Chapter Seven
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It was just past eleven at night, though Daunt was rapidly losing track of night and day; they’d slept no more than five or six hours in the last twenty-four At present, he and Magdalene were seated at one of the library tables, finishing off the meal Gomes had brought. He breathed in the aroma of Magdalene’s Turkish coffee. They had found many of the books maliciously shelved, but none had been one of the fabled Dukes.
There had been no further attempted break-ins at Plumwood. Whether that was due to the potential injuries of the perpetrator or to the additional guards he’d sent was not entirely clear. There had been attempts detected at Vaincourt. Privately, he worried that this Mrs. Taylor—or someone else—may have located one or more of the Dukes before the books arrived at Vaincourt.
Magdalene, relentlessly cheerful and optimistic about their situation, took another sip of her coffee. “Which do you think we’ll find first?”
“Which do you most hope to find?”
She pursed her lips. “To find any of them would be thrilling, but to answer the question posed, De Scientia Naturae Rerum. What might we learn from past observers of the world? You?”
“All of them,” he replied. “However, I should like very much to read about the past understanding of how and why we feel as we do. Why did de’ Medici’s scholars believe we feel as we do? Why do we fall in love with one person and not another?”
“Ah. De Motibus Humanis, then. I agree, the subject is a fascinating one. Would you make one of the potions, and if you did, would you drink it yourself or give it to another?”
De Motibus Humanis reputedly contained recipes for the purpose of altering or affecting emotion. He did not believe for a moment that such a thing was possible, but it was amusing to speculate, particularly with Magdalene. “If we agree the recipes are efficacious, the moral answer is clear. One may not alter another’s emotions without the subject’s consent.”
She nodded slowly. “One must ask if there is a difference between administering a potion and flirtation or seduction.”
“The difference seems plain to me. Were I to flirt with you or attempt a seduction, you would be aware of that fact. Your ability to resist, or your desire to succumb, are not negated by my actions.”
“Would you not agree that some persons are expert in persuasion, while others are susceptible?”
“I would. A potion administered without consent leaves the recipient powerless, and therefore, that action is morally repugnant.” Daunt finished off his pudding. “What would you do? Assuming consent, potion or no potion?”
“If I were in a situation in which the emotions between myself and another were unequal when in the normal course they ought not be, such as with people bound by matrimony, I would seek to change my own feelings. Therefore, I would consume the potion.”
“In this scenario, are you the party more in love than the other? Or are you suggesting you would seek to move from love to hatred?”
“Marriage is a partnership.”
“Even in hatred?” Debate with Magdalene was always intellectually stimulating, and that had got wrapped up in the state of his heart where she was concerned.
She laughed. “No, but if I hated my husband, hypothetically speaking, I believe I would take the potion myself and transform my hatred to love.”
He shuddered. “To live a life of delusion? No, thank you.”
“Would it be delusion?” She tapped her fingers on the tabletop, one after the other. “After all, if the recipes found in De Motibus Humanis indeed effect a change in the consumer’s emotions, then it seems to me there is no delusion.”
“But why do you hate this husband of yours? Is he cruel or intemperate? Does he neglect you?”
“I do not know!” She threw up her hands. “He’s not a bibliophile.”
“Horrors,” he said with a smile. She returned the smile, and there were parts north very much affected.
“Indeed. The only thing worse than a husband who is not a bibliophile would be his infidelity.”
He let that sit between them a breath too long. “In such a case, you would agree to having love imposed upon you by artificial means?”
“The hypothetical before us is a marriage in which I actively hate my husband. What recourse would I, as his wife, have in such a situation? I would be almost entirely subject to his whims. Where I live, what funds are available to me, whether there is to be intimacy between us. I should think it would be a good deal simpler to be in love with one’s husband rather than all but powerless to escape him. Therefore, I might well prefer a potion that transforms my hate to love.” She put down her cup. “A horrible predicament, to be sure. For a woman, such an unequal situation is fundamentally different than it is for a man. Women have few, if any, remedies.”
“I withdraw the hypothetical.”
“Too late. The point was to create a set of conditions with but two options—for me to live with a man whom I hate, or to have the opportunity to drink a potion that transforms hate to love. I submit to you that in such a case, I would consider drinking the potion. I had rather be in love than not.”
“Do you want to be in love again?” He held his breath while she considered her answer, for his future now hung in the balance. Better to know and find a way to move on if there was no hope for him.
“Well.” She clasped her hands before her. “I confess I am at a loss as to a proper answer. Hypothetically, yes.” Hypothetically. The weight of that response pressed on his heart. But what of you?” she asked. “You say you are in love with a woman who does not return the sentiment. Would you take a potion to cure your hopeless love?”
“No. I would not.”
“Why not?” She looked genuinely puzzled.
“Suppose,” he said slowly, “suppose I am in love with you.”
She met his gaze head on without the slightest indication that she realized she was the woman in question. “Very well. Suppose you are.”
“In the situation I have described, I cannot make you fall in love with me simply because I wish it.”
“True.”
“But from that it does not follow that I wish not to be in love. My love for you is justified. A potion that takes that from me must necessarily take away my ability to perceive all the aspects of you that are worthy of my love and regard. I submit to you that such a result would be a tragedy.”
Her smile faltered. “My greatest wish is that you find the love you deserve, for there cannot be a more gallant, steadfast man than you.”
“Thank you.”
“Nevertheless, I maintain that a potion would be a far simpler to the problem of unrequited love.” She picked up her coffee again. “Think of it. Rather than flatter and send flowers and rack our brains with ways to hint at our affections, we simply say, ‘I should like for us to be in love. If you agree, please drink this.’” She offered him her coffee. “Simple and straightforward.”
He took her coffee, drained it, and set it down. “How long before it takes effect?”
Magdalene burst into laughter. “Oh, Daunt. You do amuse me.”
They went back to work shortly after that. At two o’clock, he looked over and saw Magdalene on a ladder, her forehead pressed against the books. He coughed loudly, and she came awake or out of whatever reverie had engaged her.
He descended his own ladder and walked to her, hand extended. “My dear. Perhaps it’s time we retired for the night.”
She looked down at him and blinked several times. He held his breath, for he saw quite clearly that she had momentarily mistaken his words for an invitation to retire together in the improper sense. He stayed as he was, hand extended, perfectly willing to have that misunderstanding in play.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
He assisted her to the floor and briefly enfolded her in his arms. “It does us no good to work until we are stupid with sleep.”
She laid her cheek on his shoulder. “When even coffee cannot refresh us, it’s clear that what we require is a potion to keep us awake and alert.”
“Without De Motibus, sleep must be our remedy.”
She took a step back. “As ever, you are correct. If only coffee were a more perfect potion. I am exhausted at the same time I am absolutely wide awake.”
“I won’t have you falling off a ladder. You might break your neck.”
The blue ribbon threaded through her hair caught the light from a nearby sconce. Daunt found himself once again in that peculiar space between all that he knew about seducing a woman he wanted as a lover and his inexperience with courting. He almost wished he did have a potion to relieve him of his misery.
He held out his arm. “I’ll see you safely to your room.”