Julia wandered onward. She’d gone no further than the next shelf when she came to an abrupt halt, her attention riveted by a long row of books—fifteen altogether, of similar size and shape. “These are J. Marshland novels.”

Jasper stilled. “Er, yes. They are.”

Her gaze scanned the shelf. “But . . . you have titles of his I’ve never even heard of.” She extracted a novel from the front of the row, opening it to examine the frontispiece. “This one was published in 1848.”

“Marshland’s first novel, I believe.”

She met his eyes. “Do you have all his novels?”

“That surprises you?”

“A little. I knew you’d read him, and that you have decided opinions about his style, but I never thought you a particular admirer of his work.”

“I wouldn’t call myself an admirer. No more than I admire the works of Mrs. Braddon or Mr. Collins. It’s reading I enjoy, and if an author can tell a good story . . .” He shrugged.

“Do you have all Mrs. Braddon’s novels?”

“No,” he admitted.

“What about Mr. Collins’s? Or Mr. Dickens’s?”

Jasper fell quiet. A part of him began to question the wisdom of having brought her here. “I’m afraid,” he said carefully, “their novels don’t come as cheaply as Marshland’s do.”

The answer appeared to satisfy her.

“I suppose not.” Returning the first novel to the shelf, she reached for another.

He gently stopped her hand. “You wouldn’t wish your tea to get cold.”

“But there’s so much more to see!”

“Tea first.” He tucked her hand in his arm, leading her away. “These novels aren’t going anywhere.”

After tea, Jasper carried their bags up to their bedchamber. Julia accompanied him, looking around the room with vivid interest as he brought in first her two carpetbags, then the rest of their luggage.

It was a comfortable enough space, even for a wife. Jasper had made certain of that. Since taking possession of the Hall, the bulk of his small income had gone toward making the family apartments hospitable. His own bedroom and those belonging to the boys, Daisy, and Beecham were all well-appointed, with new mattresses, draperies, linens, and fresh coats of paint.

The furnishings themselves were the same as in Erasmus Blunt’s day. Great mahogany chests, wardrobes, and—in Jasper’s chamber—a magnificent four-poster bed carved with what, he suspected, had once been the figures of angels and cherubs. Their features had long been worn away, giving the blank faces and writhing limbs that adorned the bedposts the appearance of creatures screaming in agony.

Julia examined the carvings with something like alarm.

“We can replace the bed,” Jasper said.

“I don’t mind it. Only . . .” She traced one of the angels with a curious fingertip. “Is this poor man being tortured?”

“I daresay he’s meant to be in religious ecstasy.”

Her brows lifted. “Gracious. It doesn’t seem at all pleasant.”

Jasper hoisted her carpetbags and portmanteau onto the bench at the foot of the bed. He felt a twinge of guilt that she had no maid to assist her in unpacking them. She shouldn’t be exerting herself.