By
Gigi Lynn
Chance will not do the work—Chance sends the breeze;
But if the pilot slumber at the helm,
The very wind that wafts us towards the port
May dash us on the shelves.—The steersman’s part is vigilance,
Blow it or rough or smoothWalter Scott, Fortunes of Nigel
Joie
I will apologize later. If I must. But if I do nothing, Meggie will be old, maybe even twenty-five, before Mr. Gerow gathers courage to act or Meggie lets him know she cares.
How do the English continue to populate this island?
I am only her maid, but I must help. So, I search Meggie’s papers until I find one with Mr. Gerow’s name inside a heart. On the back is a sketch of his face. Also, a poem.
Sun shines in his hair of gold,
The sky in eyes so blue.
Heart yearns to speak the words so bold,
But fear holds sway anew..
It’s a bad poem, but I must work with what I have.
Billy is in the stable. I don’t share my plans with him. I only say, “Meggie must go to town this afternoon, but first you are to deliver this packet to Mr. Gerow—into his own hands. Make sure you say to him that Meggie is going to the lending library this afternoon.”
He narrows his eyes. “Are you meddling again?”
My face warms, but I lift my chin. “How can you ask?”
He mumbles, “. . . stupid plots always get me in trouble.”
“Bah! My plots are never stupide. And it’s not a plot, just a little ruse, quite harmless.”
I ignore his shaking head and insist. “The packet goes to Mr. Gerow. Then you will drive us to the library. While we look, take the cart and pick up the order at the grocer’s. It is easy. You won’t get in trouble.”
Billy grumbles but does as I ask.
How will I convince Meggie to go to the lending library? I cannot search Mr. Gerow’s room, so I write a note myself.
Miss Margaret,
It has been so long since we’ve spoken, my heart is as gray as the skies. Reading is the best balm for dreary days. I will visit the lending library this afternoon. If you were there, I would choose a book for you. You could choose one for me.
Your Servant,
Perry Gerow
Trop sucré? Yes, too sweet, but Meggie reads it and does not suspect. She sighs and decides that she needs a book. I curtsy and tell her I will make everything ready.
We arrive first as I planned. When we climb down, Meggie says to Billy, “We won’t be long.”
I wave behind Meggie’s back and point down the street.
Billy shakes his head. I fold my arms and stare. He will be sorry if he doesn’t go. He scowls and leaves.
In the library, I settle in the darkest corner next to the history books. I can watch unnoticed.
Moments later, Mr. Gerow enters and bows.
Meggie curtsies. “Mr. Gerow. I think I know of a book for you. I wonder which you will choose for me.”
Mr. Gerow blinks, confused, but he inclines his head. “A fine rainy-day game. Let me think of the perfect book.”
Meggie’s brow furrows, but he smiles. Her face clears. Her eyes light up.
I let out a relieved breath.
They wander the shelves, meeting often, sharing small, secret smiles.
At one meeting, Mr. Gerow murmurs, “Meggie, I have missed you.”
My heart leaps, but I make no sound.
“I thought you must be scandalized, because of what I . . . before.”
“No! I have the greatest respect for you. But you might think I am like those men who—”
She grasps his arm. “Never. You are nothing like them.”
His hand lifts to her cheek. “If I am welcome—”
She smiles. “You’re most welcome.”
The shopkeeper drops a box. Meggie and Mr. Gerow jump apart. I close my eyes in frustration.
After another turn around the library, Mr. Gerow offers his choice.
“Oh,” Meggie exclaims. “Mr. Wordsworth’s poems.”
He whispers, “They are not as sweet as your poem, but you might enjoy—”
“My poem?” Her jaw drops, but she automatically reaches to take the book he holds. “What—” Their hands meet. She stops speaking and looks into his eyes.
The bell rings. Another customer enters. Blushing, Meggie pulls back.
I think of some French curses.
But Mr. Gerow does not look at the newcomer. “What have you chosen for me?” He asks.
Meggie lifts a book, bound in blue moiré with leather spine.
“Life Of Cowper.” He reads.
I roll my eyes. What is she thinking?
Meggie looks up through her lashes. “One day at Amelia’s, you said—”
His smile is blinding. “You remembered?”
“I think about it often.” She sighs.
“As do I.”
I let out a relieved breath.
Moments later they have checked out their books. They walk out into the rain, both flushed with pleasure.
I follow in their wake, satisfied with myself and my ruse.
“I’ll see you to your carriage.” He offers his arm.
“Thank you. Billy is—” Meggie starts then looks around. “He was right here.”
“I would be honored to drive you home.”
“You are very generous.” She takes his arm then shivers.
Mr. Gerow removes his coat and wraps it around her. Carriages rumble past, but they don’t hear. They remain motionless in that half-embrace.
He lowers his head. She lifts hers.
I hold my breath.
A large carriage pulls up. The coachman yells. “Move along.”
I groan in disgust. Can’t he see what is right in front of him? The British, they have no romance.
But when I look back, Mr. Gerow and Meggie are still gazing at each other.
“Meggie,” he whispers.
“Perry.”
I nod. It is enough.
They may still discover my ruse.
But I will not apologize.
