Hope Between the Pages by Pepper Basham (ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📕

very confining your place in the world must be, and I am sorry for that.” His gentle response pulled my attention back to him. “You are the sort of dreamer who deserves a chance to see and experience the world and all its wonders.”

“And I do.” I gestured with my chin to the package in my hands. “Through books.”

“Yes, you do.” His voice softened, tender, and its entreaty drew my gaze back to his. “You are a singular young woman, Sadie Blackwell, and I say that with the greatest admiration.”

“Is that what you meant by your note?”

He shifted a step closer, and the scent of vanilla along with the quickening of my breath accompanied his approach, “Which part?”

I shouldn’t say it, but his personality, his interest, made it so easy. “Me not being like any servant you’ve ever met.”

His gaze held mine, probing so deeply with such a look I swayed toward him before catching myself. “Well, none of the other servants I know are fairies, of course.”

My lips split into a grin.

“And,” he added, his voice low, close. “You’re rather wonderful, aren’t you?”

Had he truly spoken those words aloud or had my ears played tricks on me? But from the earnestness in his expression paired with his nearness, it had to be true. He thought I was wonderful? The tug to sway forward whooshed through me again and I blinked as if coming awake. I had to think of some diversion from this train of thought because the temptation to hang a hope on this dream bordered on overwhelming. “You and Miss Withersby seem to be getting on well.”

I pinched my eyes closed. That? That was the diversion I needed to voice? Lord, help me!

“Ah.” He walked alongside me down the main street of Biltmore Village as if a highborn man being seen in public with a female servant was the most casual thing in the world. What would Lark think if she happened to see? “So you think I should set my cap at Miss Withersby, do you?”

My face flamed with heat. “I can assure you that I don’t think about it either way.”

“Yes, of course.” His expression smoothed with mock innocence. “But it does make one wonder if the very fact you asked the question denotes that it is taking up space in your thoughts.”

I opened my mouth but couldn’t think of a clever enough response, especially since he was right.

His grin provided a slight balm for my embarrassment. “I’m glad I’m in your thoughts, though I do wish you wouldn’t think about me with Miss Withersby.”

“And exactly how should I think about you, Mr. Camden?” Clearly, his teasing had usurped my clearheadedness, because a servant did not speak to a guest in such a way.

“Oliver? TBG?” He corrected me with a raised brow. “A friend, even?”

“A…a friend?” Was that my squeaky voice speaking? “I’m…and you’re…”

“Charmed, is what I am, Miss Blackwell.” He held my gaze for much longer than proper, until I heard my heartbeat thrumming in my ears. I quickly lowered my attention to the sidewalk ahead. “But, if you truly wish to see me with Miss Withersby, I suppose you could train her to love books as well as you’ve trained her to parrot them. It may make me like her better.”

“Parrot?” All heat fled my face. “How did you know?”

“My valet.” He leaned close. “He’s an excellent spy among the servants, and servants know everything about everything.”

This servant certainly didn’t, especially at the present moment.

A drop of rain hit my cheek quickly followed by another. I raised the package above my head in protection.

“I shall collect my brolly just there in the motorcar.” Oliver gestured toward a Model T down the street. “And rescue you without delay, Miss Blackwell.”

He rushed off in the direction of the car and my breathing returned to normal. What was I thinking? Whatever it was, it had to stop. I would not become one of those heartbroken servants who fell prey to the charm of a houseguest only to lose her virtue and her position in one night.

But Oliver didn’t seem that sort of houseguest.

Not at all.

Which meant that nothing along the lines of my imagination could ever happen between the two of us.

I sent a glance toward the nearby shops just in time to see Victoria emerge from the toy shop, her purple coat and hat a lovely frame around her little body. She hugged a package to her chest and looked up, meeting my stare.

With a little squeal, she waved and began to run toward me into the street.

A motorcar bounded down the lane from one side. A carriage from the other. And Victoria plunged forward without heed to either.

Dropping the bundle in my arms, I set off at a sprint toward her. She froze when she noted my approach, her eyes widening. A car horn sounded. Horses reared. And in one desperate action, I lunged forward and wrapped the little girl in my arms.

Chapter 8

Clara knew Biltmore as well as any annual passholder. She walked the path around the lagoon at least once a week, if more for the nostalgia of being near her own local castle than exercise. And anytime the estate offered special tours, Clara was first in line to take in the fashion displays or historical nuggets.

Living in Asheville and loving history equaled loving Biltmore. And now, the estate held a part of Clara’s history. Clara entered the house by way of the beautiful double front doors, breathing in the magical step from modern life back to the elegance of the early nineteen hundreds. But she’d not expected their new display. Books! Upon entry, a massive table greeted her, laden with decorative glass cases filled with unique bookish celebrations. One globe featured a spyglass, a vintage-looking map, and a copy of Treasure Island. Another showed a miniature pirate ship, a little bottle of something labeled “fairy dust,” a thimble, and a copy of Peter Pan. A half dozen other