Surrender To Sin. Tamara Lejeune

I thought it might look a little odd if I were to suddenly appear from behind the sales counter…so I rather thought I’d better stay where I was.”

      “I see,” he said, not believing a word of it. Gravely, he held Lord Dulwich’s written apology out to her. “His lordship wanted you to have this.”

      Abigail shyly plucked it from between his gloved fingers. “Did he actually write all those things you told him to?” she exclaimed. “How could he be sure I wouldn’t expose him?”

      He laughed. “Because you’re my cousin, that’s why. You’re a Wayborn.”

      He looked at her very warmly. To cover her embarrassment, she quickly turned to the clerk. “You will put the Misses Brandon back on the list for Kubla Khan, won’t you?”

      “Of course, madam,” the clerk assured her. “It was remiss of me not to tell his lordship that this is the sixth page of a very long list. I shall place the Misses Brandon at the bottom of page five.” As he wrote, he smiled politely at her. “Might I help you find something, madam?”

      “Please attend the gentleman first,” said Abigail. “I’m just waiting for my father.”

      “In that case, let me bring you something to look at while you wait,” said the clerk. “I won’t be a moment. I’ll have my assistant find your book for you, sir,” he told Cary. “I believe you were interested in Mr. Fielding’s History of a Foundling, popularly known as Tom Jones?”

      “Who is this Kubla Khan?” Cary asked Abigail when the clerk had gone. “There must be two hundred names on that list.”

      “Do you not know the story, sir?” Abigail asked excitedly. “The poem first came to Mr. Coleridge in a dream. When he woke up, it just sort of poured out of him onto the page, as if the poet were merely a conduit between this world and the next.”

      Cary struggled to keep a straight face. “Fascinating technique,” he remarked.

      “Unfortunately, as he was putting it down on the page, he was interrupted by a man from Porlock, who would talk business, and when poor Mr. Coleridge sat down to write again, the rest of the poem had passed away like the images on the surface of the stream into which a stone has been cast. Why are you smirking?” she demanded.

      He was thinking that she was quite a pretty girl when she forgot to be shy.

      “Was I smirking? I beg your pardon. But it should be rather obvious to anyone that Mr. Coleridge is simply too lazy to finish his work. He’s invented a rather feeble excuse, a fairy story, to help him sell a fragment. Is that not some excuse for smirking, if indeed I smirked?”

      “What right have you to accuse Mr. Coleridge of making up a fairy story?” Abigail demanded huffily.

      “You’re quite right,” he murmured, though he still appeared amused rather than contrite. “I withdraw my cynical remarks. I withdraw my smirk.”

      “I should think so indeed,” said Abigail crisply, as Mr. Eldridge returned with a book.

      “Good God,” said Cary. “Blake’s Songs of Innocence, unless I miss my guess.”

      Mr. Eldridge looked at the gentleman with approval. “Songs of Innocence and of Experience, sir. A combined volume, very rare. Mr. Blake prints them all himself, you know.”

      Abigail shook her head regretfully. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand Mr. Blake,” she said. “I read part of Heaven and Hell last winter, but it was so strange that I had to set it aside for my own peace of mind. And, you know, people say he’s not a patriot.”

      “Not a patriot?” said Cary, frowning. “What do you mean?”

      Abigail dropped her voice almost to a whisper. “During the war, he was suspected of printing seditious material, and when the soldiers came to his door and said, ‘Open in the name of the King!’ Mr. Blake answered, from behind the door, ‘Bugger the King!’ Which, I daresay, is not a very nice thing to say about one’s sovereign,” she quickly added.

      “Or anyone else’s sovereign,” Cary agreed, just managing to keep a straight face. “But the war is over now, cousin, and we are once again free to insult our betters as much as we please, without fear of reprisal. In my opinion—if you happen to be interested in my opinion?”

      “Yes, of course,” Abigail said civilly.

      “In my opinion, Mr. Blake is a visionary poet without the aid—or excuse—of opium, which is more than your Mr. Coleridge can say. But if Blake is too strong for you, cousin, there’s bound to be a little Wordsworth lying about the place.”

      Abigail was indignant. “I rather like Mr. Wordsworth!”

      His smile widened. “I suspected as much. He’s so perfectly harmless.”

      “It really is a very fine volume, madam,” interjected Mr. Eldridge, still hoping for a sale. “Nothing frightening in it at all. If nothing else, Mr. Blake is a master of the copperplate.”

      “If the tiger is good, you should buy it, cousin,” said Cary decisively, reaching for the book. “There,” he said drawing her attention to a poem entitled, “The Tyger.” At the bottom of the page was a cartoon of a muscular beast with amber eyes as big as saucers. Its fiery orange body bore irregular umber stripes, but in no other way did it resemble a tiger.

      “It appears to be smirking,” said Abigail critically. “And the poem…It’s like a nursery rhyme, isn’t it? ‘Tyger Tyger, burning bright, in the forests of the night…’”

      “Remind me never to visit your nursery!” Cary said, laughing.

      Mr. Eldridge looked inquiringly at Abigail. “Madam?”

      She shook her head. “Perhaps the gentleman wants it.”

      “Excellent tiger,” said Cary. “Wish I could afford it, but I’m rather as poor as Adam at the moment. My man of affairs has ordered me to retrench. You wouldn’t happen to know of anyone looking for a house in the country, would you, cousin? I’ve got one to let, and I could certainly use the rent. It’s an old dower house, a cottage really. Only six bedrooms.”

      “Have you tried advertising?” she asked politely.

      “Good Lord, no,” he answered. “I couldn’t possibly advertise. Advertisements always draw the very worst sort of people: people who read advertisements. If you should hear of anyone interested in a place, do please send him my way,” he said, feeling about his waistcoat for a card. Finding none, he took Dulwich’s apology from her, turned it over, and scrawled rapidly on the back: “Cary Wayborn, Tanglewood Manor, Herts.” “A recommendation from my fair cousin would be enough for me,” he added with a wide smile.

      Flattered, Abigail tucked it into her reticule just as the assistant appeared with Tom Jones.

      Mr. Eldridge took a ledger from beneath the counter. “Oh, dear,” he said, clucking his tongue. “There appears to be an outstanding balance on your account, sir. Nearly ten pounds.”

      “Is there?” Cary replied, unconcerned. “Remind me about that sometime, will you?”

      “I think he’s trying to remind you of it now,” Abigail pointed out.

      “Is he?” Cary said sharply. “Are you trying to remind me of it now, Eldridge?”

      “No, indeed, sir,” the clerk said meekly. “Would you like this wrapped? We’ve some very special Christmas paper printed with holly wreaths. It was the young lady’s idea.”

      Cary glanced at Abigail. “What, this young lady?”

      “It’s been a very popular service this season. Only a penny more, sir.”

      “By all means.” When Mr. Eldridge presented him with the package tied up with a red ribbon, Cary seemed pleased. “I daresay my sister will think I did it myself.