“No,” he said slowly, still staring at her. “No, I believe you’re correct.”
Viola felt her face heat. “You know him much better than I—”
“I doubt it.” Winterton’s eyes were piercing. “I’ve only seen him a dozen times since he was a boy.”
“Well.” It was astonishing how flustered she felt, just from him looking at her. “Perhaps you’ll become better acquainted with his thoughts and feelings during this visit.” She chewed her lip and changed the subject. “A large book. Perhaps an atlas would do?”
He tensed. “Pardon?”
“An atlas. Bridget said it must be a large book, and an atlas is the largest book I can think of.” She went to the bookcase and surveyed the selection behind the finely carved wooden screen. “Perhaps this one. It’s large and looks impressive.” She pulled it from the shelf and opened it on the wide table.
The earl stepped up beside her. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“It’s Cellarius’s Harmonia Macrocosmica, and shouldn’t be trusted to Lady Bridget’s farce. I’m astonished Wessex keeps it here among the other books.”
Viola gaped as he took the book and turned gently through a few pages. His face was bright and sharp with interest. “This is one of the most beautiful examples of celestial cartography in the world. Look—” He laid one page in front of her. “The northern sky.”
It was a beautifully illustrated page, in vivid colors with constellation figures sketched over a background of stars. “It is lovely,” Viola whispered in awe. “I’d no idea it was particularly valuable.”
“I suppose not everyone would think so.” He closed the book reverently and put it back on the shelf. “Is Wessex a collector?”
“I’m not privy to that. The duchess has a fondness for maps, but I’ve never heard her speak of the stars.”
Winterton went still, as if startled. “Maps?”
Viola smiled. “Yes.” Before her marriage, the duchess had owned a prosperous draper’s shop in Melchester, and she’d stocked a good number of exotic fabrics from around the world. Viola had seen the map that used to hang in the shop offices, with pins pressed into the countries where she got her fabrics: fine cottons from America and India, silk from China, jacquard from France. Now that she was mistress of Kingstag, someone else ran the shop, but she still took an interest in it.
“I also have a fondness for maps.” Winterton turned around, his head cocked curiously. “I’ve never met a duchess who shared it. Does she collect them?”
“Do you?” Viola asked brightly. On no account would she discuss the duchess’s personal interests with him. “I suppose you must, on your travels.”
“I do have a number of them,” he admitted with a grin. “Atlases and maps are marvels—an entire worldview contained in one page or one book. I have an atlas of the world that doesn’t include any hint of America, because it wasn’t known. Another ancient map is centered about Jerusalem, per the church’s preference. And others—such as this Cellarius—are maps of things we can never possibly visit.”
“Yes,” she murmured, struck by his enthusiasm. “But you would like to.”
“To visit the stars? No.” His gaze grew distant. “But they are a traveler’s dearest companion. The same stars that shine above home in England also shine above the Indies, the Americas, and China. Every sailor learns to chart his way using them as a guide. In that respect, a map of the stars is more valuable than any map of the land.”
Viola couldn’t stop a small wistful sigh. She was perfectly happy here in England—mostly—usually—but the excitement in the earl’s face as he spoke of sailing the seas and seeing exotic lands and people did plant a tiny seed of envy in her heart. Just to have the chance to go on such a journey would be incredible.
But she did not have that chance, and probably never would.
“You find the prospect appealing,” said the earl, his gaze returning to her with keen discernment.
“A little,” she allowed. “Well—yes, I do. Perhaps not to travel all the way to China, but to see Paris, or Venice, or some of the mountains in Switzerland . . . yes, it does sound thrilling.” She turned back to the shelves to break the moment. Do not be tempted by a wealthy earl’s questions, she told herself. “What would you suggest we give Bridget, if none of these are suitable to being props?”
The earl turned to the bookcase. “Are these all the atlases at Kingstag?”
“Yes.” Too late Viola remembered that the duke had bought another recently as a gift for the duchess. It was a finely bound atlas, with all the trading routes around the globe marked, and the duke thought his wife would be charmed by the drawings and engravings of items from far-off lands. It mirrored the map she had kept of where her goods came from.
But that was to be the duchess’s Christmas gift, and as such could not possibly be flaunted in Bridget’s play. Viola had been sworn to secrecy by Wessex, who was quite pleased with himself for thinking of something so unusual for his wife.
The earl seemed disappointed by her answer. A thin line appeared between his brows as he stared at her for a moment, almost as if he knew her answer wasn’t entirely correct, but he said nothing. After a moment he pulled a book from the shelf. “This one.”
“An almanac of last year.” Viola grinned. “No one will be tempted to read it during the play, I suppose.”
Winterton’s mouth twisted ruefully. “Not in the least.”
* * *
Wes didn’t know what to do. For a moment he’d thought he would finally get a look at the Desnos atlas, to see if it was the one he sought.
There were only a few known editions of the Desnos atlas, all dated from the previous century. They were handsomely illustrated and annotated, which would have made one desirable enough to a wandering soul like his. But the particular atlas he sought had belonged to his father.
Wes had spent hours poring over those maps, listening to his father’s tales of the sights he’d seen in those remote and exotic locations. When the late earl died, the atlas has been mistakenly sold with some other books and Wes had been searching for it ever since, making inquiries of collectors and dealers all over England. After years of no success, he’d heard the Duke of Wessex might have it. The duke’s reply to his queries had been vague and not very encouraging, but Wes was undeterred. He’d learned the duke was a family man, which meant there was a chance he could be persuaded to sell it by Wes’s story—and that was enough chance for him to travel to Dorset, in winter, with his surly nephew in tow. He was determined to have that atlas again.
But it was not in the Kingstag library, and now Viola Cavendish had just said there were no other atlases in the castle. Her face, though, had gone blank for just a moment after she said that, as if remembering something. Perhaps she suspected there was another?
He thought hard about it as they went about the remaining tasks. They delivered the almanac to the players in the drawing room and found the housekeeper, who promised to send a footman to the stables in search of a chain. He trailed after Mrs. Cavendish as she scoured a storage room, finally holding up a battered piece of metal with a pleased exclamation.