The Forgotten Book Page 5

  But instead of grimacing like any normal person would at the mention of a fungal skin complaint just as they were about to tuck into their spaghetti, Dr. Meier smiled and seemed genuinely interested.

  “Poor girl,” he said. “Has she been to see her doctor yet? He was so good when she had that bout of tonsillitis last year.”

  For quite some time, the pair of them continued to talk avidly about antibiotics, Marie, doctors in general, and, of course, Marie. It was sweet the way Dr. Meier hung on Miss Berkenbeck’s every word, and the way she gazed at him raptly once he finally managed to get a word in edgewise. After a while, I completely forgot that I was actually waiting for my food, so it gave me a bit of a shock when somebody suddenly pushed past me and Hannah, shoved Dr. Meier roughly aside, and thrust a plate under Miss Berkenbeck’s nose.

  “The girls seem to have lost their appetites,” said Darcy with a nod in our direction, as he watched Miss Berkenbeck dish him up an extra-large portion without batting an eyelid. What a jerk! Couldn’t he have waited his turn like everyone else? And surely he could have just let Dr. Meier and Miss Berkenbeck have their little flirtation without barging in like that. I was starting to get the impression that Darcy de Winter was a bit of an idiot.

  And what happened later that evening proved just how right I was.

  * * *

  Deciding to set up a secret society and actually doing it were, as I realized that afternoon, two different things. Particularly when you were working on a very tight deadline. The first thing we had to decide was what to call ourselves. I wasn’t particularly creative when it came to things like this, and my first suggestion (“The Library Club”) met with furrowed brows from both Charlotte and Hannah. So I turned to good old Google for inspiration. I still liked the name “Skull and Bones,” but that, of course, was taken: Yale had already nabbed it. And “Bone and Skulls” just sounded silly.

  In addition to a name, we needed a concept: What should we do at our meetings? It couldn’t be anything too embarrassing or childish—after all, Frederick was going to be there.

  Charlotte had eventually saved the day by suggesting “Westbooks” as a working title. And the members of Westbooks, we decided, would meet every Sunday evening to talk about poems and novels and generally broaden our minds (like in Dead Poets Society). There would also be tea and snacks, and the whole thing would be effortlessly cool and sophisticated.

  Unfortunately, none of us had read any books recently. (We’d all been too busy over the summer holidays.) But we managed to solve this problem in the end, too.

  By five to eight, the transformation of the library into our secret headquarters was complete. We still hadn’t managed to move the chest of drawers from the middle of the room, but that hadn’t proved to be too much of a problem—in fact, it had turned out to be the perfect place to stand the flat-screen TV we’d borrowed from the computer room. Charlotte had connected up her laptop while Hannah and I had gone round the library lighting candles. On the table were bowls of potato chips and candy, as well as tea and lemonade. The DVD menu was already up on the screen. Everything was ready: All we needed now was Frederick.

  I was wearing my favorite top, the one with a pretty scoop neckline. I checked my lip gloss and mascara in the glass of the window pane. The courtyard outside was still and silent in the evening twilight. “I don’t see him,” I murmured. “I hope he hasn’t changed his mind.”

  “He’s just running late,” said Charlotte. “Don’t worry. Come here and sit down.” She and Hannah had made themselves comfortable on one of the velvet sofas, and were tucking into some licorice snails.

  With a sigh I settled down next to them and snuggled into the cushions. Twenty minutes and a third of our food supply later, we decided to start the DVD. If only to stop ourselves from snacking.

  I pressed play and the film began. It had been Hannah’s idea to start off with literary films, and as far as I was concerned it was an excellent plan. This way we’d acquire a great mass of knowledge in no time, without having to spend hours poring over complicated vocabulary and antiquated dialogues. We’d decided to start with Shakespeare.

  But we didn’t get very far, because fifteen minutes into the film somebody came bursting into the library. For a moment I hoped it was Frederick, and my pulse quickened at the thought. But it wasn’t Frederick. It was Darcy. And he hadn’t come in through the door, but through one of the bookshelves, which had suddenly swung open from a hinge in the wall.

