Page 4 of The Duke's Bride in Disguise
It did not come, instead, Mr Hobbs had chuckled deeply and turned to Percy with a smile.
"It seems our kitten has claws, Percy."
"I did not want a kitten either," the elderly servant had replied, with a sigh as long as a winter's night. "I wanted a boy. A lad to do the heavy, dirty work that I cannot. Still, she might do, she looks strong enough."
Which was, of course, a lie. Ava had left the Asylum half-starved as any London street-Arab; on her first day with Mr Hobbs, a strong breeze might have knocked her over if it had been that way inclined. Luckily Percy, who had never had much dealings with children, served her dinner portions as large as the ones he dished up for himself and Mr Hobbs, and within a month Ava had lost the haggard look from her face.
Ava's daily tasks in Mr Hobbs' had involved far less than what had been expected of her in the Asylum. In the mornings, she lit fires, filled coal scuttles, swept, mopped and washed any linens that required it. Her work in Mr Hobbs' living quarters was usually finished by lunchtime, and after she had eaten she would then make her way downstairs to the library.
Ava adored the Circulating Library, which consisted of one large room filled with shelves of books, and off that, an elegantly appointed reading room, where patrons retired to read, chat or peruse the days' papers.
Mr Hobbs' presided over the counter, offering advice and recommendations to customers, whilst Philip—his assistant—fetched the books which were requested. The clientele of the library were a mixed bunch of gentry, artists, and intellectuals. Mr Hobbs' clients were attracted by the proprietors' reputation as an intellect and the vast and diverse range of his book collection.
Ava was responsible for dusting the shelves, sweeping and mopping the floor and ensuring that the reading room was spotlessly clean and cosy. Once Mr Hobbs closed the door at seven o'clock each evening, she would wash the panes of glass in the shop front's bow window, and help Mr Hobbs to clean his small office to the rear of the shop.
"Take it," he had offered one evening, as he had caught Ava gazing fondly at leather-bound volume discarded upon his desk.
"Oh, I cannot," she had hastily protested, flushing bright red at his words.
"I insist," Mr Hobbs had replied, smiling kindly at her over his half-moon spectacles and pushing the book toward her.
"But," Ava had stammered, "I cannot—I cannot--I cannot read."
"Cannot read?"
It had been the first and last time that Ava had witnessed Mr Hobbs in a temper. He had stood and begun to pace his office in agitation, before pausing and addressing her curtly.
"Why am I paying the Asylum ten pounds a year, if you cannot read?"
"I don't know, Mr Hobbs," Ava had replied truthfully; for she had never seen anything in the way Asylum had treated its orphans, which a donor might consider value for money.
"We must remedy this at once," Mr Hobbs had said, more to himself than to Ava. "Letters first and then we shall start with the classics."
"The classics?" Ava questioned curiously.
"Yes," her employer gave her a kind smile. "To begin your education, we will start with the Greeks and the Romans, for that is where it all began."
"All what, Mr Hobbs?"
"Why, civilisation as we know it my girl."
And so, under Mr Hobbs' strict tutelage, Ava began her education. Once she had learned her alphabet, Mr Hobbs moved swiftly; Homer, Cicero, Socrates, and Plato—within a year Ava was well versed in all the ancient texts and teachings. They then moved on to the Renaissance period, followed by the Enlightenment and finally Romanticism—which was Mr Hobbs' personal favourite. Ava read vociferously, often retiring to bed with a candle and a half dozen books. Soon, she was so well versed, that Mr Hobbs allowed her to assist Philip in fetching books from the shelves, and even—on occasion—to recommend to other young ladies, the newest Gothic novel from Minerva Press.
For eight years, the hotchpotch family of Mr Hobbs, Percy and Ava, had lived contentedly above the library in Cecil Court until, just after Ava's twentieth birthday, Mr Hobbs had taken a fit. The physician who attended him had declared Mr Hobbs lucky to be alive, though his speech might never return, nor would he ever walk properly again. Retirement to the country was what was prescribed and Percy, who had been with Mr Hobbs since they were both young men, sent to Hampshire for the nephew who would take over the running of the business.
Ava had disliked Boris from the very beginning. A young man of thirty years, he had a serious countenance and a closed mind.
"A man might as well turn his daughter loose in Covent Garden, as trust the cultivation of her mind to a circulating library," he had quoted George Coleman with a disapproving sniff to Ava on his first day. This remark had come after a gaggle of young ladies had left the counter, clutching the latest instalment of a popular romance novel. Ava had wanted to say that young ladies were now the bread and butter customers of most libraries, but had not had a chance, for Boris had ordered her into the back, lest any of the customers were put off by seeing a woman at the counter.
Her tasks soon returned to the mundane cleaning and care of the living quarters and library, and Boris would no longer allow her to remove novels from the library shelves to read at night. Ava, who had begun to despair, was relieved by the arrival from Hampshire of Percy one winter's evening.
"I am in town to fetch Mr Hobbs some items and to check in on you, at his request," Percy explained kindly to Ava, as he settled into his seat by the warm kitchen stove. "How goes it with young Boris?"
"It does not go well," Ava had whispered, afraid that Boris, who was relaxing in the parlour room next door, might overhear them.
"Mr Hobbs feared as much," Percy said with a sigh, "Still, he has a plan for you."
"Really?" Ava had been touched to hear that Mr Hobbs still cared for her future, despite his own ill-fortune.
