Beyond All Dreams (7 page)

No, he couldn't possibly be doing what she suspected. Scurrying to the far side of the balcony to get a better angle, she leaned over the railing and narrowed her eyes to see more clearly.

He was writing in their book!

She raced to the stairwell, the soles of her shoes barely touching the treads as she flew downstairs. Those books were for posterity. They were to be protected from thoughtless people who scribbled in the margins like barbarians. It was bad enough when the congressional pages misbehaved in the library, but Mr. Callahan was a grown man who ought to know better.

Her skirts swished as she marched down the center aisle of
the reading room, approaching him from behind to catch him in the act. Standing over his shoulder, she had a perfect view. The book was practically mutilated. He had cracked the spine so that the book lay flat on the table, and there were notes scribbled in the margins. He was unaware of her presence as he continued writing in their book, his pencil making a scratching sound like an insect gnawing on wood pulp.

“Ahem,” she said primly.

Without turning his head, he held a hand up to silence her and had the gall to finish writing his sentence before folding down the corner of the page, closing the book, and turning his attention to her.

“Miss O'Brien. Don't you look peevish this afternoon. If I were a normal man, I might wilt under the heat of that glare.”

“You were writing in our book. That is prohibited, as I am sure you know.”

He raised a brow. “You don't believe in writing in books?”

“Of course not. Nor do I dog-ear the pages, crack book spines, underline passages, or otherwise mistreat government property.”

“Easy there, O'Brien. It's my personal copy.” He tucked the book into the crook of his arm to obscure her view of it.

“May I see the book?” This could be resolved if he simply showed her the book, but his hand completely covered the title, and a hint of annoyance simmered on his face.

“First of all, it's none of your business what I choose to read. Secondly, I've fought hard for my reputation as an honest man, and I'm not going to lose it over a fifty-cent book.”

“Look, I know you don't have respect for libraries, but—”

“Where did you get that notion?” He was getting angry now, his voice taking on an edge that cut through the quiet of the reading room. A man at the next table frowned at them, but this was her opportunity to tell Mr. Callahan exactly what she
thought of a person who didn't believe in supporting libraries or the preservation of knowledge.

“Your long record of voting against funding for the Library of Congress was my first clue of your dislike of us.”

“That's it? Just because I don't believe a library needs gold-plated chandeliers and acres of imported marble? Keep going, Miss O'Brien.”

“Your penchant for writing in books. It's disrespectful. And I still think that book you're hiding belongs to us.”

He lowered his head and glowered, his hand still protectively covering the spine of the book. “It's my personal copy,” he repeated between clenched teeth.

“Prove it.”

Without warning he tossed the book at her, its pages splayed as she caught it in midair. The book was littered with hand-written notes and underlined passages. She flipped to the back cover, looking for the card pocket that would proclaim the book their property. There was none. Nor was there a call number printed on the spine.

The book was his. Her face flushed with embarrassment, and she was about to return the book but couldn't resist the temptation to peek at what he had been reading with such rapt fascination. “Elizabeth Barrett Browning?”

He flushed. “Now you know my secret.”

A glance at the other books stacked beside him revealed an explosion of poetry: Wordsworth, Coleridge, Byron, and Keats.

“You don't strike me as the sort to read romantic poetry,” she said.

He snatched his book back, and a little heat faded from his glare. “Poetry captures the immensity and radiance of the human soul. There is
nothing
I'd rather be doing than getting lost in stacks of poetry.”

“Oh.”

A chink of her armor cracked, and she clutched the back of a chair for support. Why did a shared love of literature spark an immediate sense of camaraderie? It made no sense, but denying it would be like trying to stop the sun from rising. Maybe he hated libraries, but he loved reading, and that counted for a lot.

“I can't figure you out,” she said. “You love poetry and I see you here all the time, but you never miss a chance to insult the library or curtail our funding.”

“Just because I believe our tax dollars can be put to better use than building more libraries doesn't mean I don't admire them.”

“But you complain about everything. Money spent on libraries, on the military, on building projects. What would
you
do if you were in charge of the budget?”

His response was immediate. “I'd put an American embassy in every nation in the world. It is through knowing one another that nations are more likely to establish trade and avoid war, and how can we do that when we have only six embassies? We live in a world where war is considered merely a continuation of politics, and that is unacceptable to me. I grew up among people for whom violence was always a first resort, and it seems that sometimes nations behave in the same way.”

His shift into such a sobering topic was surprising, yet she was fascinated as his attention drifted out the window, becoming softer and pensive. “It doesn't have to be like that. I believe the most perfect speech in human history was the Sermon on the Mount, especially the part where Jesus said, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.' That simple passage has been the guiding principle for my entire political career. I want our nation to strive for peace and never again sink into the misery of war.” He turned back to face her, a
bit of humor lightening his expression. “And foreign embassies are more likely than gold-plated libraries to achieve that goal.”

It was annoying how persuasive he was, but she wasn't ready to surrender just yet. “It wouldn't hurt you to say something nice about libraries now and again.”

He looked amused rather than offended at her statement. “Do you know how I got elected to Congress when I was only twenty-eight years old and had no political experience?”

“You may find this shocking, but I didn't rush out to read your political biography the moment I made your acquaintance.”

He smiled. “Pity. If you had, you would know that I came to public attention because I provided the people of rural Maine with a library I built and paid for out of my own pocket.”

