That's right, take refuge behind her skirts, Dryden. You've already shown yourself a poltroon, after all. Your life is evidently worth more to you than your honor."
That insult broke through Jessica's determined calm. She started to protest, but John, never glancing her way, overrode her. "Not at all.
Your
life is worth more than that. My honor would be a paltry thing, wouldn't it, if I had to kill old men to keep it."
Wiley sucked in an outraged breath, then expelled it in a rush of words. "The excuse of a coward."
The word hung in the air even as Mr. Wiley rushed towards the door. Without comment John stepped back and let him by. When the door slammed behind the librarian, Parham drew a deep breath. "You would have been within your rights, Dryden. No man has to listen to that. I would have challenged him, had I been you."
There was a rebuke in that comment, but John only shrugged. "You are nearer his age. It would have been fairer, though I would have backed you, were I a betting man. His eyesight is faulty, can you tell? He can't focus with the left eye. Spent too long squinting in that dark office of his."
Parham was still uneasy. "Still, you ought to have taught him a lesson."
"I don't kill men to teach them a lesson."
"You are so sure you would win then?"
John regarded him with frank astonishment. "Lord Parham, perhaps you don't know what I have been doing these last decades. When I was fifteen, I was already a gun captain of an India-bound brig. I remember aiming a twelve-pounder at the main topmast of Malay pirates in the middle of a typhoon, and hitting it square enough to bring it down. I assure you, a man standing still at twelve paces poses no great challenge to me."
"You wouldn't have had to kill him."
"Well, I don't play at killing either, and I warrant I've seen more of it than he has. He wanted me to challenge him, or, more likely, he wanted me not to challenge him. I don't know why. But if being a gentleman means helping him commit suicide, I beg off. Jessica."
Jessica started. She had been hanging back, trying to remain inconspicuous so that her uncle wouldn't order her out. But John saying her name—her Christian name, and in front of her uncle!—brought her up. "Yes?"
"Come see what I found for you."
As Jessica approached, she glanced back at her uncle. He was holding up his finger, as if he meant to make another comment. But then he shook his head. The issue of duelling was closed. Just as well. It was absurd to think of John shooting Mr. Wiley, however much he deserved it, or to believe that refusal to do so constituted cowardice. She had seen how quick John was with a dagger, and knew he must be just as handy with a pistol. Her uncle, of course, was probably too hidebound to consider that sometimes duelling would be the dishonorable action.
From his coat pocket, John brought a brown-paper wrapped parcel and handed it to her. The string was tied in an elaborate nautical knot, and after a moment or two of fumbling she gave it back. With a grin he pulled a loop and the knot fell apart. He tore off the paper to reveal a neat, quarto-sized volume bound in blue leather.
"
The Forced Marriage
," Jessica read from the spine. "Oh, it's another play by Aphra Behn! Where did you find it?"
"Pulton's, down by Printer's Alley. Look at the frontispiece."
She opened the book to the first page. There, scrawled across it, was the name John Dryden. She knew a bit of disappointment, that he hadn't added some sentimental or provocative message above his signature. "Thank you, John. You might add the date there, you know."
"Add the date? Why? You don't think—Jessica, that's not my hand."
"You mean this is the other John Dryden's copy? The poet's? Oh!" She turned back to the signature and traced it with her finger. "He was a friend of Mrs. Behn, wasn't he? Perhaps she gave this to him." She paged through it, searching for the annotations that were the mark of an enthusiastic reader. "Look, he's marked this passage." Heat rose in her cheeks as she scanned the page. "And I can imagine why. My word." She closed the book, glancing back at her uncle with a laugh, glad John was intuitive enough not to ask her to read it aloud. "Thank you. This will be quite an addition to my collection. Not the Parham, I mean. I've started my own little library."
"The Seton collection?"
"Oh, I like that. The Seton collection. It's rather eclectic, right now, because I haven't decided what my specialty will be. Perhaps it should be women writers. I've got several works by Frenchwomen like Marie de Pisan and Madelaine De Scudery. Do you know of any collectors who focus on that area?"
John's eyes narrowed as he considered the question. His remoteness was gone, along with any lingering tension from the confrontation with Mr. Wiley. Jessica bent her head to hide her smile and pretended to examine the book's binding. She was good at diverting him, at drawing him out. It took only a puzzle.
