The woman crouching under the desk near my feet expelled an unladylike snort of derision.
I stilled. I didn’t dare urge her to keep quiet with a nudge of my boot for fear that Mr. Parmiter, the head librarian, would notice. At the sound of the snort, he’d turned back and scrutinized me yet again. He had a way of making me feel like a speck under a microscope. Moments ago, he’d pressed both palms on the desk, leaned in until his face was close to mine, and inspected me with all the rigor of a detective searching for evidence at a crime scene.
Indeed, Mr. Parmiter’s initial scrutiny had come about because he did suspect me of a crime. The crime of wearing makeup. According to the library charter, which I’d never seen, female staff were forbidden from adding so much as a smudge of color to their cheeks. Although I was sure the rule never existed since I was the first female employee, I didn’t question him. I simply informed him I was not wearing makeup. He’d sniffed, as if trying to smell a lie, then turned away.
Until Daisy had gone and snorted like a bull at a red rag.
Mr. Parmiter scrutinized me again, but this time he stood a foot back from the desk. “Are you unwell, Miss Ashe?”
“No,” I said. “I was just clearing my throat.”
Those beady eyes of his narrowed further. He moistened his lips with a lizard-like flicker of his tongue, dampening the overhanging gray moustache. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he reached across the desk to touch my forehead, checking for a fever, but the fear of getting too close held him back. I couldn’t blame him for that.
The Spanish flu had recently wreaked devastation and we all worried it would return.
“You should go home if you feel unwell,” he said.
“I feel fine.”
He waved a hand at my face. “And remove that vile stuff. This is a respectable institution where gentlemen of learning come for quiet study. Attractive women are a distraction. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have employed someone like you, but needs must.” This last sentence he muttered as he walked off.
Thankfully Daisy didn’t emit another snort. She was probably too shocked and angry to speak. I was just as angry but not shocked. In the two months since I’d taken the position of assistant librarian at the London Philosophical Society’s library, I’d been exposed to Mr. Parmiter’s misogynism on a regular basis. He blamed young women for just about every ill that had ever befallen him—or the world in general. I’m sure he could find a way to blame us for the war if he put his mind to it.
“It’s safe,” I whispered.
Daisy crawled out from the desk’s footwell and cast a disdainful look in the direction in which Mr. Parmiter had departed. She hadn’t seen him leave; it was the only exit from the reading nook. I was using the empty desk to inspect some old books for signs of disrepair. Tucked away on the first floor, between the stacks, it was the perfect place for quiet research—or hiding from one’s manager while chatting to a friend who shouldn’t be in the library at all. Daisy was not a member of the London Philosophical Society. She wasn’t at all philosophical, not even after drinking too many cocktails. A drunk Daisy was a giggling Daisy, not terribly unlike a sober Daisy.
But she wasn’t giggling now as she perched herself on the edge of the desk and regarded me with a frown. “What did he mean when he said he wouldn’t have employed ‘someone like you, but needs must?’”
I balanced the book on pragmatism on both my hands then closed it with a satisfying thunk of its thick pages and heavy leather cover. The smell of old paper wafted up, causing Daisy to cover her nose. I breathed the scent deeply into my lungs.
“There were no other suitable applicants for the position of assistant librarian,” I told her. “He had to resort to hiring a female.” I rolled my eyes and gave a wry laugh.
“Really? Even with all the returned soldiers looking for work?”
“There were other applicants, but according to Mr. Parmiter, none were suitable. There were three others, in fact, all returned from the war. One was blind in one eye, another was missing a leg, and the third had shattered nerves that saw him jump at any loud noise. Mr. Parmiter claimed he couldn’t employ them because they are a distressing reminder of the war and will put off the Society’s members.”
“He truly said that?”
I nodded.
“After everything those poor souls have been through, and now they have to endure the sneers of people like Priggy Parmiter. And to imply you’re only attractive when you’re wearing makeup! The nerve of him.” The heat with which she said it was on par with her defense of the returned soldiers. To Daisy, the two wrongs were equally abhorrent. “You’re pretty, Sylvia, and don’t let a dusty old bore like him tell you otherwise.”
I thanked her for the compliment, but to be quite honest, I was no beauty. Not like Daisy, with her blue eyes and strawberry-blonde hair cut into a wavy bob that framed her face. The style was very modern, but in the few short months I’d known her, I’d come to realize Daisy followed trends like winter follows autumn—inevitably. She never settled for very long before moving on to the next thing that caught her eye. Her desire to try new things was understandable. I didn’t blame her for shrugging off the heavy blanket that had shrouded the nation after four years of war and another one and a half of the flu. Sometimes the bleakness had seemed as though it would never end. But despite their personal losses, some people were ready to move on. Daisy needed to move forward with her life.
I hadn’t quite reached that point yet.
“Speaking of dusty…” Daisy wrinkled her nose as she pushed away the book I’d been about to inspect for damage. One of the pages had come loose and the corners of several others had been turned over to act as a bookmark. The thin layer of dust on it bothered Daisy more.
It had been on the desk for some time, waiting for a librarian to tend to it. Years ago, someone had collected all the books in the library that looked as though they might need to be sent away for repairs and piled them up on this desk in the remotest reading nook in the building. Then war had broken out, the assistant librarian had died on the battlefields of France, and no one had been employed in his stead until I started work in March. Filling a dead man’s shoes wasn’t easy, particularly when Mr. Parmiter made it clear my gender meant my work was inferior to my predecessor’s, but I enjoyed it when he wasn’t bothering me.
