Southwell, Nottinghamshire, 1814
“Mama says poetry is for stuffy, blue-stocking aristocrats and not for lots like we,” my hideous kill-joy of a twin brother said, snatching the book from my hands. He had grown taller than me of late and no amount of jumping on my part could retrieve the glorious book he had so wrongly stolen.
“Give it back!” I attempted several more jumps to no avail. “Richard Arthur Woodhouse, if you do not give my book back this instant, I shall scream down the house!”
“Go ahead,” he said, non-plussed, blinking wide blue eyes and looking for all the world like the stained-glass window of St. Francis of Assisi from the church. Richard was far from kind and saint like, though—especially regarding my reading habits. “Mama will still believe I am right and you are wrong,” he continued smugly, holding the book still farther above his head to ward off my retrieval attempts. “She will probably even throw your ratty old book on the rubbish heap and then the pigs can read--” he checked the cover “--the poetry of Lord Byron.”
“Byron is courageous and good and-and-and gloriously romantic and writes the best verse I have ever laid eyes on!” I defended my literary hero.
Richard twisted his face up in a grimace. “Lord, Mariah, you read the gossip pages as well as I. Everyone calls him 'The Wicked Lord' for a reason… and it’s not for his writing prowess.”
“People are jealous,” I insisted.
“Society people know 'the wicked lord' better than midlands folk like us,” he pointed out, throwing my book up and down in the air as he spoke. “The closest you will ever get to your precious Lord is through these pages.”
“I could have a London season one day,” I said in a quiet little voice. A real London Season like the blue stockings from the society pages was my greatest dream yet, I knew that is all it would ever remain—a dream. Our inn may be the best option for travelers in Southwell, but innkeeper’s daughters do not get London seasons. There was no way to correct the egregious error of my lowly birth. Dreams were all my station afforded me, nothing more.
Richard sneered at the prospect of fancy clothes and even fancier dress balls in my future. “Right. When our long-lost Uncle Moneybags falls from the sky and lands at your feet.” He finally returned my book, and I tucked it away in my apron pocket for safekeeping. “Mama needs you in the kitchen,” he informed me. “It's nearing the noon rush.”
I nodded, securing my unruly muddy-brown colored curls at the nape of my neck with a blue ribbon to match my dress. How I wished I had blond hair and blue eyes like the ultra-scandalous Lady Caroline Lamb that Lord Byron was so taken with! Even Richard was blond and blue eyed while they cursed me with the afore mentioned curls and eyes so dark they appeared black. Very unfashionable and unfortunate for me. Once I had attempted to lighten my hair with lemon juice but it only turned a shocking shade of orange and it forced me to wear a bonnet morning, noon, and night till it faded to normal.
“Hurry,” Richard said as he exited my room.
My family—the Woodhouses—owned and operated an inn called The Merry Men in homage to the only good thing to come from Nottinghamshire—Robin Hood. We lived above the inn and, thankfully, Mama and Papa had seen fit to stop having children after Richard and I so we were not crammed five to a bed like some families I knew. We were far from wealthy, but we lived comfortably compared to most.
When Richard and I were very little, we shared a room but, as a thirteenth birthday present, Papa converted Mama's craft room into a bedroom for Richard. Now, at nearly eighteen, we were happily independent of one another. Richard had a sweetheart, Betsy Abrams, and I had my books. Papa's only goal for Richard was to learn the business and be a good innkeeper someday. I believe they expected me to marry some nice vicar or some such and set up my house nearby. Not an ambitious goal, but what they expected.
I wished to visit London and Paris and Rome and all the destinations one takes on a Grand Tour of the Continent. Again, I am sure this wish would prove just another dream since you needed money of your own or a rather wealthy relative to embark on a Grand Tour and I had neither. My greatest wish, though, was to meet the clever and dashing Lord Byron. I knew there was very little chance for this or any of my other dreams to come true, but it never hurt to aim high. It kept my mind off my uneventful life in tiny Southwell. When we were younger, more portable, and complained less over coach rides, Mama used to take us to Nottingham to visit her family but we hadn't been in an age it seemed. Perhaps everyone became too “busy” with the workings of the inn, but I, for one, clung to the memories of our visits to the larger town. Anything is an improvement over “Snorewell.”
“Lord, child, you took an age,” Mama said as I entered the kitchen, giving me a distracted peck on the cheek as I began cutting and buttering the bread fresh from the oven for the usual mid-afternoon rush. The whole town delighted in Mama's cooking. Sometimes, if people had too much time on their hands and a hankering for good food, we received guests from other parts of Midlands. I lacked any culinary talents what-so-ever despite Mama's usually patient coaching but could take directions well so served with a smile while she slaved in the kitchen. She descended from Nottingham cool miners, so the inn was a step up in the right direction.