She caught her breath, stunned that a solitary man could build a library entirely on his own.

“It wasn't the sort of library you would recognize,” he continued. “There are no marble halls or rare manuscripts. There aren't even any librarians. I bought an old railway car, fitted it out with bookshelves, and paid for it to be stocked with two thousand books. It's attached to the train that makes the route to the logging camps of Maine, supplying people with books free of charge. The men trapped in those camps usually have nothing to do with their downtime but drink or play cards. Or
read
.”

Anna's heart picked up a notch, suspecting where this was leading.

“The men fell on those books like hungry wolves. I doubt if you could find a library anywhere in the country that is more appreciated than the monthly route of that railway car.”

“How did you set up a circulation system? Or track usage?”

“I didn't bother,” he said. “When the train comes through, the doors are thrown open, and the men return their borrowed books and are welcome to take more. And I don't care whether
or not the books come back. Those camps are raw. The tents leak, and mudslides are common. I'm not going to punish a man who damages or loses a book. Everything operates on the honor system. Honesty is important to me. I've vowed never to lie to my constituents, and I think that means something to them. If they say they lost the book in a mudslide, I'm not going to quibble about it.”

“Some of them are probably stealing those books, taking advantage of you.”

He shrugged. “I figure if a man wants a book badly enough to steal, I'm not going to interfere.”

Anna's mouth dropped open. Keeping track of books and protecting them, be it from insect damage, humid air, or pilfering fingers, was her duty. Mr. Callahan was speaking heresy, but his position had merit.

“When I was growing up, books were my only escape,” he added. “I was born into a family of swinging fists and bellowing voices, but when I opened the pages of a book I found men of valor. To anyone watching, it probably looked like I was reading a book in the front room of my father's house, but I was really in Paris, fighting alongside the three musketeers. Or twenty thousand leagues under the sea, or racing around the world in eighty days. They led me to the Holy Grail and to the Sermon on the Mount. Reading was my liberation, my Magna Carta, from hopelessness and tyranny.”

His eloquence was moving, and she latched on to his reference to England's most historic document. “Did you know we have a copy of the Magna Carta on loan from the British Museum? We've got it in the archives.”

That seized his attention. He shot to his feet, eyes gleaming with a flare of excitement. “Show me,” he said.

He followed her out of the reading room and into the private
hallways leading to the rare manuscript room. The clutter of excess books was dense back here. Two decades of overflow books were stacked to shoulder height in the hallway, leaving only a narrow passageway down the middle.

“Be careful of the books,” she cautioned. “If you bump a stack over, we'll both be buried alive.”

“Keep walking, O'Brien. I want to see that document.” She hid a grin at the barely leashed anticipation in his tone.

“Let's hope Mr. Ferris isn't in the manuscript room,” she said over her shoulder. “He watches over the rare documents like a gargoyle. His sole joy in life is fending off as many people as possible from getting their vulgar hands near his treasures.”

The hallway grew wider, and Mr. Callahan pulled up alongside her. “You had a whiff of gargoyle when you swooped down on me a minute ago. Rather terrifying. Like a bunny with fangs.”

She tried not to laugh and it came out like a snort, which made them both laugh harder.

Mr. Ferris loomed into view. “What's going on here?” he demanded.

Mr. Ferris was the sort of fussy librarian who washed his hands incessantly. He refused to eat anything that had not been boiled into limp submission and wore a pinched, pained expression whenever he was required to interact with one of the women hired to work in the library.

“Mr. Callahan is a member of the House from Maine,” she answered. “He would like to see the Magna Carta.”

“Stay and look at it with me.” The casual way Mr. Callahan threw the invitation out startled her. She hadn't yet had the chance to see the famous document. The Library of Congress was a treasure trove brimming with priceless delights, and temptation clawed at her. Before she could reply, Mr. Ferris's reedy voice interrupted her.

“It seems someone has forgotten the sad tale of Miss Sarah Starling,” he said pointedly, and Anna's enjoyment of the moment evaporated.

“Who is Sarah Starling?” Mr. Callahan asked.

Anna took a step back from both men. What happened to Sarah Starling was a warning to every woman who worked in the Capitol. “She used to work in the telegraph office on the first floor,” Anna said. “She . . . umm, she was let go a while back.”

Sarah Starling had had the poor judgment to indulge in a brief flirtation with a newly elected member of Congress. When she was caught kissing him in the cloakroom, she was fired that same day. Three months of training to learn telegraphy, and then poof! Without references, Sarah was unable to land another professional position and finally settled for a job cleaning shrimp. And the congressman she was caught kissing? He was now the governor of Montana.

Anna took another step back from Mr. Callahan. She didn't have the luxury to spend time admiring rare manuscripts or indulge in a friendship with a member of Congress.

“I'd better get back to the map room,” she said hastily.

“Please, stay and look at the Magna Carta with me,” Mr. Callahan pressed. “I can see by that hungry glint in your eye that you're salivating over the prospect.”

Mr. Ferris wrinkled his nose as if he smelled something foul. What he smelled was a librarian skating on thin ice. Any implication of a flirtation between her and Mr. Callahan was ridiculous. They were as different as chalk and cheese, but she still couldn't risk a hint of impropriety.

“I'll have the taxation schedules for mollusks completed for you by tomorrow morning,” she said, turning to leave.

She had no intention of following in Sarah Starling's footsteps.