Since he’d thought the same thing about her, he didn’t say what he would have liked to. “I’ve frequented Compton’s bookshop since I was a boy. He introduced me to French novels and plays.”
Mr. Fielding was noted for the immense collection of French works he had in his shop, but Jessie, not knowing a single utterance in French, had never really paid much attention. She’d read every novel he had until just recently when he’d begun introducing her to diaries. They were, she had to admit, rather interesting, but thin on plot. There were no handsome gentlemen to sweep a girl off her feet. Oh yes, she adored lots of plot.
“You are a horse breeder and racer, James. You couldn’t possibly speak French.”
“Well, I do. In fact, I’ve spent a good deal of time in France.” He eyed her up and down. “You’re wearing a gown. Where the devil did you get it? It’s too short and quite an ugly color of yellow, and it bags in the bosom. Ah, I know. It must be one of Nelda’s or Glenda’s castaways. Would you like to borrow a pair of my socks to stuff down the front?”
Compton Fielding cleared his throat. “James, would you like to come see the collection of Corneille’s plays I just received? You particularly wanted to read Le Cid. The collection also has Cinna and La Mort de Pompée. I myself prefer Le Cid. The others are a bit tedious in that pompous classical sort of way.”
James gave Jessie a final look of acute dislike and followed Compton Fielding to his small desk at the rear of the store. The air was so heavy with the smell of wood, books, and rag dust that James wondered how Fielding could breathe after a couple of hours in the bowels of the shop.
When he held the Corneille plays in his hands, he gently opened the pages to Le Cid. He began reading the first scene between Elvire and Chimene.
“You can really understand that?” Jessie had wandered up and was standing at his elbow, staring down at the page. “It looks like gibberish.”
“Yes, of course. Why would I want to buy it if I couldn’t even read it?”
“Perhaps just to put me in my place. Me and all the other ragtag Colonists. That’s it, isn’t it, James? You think we’re all ignorant buffoons.”
“I’ve never thought you the least bit ignorant, Jessie, and how could I, given what you’re buying? Here you are reading a diary—something of historical interest. I’m impressed.”
“Before I got her on the diaries, she read every gothic tale I could find her.”
“I’m not surprised,” James said, and laughed. She looked as if she wanted to peel a layer of skin off him, but she kept her mouth shut, which surprised him.
Feeling a touch guilty, James thought he’d try to make it up to her. “Come on, Jessie, I’ll buy you an ice cream over on Baltimore Street. Would you like that?”
She glowed with pleasure. “Perhaps I’d like it, just a little bit.”
James paid Compton Fielding for the Corneille and escorted Jessie and her diary down Calvert Street. He was stunned to see she even had a parasol, a flowered confection that she held like a club. Her red hair was pulled too tightly back from her face and tied with a black velvet ribbon at her neck.
“We’re going to Balboney’s?”
“That’s right. Mr. Balboney’s son, Gray, wants to learn stud management. I’m thinking of taking him on.”
“Oh dear.”
“‘Oh dear’ what?”
“There’s your mistress, James, Mrs. Maxwell. She’s waving at you.”
Sure enough, Connie Maxwell was just across the street standing in front of Hezekiah Niles’s newspaper office, waving frantically at him. He waved back, motioning her to wait for him. He turned back to Jessie. “For God’s sake, you’re not supposed to know anything about mistresses.”
“Perhaps not, but Glenda knows all about her. I heard her discussing Mrs. Maxwell with Mama. Glenda’s afraid you’ll marry Mrs. Maxwell and not her, but Mama said that wouldn’t happen. Mrs. Maxwell is too old for you and you’ll want sons, and she is too old for that as well. She said you’d want a young virgin, a lady who is malleable and submissive and sweet, someone who would bring you money, someone just like Glenda. She did allow, though, that Mrs. Maxwell was very fine-looking, which she is. She’s lovely. She doesn’t look at all old.”
James stared at her, fascinated by what was coming so guilelessly out of that mouth of hers. “Jessie, I have no intention of marrying your sister.”
“You don’t?”
There it was: that hopeful look, as wistful as that of a child being offered a Christmas cookie.
“No. Were you eavesdropping again?”
“Oh, no. Well, maybe. Sometimes they talk in front of me. It’s as if I’m not there.”
“But this time they didn’t? You eavesdropped?”
“Yes. At least I didn’t fall through the door or make any noise.”