“Bread and butter for all tables and then tell them about the stew or lamb brisket,” Mama instructed. “Try to get a few more to order pints or, at the very least, a full meal.”
“Yes, Mama,” I said, loading my arms with bread baskets.
I knew nearly everyone in town by name so could greet the customers with a friendly smile and call them “Tom” or “John” or whoever they may be. Mama said my best-selling point was my smile. It was my best attribute and the only thing about my appearance that I thought of in a positive light. A bright smile had charmed more than a few men into ordering additional pints.
“Walter! How wonderful to see you!” I exclaimed, happy to see my oldest and dearest friend, the lending library clerk, at his usual table in the corner nearest the kitchen.
“G-Good afternoon, Miss Mariah,” he stammered, blushing to the roots of his ginger colored hair.
Walter Weylons was the only man I knew who had turned short-sighted from reading too many books; a feat Mama always said would befall me if I continued on my present course of voracious reading. Walter was now obliged to wear wire-rimmed spectacles which made him look even more bookish. I thought them charming, but he was hideously self-conscience. Between his glasses and stammer, many of our classmates taunted poor Walter in school, but I always defended him in words and actions. Mama said I can be fiercer than a wolf protecting her cubs if the situation warrants, and I believe defending Walter in our younger days against verbal and physical taunts was the best use of this fierce side. He remained my dearest of friends, though not in the marrying kind as Mama and Papa wished for. Heroines do not marry their best friends. At least not in the novels I prefer to read.
“I-I've got some new volumes you might enjoy,” Walter said. “I set them aside so no one would borrow them first.”
“Thank you. How very kind,” I said, giving him one of my patented smiles. He blushed all the harder, and it took great willpower on my part not to laugh at his shyness. Honestly, it was just one little smile!
“P-Perhaps before the lending library closes you can grace us with a visit,” Walter said, eyes never meeting mine as he spoke. A pity. I enjoyed how his spectacles magnified his blue-gray eyes. Even if Walter disliked his need for spectacles, that did not mean I felt similarly. Eyes were the window to the soul. He was no Lord Byron, but everyone cannot be so dashing and literary as all that. Some people, such as Walter, needed to tend to the lending library and be oh so practical. It was by no fault of his own that he was not in league with Lord Byron. In my esteemed
though arguably biased opinion
few people were.
“I'd love to visit the lending library,” I said, hugging my empty serving tray to my chest. “I'll ask Mama's permission once I have finished the mid-afternoon shift.”
Walter darted a quick glance up. “W-Wonderful.”
I smiled again and Walter ordered a full meal without even being prompted and three pints besides. Papa would be so proud.
Mama naturally granted me permission after the rush so, after I served the last pint and collected the last pence, I grabbed my pelisse, gloves, and bonnet and hurried down the dusty street to the lending library.
~*~
Walter looked up as the bell jingled my entrance, pushing aside the stack of books he was checking in. “M-Mariah. Y-You came.”
“Of course, I did, Walter,” I said, removing my gloves and stuffing them in my reticule for safe keeping. “I'm dying to see these latest books. Are they poetry? Has Lord Byron come out with another volume?”
“H-he has,” Walter said, sliding a thin red volume across the clerk's desk. “I-It's called The Corsair. I also thought you might enjoy the latest from Wordsworth and h-here is another novel from 'a lady.' I r-remembered you enjoyed her o-other works.”
“Mansfield Park,” I read the title. “Sounds intriguing.”
“P-Perhaps we can d-discuss them at a later date,” Walter suggested, stamping the books with their due date before sliding all three across the counter towards me. “T-The woods are always p-pleasant this time of year.”
I grinned at the mention of our childhood play area. “Remember when we endeavored to build that tree fort? Neither of our Papas would allow us hammers and nails, so we thought ourselves very crafty when we built it on the ground instead.”
Walter smiled at the memory. “O-Our lean to could not sustain a Midlands Spring storm. A-All our w-work washed away.”
“Such a pity,” I agreed, pulling my gloves on and filling the space in my reticule with my new books. “Perhaps we should try again tomorrow.”
“T-T-Tomorrow?” If Walter was partaking of drink, I believe he would have spit it across the room at my suggestion. “W-We’ve hardly ever walked in the woods since our s-school days ended, M-Mariah.”
“And whose fault is that?” I asked. “I need a confidant like in my novels and Richard just will not do. Confiding anything to your brother is not how novel-lives' work. Brothers defend your honor and rescue you from scrapes. The confidant role is for sturdy, reliable sorts. That, I have decided, is you. Tomorrow. The woods,” I repeated. “Please do not disappoint me, Walter.”
His hand shook as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I-I would never dare dream of it, Mariah.”
“Lovely.” I turned to leave but stopped and looked over my shoulder once I reached the door. “Until then.”
“I-I shall think of hardly nothing else.”