  “Can you keep it down?” he asked.

  Behind him I could see the corner of an antique bathtub.

  “Um…” I pressed pause. “What do you mean?”

  Darcy sighed. “The music is annoying. The actors’ voices are annoying. And you lot giggling the whole time is not helping,” he said. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to sleep.”

  “At eight thirty in the evening?” Hannah asked.

  “In the bath?” I added, peering past him into the dimly lit bathroom, the existence of which I had never even suspected. “That’s dangerous. You could drown.”

  Darcy brushed his tousled hair out of his face. He was barefoot, and he was wearing an old-fashioned pair of striped flannel pajama bottoms with a dark-colored T-shirt that showed off the contours of his upper body. He exhaled slowly.

  “Obviously I’m not sleeping in the bath. But my bedroom is right next door.” He pointed past the claw-foot bathtub to another doorway I hadn’t noticed before. I could just about make out the curtains of a four-poster bed. My dad had clearly given Toby and Darcy the least modern of our guest rooms. The fact that Darcy’s bedroom had an en suite bathroom was quite normal, of course—but I’d had no idea there was a secret door leading into and out of the library. What on earth was that for? In case guests needed to stock up on reading material in an emergency or something? Oh, well: It didn’t really matter either way, as long as Darcy made use of his weird little secret door to go back where he came from—ASAP.

  “Sorry, we’re having a meeting of our literature club,” I informed him. “We’re broadening our minds.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Really?” Seriously, what was up with this guy? Could he be any more arrogant?

  “Yes,” I said. “But if we’re disturbing you that much then of course we can turn the volume down a bit. No problem.” Wow—I had definitely matured over the past few weeks.

  Darcy glanced at the screen. “You’re a literature club and you’re watching films?” he asked. A moment later he spotted the DVD case on the table in front of us and picked it up. “Shakespeare in Love?” he snorted.

  “What’s wrong with that?” I said. It was a pretty good introduction to Shakespeare, in my opinion.

  “Nothing,” said Darcy, but he was still smirking. “It’s just … you’re sitting here watching romantic comedies, and you say you’re broadening your minds?”

  “We read books as well. We will do, anyway. Starting next week. Or the week after. Depending how much free time we have—we haven’t planned out all the details yet.” I cocked my chin defiantly. Why was I even justifying myself to him?

  “Would you like a jelly bean?” offered Charlotte, evidently feeling the need to defuse the situation.

  “Why are you in bed at this time, anyway?” asked Hannah.

  “No, thank you,” said Darcy, pretending not to have heard Hannah’s question. “But I’d appreciate it if you could find somewhere else to have your girlie night.”

  “This is not a girlie night!” I sniffed. “This is a library, and we happen to meet here regularly to talk about books.”

  “You can do that somewhere else,” Darcy retorted, and he chucked the DVD case back down on the table. Again I was struck by his aristocratic nose. It was long and straight, and perfectly complemented by his dark eyebrows. The eyebrows had a supercilious air about them as they arched toward Darcy’s hairline, as if they thought themselves far superior to all the other eyebrows in the world. Admittedly, there were dark circles under Da
rcy’s eyes and he did look as if he needed to catch up on his sleep. But that wasn’t my problem.

  He sighed again. “I just want some sleep. Is that so difficult to understand?”

  “Yes,” said Hannah. “Seeing as how you’re not an eighty-year-old man.”

  “Have you considered earplugs?” I asked.

  Darcy took a step toward me and drew himself up to his full height. “Go. Somewhere. Else,” he said, enunciating each word with cold clarity. Who did he think he was?

  “No.”

  “Now.” His voice had become quiet, even a little threatening. But I wasn’t going to let him intimidate me. Ha! This was my school and my library.

  * * *

  A few minutes later Charlotte, Hannah, and I found ourselves standing on the stairs clutching bowls, cups, candles, the laptop, and half my DVD collection. (We hadn’t had time to pick up the TV.)