"None that I know. That would give you an advantage. If you chose an area such as early Caxton works, you'd have to compete for your acquisitions, which drives the price up considerably. And, truth to tell, it won't take you long to get a comprehensive selection, with so few women writers getting into print. To supplement it, you might look for collections of letters, or private diaries, which wouldn't be printed. I can keep a watch for you, if you like." John frowned thoughtfully and started counting off likely authors on his fingers. "Hannah More—very recent, but that makes her first editions easy to locate."
"Elizabeth Inchbald."
"Anne Bradstreet, the American poet."
"Suzanne Centlivre."
"Aphra, of course. You might even find theatre promptbooks, since she came after the Great Fire. And, well, I might be able to locate with an odd poem or two by Queen Elizabeth—and they would be odd. She thought meter should submit to royal command."
Jessica declared laughingly, "I'd settle for her signature on an official document! Queen Elizabeth!"
They were so involved in planning the new Seton Collection of Continental and British Female Literature that Jessica almost forgot her uncle, sitting silent on the settee. Guiltily, she turned to him with a smile. "I'm sorry, Uncle. We must be boring you terribly."
Uncle Emory shook his head and rose. "No, no. You young people go on and converse. I'll just go tell your aunt that the altercation is over and she can come out now." At the door he paused and looked back, and she waited for him to speak the thoughts that were clouding his eyes. But he only repeated, in that oddly indulgent tone, "You young people go on. I'll leave the door open."
In the bustle of getting off to Vauxhall, Jessica gave little thought to her uncle's strange attitude. But when John got out of the carriage at the dock, she asked her aunt, "Is Uncle Emory ailing? He seemed so distracted when we left."
Peering out the window, Aunt Martha gathered up her shawl and reticule. "Oh, it's just that Mr. Wiley. He has been taking Parham aside and whispering to him, and upsetting him. Your uncle is a congenial man, you know, and he doesn't like such goings-on. But it will all be over soon." She gave her niece's attire an assessing regard, as if Jessica were yet a naughty child, then nodded her approval. "What a pleasant notion, going to Vauxhall by boat! And it's a lovely night for it. Now you remember to thank Sir John specially for arranging this."
Jessica agreed meekly to mind her manners, and dismissed her uncle's distraction from her mind as they journeyed to the dock. Their longboat was painted like a Venetian gondola and poled by an old man in a striped jersey and black hat with a red ribbon. "Apt, isn't it," John commented, "as we'll be seeing scenes from Merchant of Venice and Romeo and Juliet."
Even Aunt Martha enjoyed the short ride up the Thames, exclaiming, "How pretty!" when they rounded the bend to see the gardens all lit up with lanterns, like stars winking in the trees. On this "Italian night," the dock was covered with a gaily striped awning in Mediterranean colors, and porters dressed in bright Borgia-style doublet and hose leaped up to help the ladies out of the boat.
"How do you say thank you in Italian?" Aunt Martha whispered to John when they were all securely ashore.
"Just as you do in English." John tossed a half-crown to each porter, then smiled down at Lady Parham. "
Grazie e buona sera
will do very well."
Aunt Martha repeated this to the porters, conscientiously trying to reproduce John's fluent pronunciation. They grinned and ducked their heads, one replying, "And bona sara to you, too, miladies."
Jessica was pleased to see her aunt trying so hard to get into the fun of the evening, taking John's arm without a demur as they started down the Grand Walk and making no sharp comments about the couples who kept veering off into the shadows. She did, of course, remark, "Vauxhall is rather thin of company, with everyone off in the country," an odd enough observation considering the hundreds of people strolling about the grounds.
But when she added, glancing about, "We needn't worry, need we, with Sir John here to protect us from the riffraff," Jessica wondered if her aunt was more anxious than she let on. She didn't get out much in company anymore, and disliked the dark.
Rather to Jessica's surprise, John kept the stream of conversation steady until the strange amalgamation of Shakespeare and Handel began. She would not have thought him at ease with an older lady, something of a dragon of society. But then, Aunt Martha was hardly forbidding tonight, even in her inevitable black dress, and she even managed to say no more than once or twice that she hadn't been here since before Waterloo.
There was something about Vauxhall that never failed to revive the spirit, some magic that made Jessica forget the artifice involved, rather as she chose to ignore the greasepaint and wigs on the actors pretending to be Shakespeare's creatures on the orchestra platform. While the footlights held the darkness at bay, casting a flickering illusion over the audience, it was easy to pretend that this was Verona or Venice, and that all the world was a stage in a starlit grove in a fragrant garden.