show you my photos of the hunt for the Book of Hours.”
She stood, and August and I followed her. He brushed his hand against mine as we walked, and I ached to hold it.
Her living room was decorated with overstuffed chairs covered in Shabby Chic–type fabrics. The coffee table and end tables were piled high with books, and mason jars were filled with shells, sand, starfish, and sea glass—there was even one jar with old buttons and one with Scrabble letter tiles.
It was a very big room, but the way she had arranged the furniture and the lamps, and even the framed prints of beach scenes on the walls, made it seem cozy. August and I sat on the long sofa, and she sat on a large chaise lounge covered with pillows next to us. I shivered slightly; the soaking we’d had must have chilled me more than I knew.
“Here, Calliope.” She leaped up and handed me a thick quilt that had been folded on an ottoman. “You must be freezing. And I know just the thing.” She walked over to a pass-through glass and white-stone fireplace, pressed a button, and a gas fire sprang to life, blue and white flames licking ceramic logs.
I pulled the quilt up and spread it over my legs. She returned to her chaise and pulled a heavy scrapbook from the end table next to it. She set it on her lap and inhaled as if contemplating whether or not even to open it.
“I haven’t looked inside this scrapbook since I moved here. Maybe it hurt too much.” She opened the cover.
“It’s full of memories of the hunt for the book. I first heard about this particular illuminated manuscript while researching the love story of Heloise and Abelard.”
“Who were they?” I asked.
She smiled at me. “Probably two of the world’s most infamous star-crossed lovers. Tragic figures. Hopelessly intellectual. Somewhat forgotten, I suppose. But not by everyone.”
I curled my knees up under me. August moved his hand to rest on my thigh. I put my hand on his.
“Heloise was born in 1101, and she was a brilliant young girl. She was the ward of her uncle, Fulbert, who was a canon in the church. Recognizing her gifted mind, he allowed her to be schooled—something quite rare for the time. You can understand why her story then fascinated me. I saw myself in Heloise. I was a young girl hungering for education in books and art. She was, too. I just . . . have you ever related to someone from history?”
I nodded. “I went through a Madame Curie phase in fourth grade. I had a microscope and slides—my bathroom was my lab.”
August smiled at me. “That is really cute! I went through a major Charles Darwin phase in first grade—that was the start of my finch collection. I wanted to sail to the Galápagos.”
Miriam nodded. “So you do understand. For me, it was Heloise. And I was well past elementary school,” she joked.
“Heloise wasn’t known as the most beautiful girl, but she was very smart. She wrote beautifully, was a scholar of Latin and Greek. Even Hebrew. And Fulbert allowed her to be tutored by Peter Abelard, himself a brilliant man. He was of noble birth and could have lived in great wealth, but chose philosophy and a more austere, scholarly life. He found her mind extraordinary. They fell in love, pupil and tutor. And a torrid affair blossomed.”
I glanced at August. He was as riveted by Miriam’s story as I was.
“What Peter loved most was her mind. And here I was, loved for my beauty by my husband, but ignored for my mind. I had dreams of a love like that. A soul mate.” I understood what she meant. Wanting a soul mate, someone who understood you, all of you. I caught August’s eye, then turned away.
“They loved each other madly, and Heloise became pregnant. The very idea was scandalous. She bore him a son. And then in Shakespearean-tragedy fashion, she was forced to enter a convent.”
August said, “It’s got all the elements of a classic tragic love story.”
“Oh, but there is so much more,” Miriam said. “She and Peter
She stood, and August and I followed her. He brushed his hand against mine as we walked, and I ached to hold it.
Her living room was decorated with overstuffed chairs covered in Shabby Chic–type fabrics. The coffee table and end tables were piled high with books, and mason jars were filled with shells, sand, starfish, and sea glass—there was even one jar with old buttons and one with Scrabble letter tiles.
It was a very big room, but the way she had arranged the furniture and the lamps, and even the framed prints of beach scenes on the walls, made it seem cozy. August and I sat on the long sofa, and she sat on a large chaise lounge covered with pillows next to us. I shivered slightly; the soaking we’d had must have chilled me more than I knew.
“Here, Calliope.” She leaped up and handed me a thick quilt that had been folded on an ottoman. “You must be freezing. And I know just the thing.” She walked over to a pass-through glass and white-stone fireplace, pressed a button, and a gas fire sprang to life, blue and white flames licking ceramic logs.
I pulled the quilt up and spread it over my legs. She returned to her chaise and pulled a heavy scrapbook from the end table next to it. She set it on her lap and inhaled as if contemplating whether or not even to open it.
“I haven’t looked inside this scrapbook since I moved here. Maybe it hurt too much.” She opened the cover.
“It’s full of memories of the hunt for the book. I first heard about this particular illuminated manuscript while researching the love story of Heloise and Abelard.”
“Who were they?” I asked.
She smiled at me. “Probably two of the world’s most infamous star-crossed lovers. Tragic figures. Hopelessly intellectual. Somewhat forgotten, I suppose. But not by everyone.”
I curled my knees up under me. August moved his hand to rest on my thigh. I put my hand on his.
“Heloise was born in 1101, and she was a brilliant young girl. She was the ward of her uncle, Fulbert, who was a canon in the church. Recognizing her gifted mind, he allowed her to be schooled—something quite rare for the time. You can understand why her story then fascinated me. I saw myself in Heloise. I was a young girl hungering for education in books and art. She was, too. I just . . . have you ever related to someone from history?”
I nodded. “I went through a Madame Curie phase in fourth grade. I had a microscope and slides—my bathroom was my lab.”
August smiled at me. “That is really cute! I went through a major Charles Darwin phase in first grade—that was the start of my finch collection. I wanted to sail to the Galápagos.”
Miriam nodded. “So you do understand. For me, it was Heloise. And I was well past elementary school,” she joked.
“Heloise wasn’t known as the most beautiful girl, but she was very smart. She wrote beautifully, was a scholar of Latin and Greek. Even Hebrew. And Fulbert allowed her to be tutored by Peter Abelard, himself a brilliant man. He was of noble birth and could have lived in great wealth, but chose philosophy and a more austere, scholarly life. He found her mind extraordinary. They fell in love, pupil and tutor. And a torrid affair blossomed.”
I glanced at August. He was as riveted by Miriam’s story as I was.
“What Peter loved most was her mind. And here I was, loved for my beauty by my husband, but ignored for my mind. I had dreams of a love like that. A soul mate.” I understood what she meant. Wanting a soul mate, someone who understood you, all of you. I caught August’s eye, then turned away.
“They loved each other madly, and Heloise became pregnant. The very idea was scandalous. She bore him a son. And then in Shakespearean-tragedy fashion, she was forced to enter a convent.”
August said, “It’s got all the elements of a classic tragic love story.”
“Oh, but there is so much more,” Miriam said. “She and Peter