  It was unbelievable! Unbelievable! I was fuming. The owner of the castle, he’d said. The owner of the castle! This was ridiculous!

  But unfortunately Darcy’s claim was not as ridiculous, and his arguments not as easy to dismiss, as I would have liked. It was true that the school was a charitable foundation set up by the de Winter family. That was common knowledge. And it was also true that nobody had ever said anything about the castle itself being part of that foundation.

  By now I’d also remembered that a few weeks ago, when the computer room was being converted, the workmen had needed to knock down a wall and my dad had had to write to Derbyshire for permission. That permission must have come from Darcy’s father, I now realized, since Darcy had coolly informed me that we were standing on his family’s property and he was well within his rights to lay claim to the west wing library whenever he saw fit. And right now he saw fit to ensure he could sleep in peace. Idiot! Then he’d ushered us out into the corridor and slammed the door behind us! It had to be said that my negotiating position was not as strong as it could have been, given that I hadn’t actually asked my dad for permission to use the library yet. But still!

  I was so furious that I didn’t see the person coming round the corner at the bottom of the stairs until it was too late. Tea slopped over the edge of the tray I was carrying, soaking my sweater, as Frederick and I bumped into each other. Several mugs fell to the floor and shattered on the marble steps.

  “Oops.” He bent down and helped me pick up the pieces. “I thought we were meeting upstairs.”

  “Something came up,” I said darkly. “But it’s nice that you could make it, anyway. I thought you’d forgotten about us.”

  “We’ll, um … we’ll see you later,” said Charlotte, dragging Hannah away with her.

  “What happened?” Frederick asked.

  While we collected up as many of the china fragments as we could see in the dim light of the hallway, I told him what Darcy had done. Frederick didn’t seem particularly surprised. “That’s typical of him,” he said. “Now I remember why I was so happy when he left Stolzenburg.”

  “He’s the most arrogant person I’ve ever met,” I said.

  “And he’s only happy when everyone does exactly what he wants,” Frederick added. “No wonder his sister made a break for it.”

  “Mhm,” I said. We’d picked up all the broken china by now, and I realized that Frederick’s eyes were fixed on a point somewhere below my chin. I suddenly became painfully aware of the tea stain spreading across my sweater, and I stood up and folded my arms across my chest. “Anyway, I can’t believe how rude he was, chucking us out like that—we’d only just cleared out that library! It was a complete mess before we went in there and tidied it up. Nobody’s used it for years, and suddenly along comes Darcy de Winter, mouthing off because he can’t sleep! He should try counting sheep or reading himself a bedtime story. Or he could just go back to where he came from and save himself the trouble!”

  Frederick raised his hand as if to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I held my breath, but halfway to my face his hand fell back again and instead he said, “I can talk to him if you like.”

  “Thanks,” I murmured. “It’s nice of you to offer. But I’ll sort it out myself.” I’d made a resolution over the holidays, after all, that I was going to learn to deal with things myself. Though it was sweet of Frederick to offer to help. Very sweet, in fact. But first of all I was going to talk to my dad. I’d do it first thing tomorrow. At the end of the day, he was the headmaster, and it was up to him to decide how the rooms should be used.

  Frederick smiled at me. “Fair enough,” he said. Then his face darkened again. “But I’m still going to pay a little visit to our princeling upstairs. He and I have some unfinished business of our own.”

  “Oh, really?” I wondered what Darcy had done to annoy Frederick. But he’d already turned to go.

  “Good night, Emma. See you around,” he called and hurried up the stairs to disturb Darcy’s sleep once more.

  August 1758

  My labors consume me. I spend many hours in my laboratories. I neither sleep nor eat. It is a week since I saw the sun. Although I cannot say with any certainty what date it is, for I have lost all sense of the passage of time. It is better that way, perhaps. The passage of time, after all, is what I am seeking to conquer.