It was quiet. Few members came into the library and when they did, they preferred to speak to Mr. Parmiter rather than me. The job didn’t pay particularly well, but I could walk to work, saving myself the cost of transport. I also got to chat to Daisy, when she wasn’t in her flat painting—which seemed to be most afternoons—and when she wasn’t hiding from Mr. Parmiter who came upstairs to check on me from time to time.
Daisy watched me as I gently opened the book she’d pushed away. “If you must work in a library, why not work in a modern one with novels?”
“With all the returning soldiers resuming their previous employment, there are few jobs for women. I was fortunate to get this one.”
She sighed. “It’s a pity you have to work at all, really.”
I looked up, frowning. She looked back at me with sympathy. “Don’t you have to?” I asked.
“Oh yes, but we artists don’t have a schedule like regular people. We work when the muse strikes. Besides, I was left a little money by my grandparents. It keeps me going.”
It was the first time she’d mentioned an inheritance. Daisy’s parents lived in Wiltshire and didn’t approve of their middle child moving to London. She had an older sister who’d lost her husband in the war and a younger brother who’d signed up upon turning eighteen in 1918. Thankfully he survived.
“I actually like working,” I said, and I meant it.
Whether Daisy believed me or not, I never found out. She became distracted by a newspaper discarded on a small table beside the armchair. She flounced into the chair and began to read.
I sat too and made notes on the damage to the books, sorting them into different piles according to the type of repairs required. For the many pages with dog-eared corners, I smoothed out the creases with my thumb. It was easy and relaxing work. Although the topics didn’t particularly interest me, it was satisfying to know these books would once again be read and valued by the society’s members thanks to my efforts today.
“He is the prime article,” Daisy murmured from the armchair. She folded the newspaper in half and turned it to show me what she’d been reading. I couldn’t make out much from this distance, however, just a dark-haired man standing on the deck of a yacht. “Handsome, rich, the heir to a title and a war hero. So many virtues in one man.”
“None of those are virtues, Daisy, except for perhaps being a war hero. He could be selfish and vain for all we know.”
“You’re so unromantic, Sylvia.”
I picked up the book on pragmatism and waved it at her. “Perhaps I’ve worked here too long.” I smiled but she took me seriously.
“I’m glad you finally agree.”
“I was referring to this title. I’ve only been here two months.”
“Long enough.” She glanced around, worried our conversation was being overheard. “If it weren’t for me, your days would drag.”
I laughed. Daisy’s unfailing self-confidence had won me over when we met. If I could bottle it, I would take a sip whenever I felt my own confidence waning.
She studied the newspaper article again. “I wonder if he’s married.”
“If not, he soon will be. A paragon like that won’t be single for long. The unmarried women of England won’t allow it.” One of the saddest outcomes of war was that it took young men. Now that we were emerging from the fog, women my age were bemoaning the lack of eligible bachelors.
I was not among them. I was still shrouded by the fog. I’d not only lost my brother in the war, but my mother had succumbed to the flu pandemic that had struck down so many in the war’s aftermath. They’d been my only family. I’d also left behind friends when I moved to London. Not that I had many friends to lose. We’d moved too often to put down deep roots anywhere.
But I was determined to make a go of it in London. In the two and a half months since my arrival, I’d made a friend in Daisy and found gainful employment. It was a foundation I could build on to help me climb out of the fog, in time.
“What has the paragon done to warrant an article written about him?” I asked.
“He attempted to rescue a fisherman and his teenage son while out sailing off the coast of the Isle of Wight. Apparently he saw their boat capsize and didn’t hesitate to dive in and risk his life to save them. They were tangled up in their net under water and he had to cut it to free them. The son survived but the father didn’t.”
“How awful.”
“The article says it was a miracle Mr. Glass didn’t drown too. It then goes on to list all the medals he won in the war. Good lord.”
I peered over her shoulder. “What is it?”
“He joined up at the start of the war and survived the entire four years on the front lines. He was there for every major battle, and he didn’t once get seriously injured.”
“Then he couldn’t have been in every major battle for the entire duration. Besides, the heir to a title would be given something safe to do well away from the enemy.”
“Not according to this. Gallipoli, the Somme, Ypres, Amiens…he fought in them all. His parents must have been beside themselves with worry. It says here he is the only child of Lord and Lady Rycroft.”
I read over her shoulder. “’Mr. Gabriel Glass, Baron and Baroness of Rycroft. Lady Rycroft is the famed magician, India Glass, nee Steele.’”
“Where can a girl meet such a man?”
“The Isle of Wight, apparently.” I returned to the desk but instead of picking up a book, I stared out of the window. The view wasn’t interesting, just the dark gray buildings opposite and a thin layer of cloudy sky above the roofline. I hardly registered any of it. My mind was elsewhere. “Daisy, does the name India Glass mean anything to you?”
She shook her head. “No, but I’m not a magician, nor can I afford to buy magical objects. I’m trying to make the inheritance last, and I’m yet to sell a painting.”
“Does the article say anything else about her?”
“Just that she gave up practicing watchmaking magic to marry Lord Rycroft and has been an advisor to the government on magician policies for years. Why? Have you heard of her?”
“The name rings a bell.” I just couldn’t remember why. The memory was there in my mind, just out of reach, buried in the fog.