The Last of the Barons — Volume 08 by Baron Edward Bulwer Lytton Lytton (best way to read e books .txt) 📕

with heavy red cloth to the story below. I dashed for the spot and slipped down behind the balcony railing, hoping the shadows and my black dress kept my presence concealed. Of course, the wealthy were raised to ignore servants, which should only help my cause, though the Vanderbilts broke such aristocratic expectations on a regular basis. Mr. Vanderbilt had even stooped to help me retrieve a stack of books I dropped when he accidentally opened a door in my way once.

Luckily, my place in the corner gave me a perfect view of the guests’ entrance into the library, and the newest arrivals did not disappoint. With due admiration, the two men grew wide-eyed and open-mouthed, displaying acceptable wonder at the grandness of the two-story library and overarching ceiling painting. They must have been father and son, or some close relation, from the familial resemblance of light hair and facial features. Their impeccable dress highlighted their class, from the starch of their white shirts to the glisten of their shiny shoes.

“Where does one possibly begin?” the younger of the two breathed, his voice echoing through the room, the glint in his eyes a fascinating reward.

“Wherever one wishes, I suppose,” responded the elder.

Ah, even better. English aristocracy, I wagered. Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt had mentioned the arrival of some of their English friends aboard one of the few passenger liners braving the Atlantic waters during a war. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess this particular party was one of Mrs. Vanderbilt’s subtle attempts at matchmaking people she held in high esteem. My shoulders relaxed. I would certainly remain invisible from them. The English were excellent at not seeing the servants.

“Well.” The elder man took a step deeper into the room. “You were interested in locating something a bit lighter in tone than Machiavelli, as I recall?”

“Anything not related to estate business or the current war in Europe would suit me fine,” the younger replied. “The latter I read about in spades much too regularly, and the former—” He sent a ruthless grin towards the older man. “You’ve nearly worked me to the bone.”

“Don’t you mean bored you to tears, Son?” The older man chuckled. “The hard work commences when we return home, as a matter of fact.” His voice lit with untamed merriment. “This may be an opportune moment to begin studying on the very subject. I imagine Mr. Vanderbilt should have a wealth of books on landscape architecture or accounting.”

“Now, Father,” came the younger’s quick reply, his palm rising in ready defense. “You promised a holiday, and that includes a respite from subjects related to our upcoming employment back home. Besides, I shall have plenty to do once the final school term begins in October if I’m not whisked away to the battlefield to join Robert before then.”

Their pleasant banter inspired my grin.

The elder released a sigh, meant for nothing more than show from the twitch of his lips. “Ah, well, I did promise that, didn’t I? Besides, I should relish your company while I have it. Very well, what will you choose during this…respite?”

His son stepped forward, sending another appreciative glance around the room. “I must admit, this room makes me feel nostalgic. Maybe an adventure or childhood favorite? You know, I’ve never read any of the Tarzan books. Do you think Biltmore would have them?”

Before his father answered, Mr. Noble, the butler, entered the room. “Pardon me, sirs, but breakfast is ready. May I escort you to the Breakfast Room?”

The elder man turned without hesitation, but the younger paused and glanced up in my direction, almost as if he saw my hiding place. His pale eyes sparkled in the morning light and an expression I could only interpret as spellbound gave his soft smile an almost boyish look.

I covered my grin, unable to dampen the connection…the awareness.

I stared into the face of a kindred spirit. Another soul who understood the power of story and imagination and of worlds beyond the borders of a binding, and for some reason I couldn’t explain, I felt as though I’d uncovered an impossible friendship.

I had just finished setting up the library as I thought best for the guests, when the expected murmur of voices approaching from the Long Hall broke into my humming of some classical piece Mrs. Vanderbilt had been playing on her phonograph. With a grasp for my dust brush and a quick tidying of the sofa-side table, I dashed for the spiral staircase and barely made it behind the secret stairway entrance before the small group entered.

I should have left, I suppose. Disappeared until the guests dispersed for their afternoon activities, but curiosity always overcame my nudge toward invisibility. After all, I’d been the conduit of world introductions, if one wanted to think about it poetically. When I spoke in such bookish fashion aloud, my fellow servants stared at me as if I’d spoken Swahili, so I usually kept those ideas to myself. Mother would have understood. She’s the one who taught me how to speak above my station. In private, of course.

I slid my hand into my apron pocket and drew out a small mirror, raising it around the mantel’s side enough to catch the light. Then, with a tilt in the right direction, the room below came into view, just as the party entered. Would the guests enjoy my hand-picked selections, now on ready display throughout the room? Would they even notice?

“I shall keep my appreciation of the landscape to my view from the loggia.” A woman’s bell-like voice bounced off the white-framed ceiling. “I am a fine horsewoman, as you well know, but I have no desire to engage in miles of riding when I can see the display as well from here as there.”

“Oh Lorraine, you really are missing out on closer inspection.” This in Mrs. Vanderbilt’s familiar voice. “And there are so many natural waterfalls and waterways. George simply adored the views.”

Her voice trailed into an uncharacteristic quiet at the mention