  I know there is much talk among the servants. The villagers, too, trade rumors about the machinations of the lord of Stolzenburg. They believe I have lost my wits; some even say there are ungodly forces at work in my castle. But I care not. I care only for my creature.

  He is the son I have never had.

  4

  In history last year we’d talked about historical sources and the power of chroniclers. Dr. Meier never tired of pointing out how much influence these people had on what became part of history and what did not. His argument had been convincing: Aside from buildings, and objects such as coins and pottery shards, most of our knowledge of the past—of ancient Rome, for example—came from the documents left behind by eyewitnesses. Things that had been recorded in writing were still remembered today; things that had never been written down were quickly forgotten. (I assumed so, at least: I didn’t know what the ancient Romans had omitted to write down. And that in itself was proof of Dr. Meier’s theory.)

  These discussions had motivated Charlotte and me to start writing more frequent blog posts for the school website. Charlotte also liked to document her life in the form of photos and social media posts. Her grandchildren would have no trouble finding out what their grandma had been like when she was younger (although they would never hear about the incident, of course. Charlotte would take that secret with her to the grave, like any self-respecting chronicler).

  The memory of this inspiring history lesson came back to me when—after Hannah and I had returned to our bedroom and had another little rant about Darcy de Winter and the way he’d sabotaged our meeting—I happened to glance at the book lying on my bedside table. The things the chroniclers had written there about the history of Stolzenburg dated back to a time long before the invention of the Internet. The book contained thoughts that were several hundred years old and would probably still be legible in another four hundred years’ time as long as the book didn’t meet with some kind of accident. Those eyewitnesses had determined what would be remembered and what would be forgotten.

  Hmm …

  Wasn’t it a tempting thought, to join their ranks and record something of my own—something that would define future generations’ knowledge about life at Stolzenburg in 2017?

  I leafed through the book.

  The last entry was a few years old, and was followed by lots of blank pages. The paper looked as though it would be lovely to write on. I picked up the pencil case from my desk and fished out my fountain pen.

  Obviously I wasn’t going to write about trivial things like the colors of people’s dresses or the menu of a buffet supper. But wouldn’t future generations be interested to know when Westbooks had been founded, for instance?

  I lowered the nib of my f
ountain pen slowly onto the paper and wrote August 2017, carefully and very neatly, at the top of the next blank page. Yes, it looked good. And it made me feel important. Important and grown up.

  I wrote a short paragraph outlining the founding of our club and describing the idea behind it, the cleanup operation in the west wing library, and our first meeting there. Like a proper diarist. Like somebody writing history. It was wonderful. My fountain pen flew across the paper, filling line after line, and before I knew it I was at the point where our soirée had come to an abrupt end.

  I hadn’t been intending to mention Darcy’s ignoble behavior: Nobody would be interested in that a hundred years from now, would they? But my pen carried on writing as if of its own accord, and in the end I couldn’t resist devoting a couple of sentences to Darcy. Probably because I was still furious with him: so furious that I found myself wishing that he would choke under the weight of the books in the library he’d taken from us. Oh, dear—that was definitely not something a professional diarist would write!

  I started a new paragraph, forcing myself to be a bit more positive. I wrote a few sentences about how happy I was that all the teachers and students were back from their holidays safe and sound. There were plenty of lovely people at Stolzenburg, after all—people who didn’t steal other people’s libraries. People who were nice to one another. Like Miss Berkenbeck and Dr. Meier, who’d practically kissed in the dining hall today (okay, so I was exaggerating a little) before Darcy had so rudely butted in.

  I closed the book and put it back on my bedside table. I really needed to stop getting worked up about Darcy: He was turning me into a bad writer, fountain pen or no fountain pen. I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to get back to the meditative state I’d achieved over the holidays, until my rage finally subsided and my heartbeat returned to normal.

  That was better. I snuggled down under my duvet, closed my eyes, and made a conscious decision not to give Darcy de Winter another thought. Darcy who? Never heard of the guy.