Charlotte, though her complexion was more porcelain than usual, looked up with interest. “A tour of Hatchards sounds delightful. I’d like to come along.”
“Are you sure, Charlotte? You seem a bit… peaked. I should hate for you to exhaust yourself merely for my amusement.”
She waved away my concern. “Fresh air and good books? What better remedy for the spirits? Besides, I’ve a newfound fondness for reading. It is often the most adventurous thing I can manage.”
My aunt set aside her spoon and dabbed her mouth. “As much as I would love to accompany you, I must set aside time today for the menu and the arrangements for our festivities. I will have the carriage called around for you in… an hour? I do hope you have a lovely day.”
“Of course, Aunt. But, if I find a tantalizing title, say, a lovely edition of Milton with hand-tipped pages, I might just be tempted to share it with the family on Christmas Morning.”
Jane laughed softly. “Only if the price is right.”
“No, no, I am in jest! I am only admiring from afar. I assure you, I will not find anything there I could ever imagine keeping.”
Hatchardsfeltlikesteppinginto a cathedral of books. Tall, mahogany shelves stood in neat rows, reaching nearly to the ceiling and overflowing with volumes of every size and hue. Ladders on wheels were placed intermittently, and the scent of leather, paper, and fresh ink mingled with the gentle hum of hushed conversations. Grand arched windows let in streams of soft winter light, warming the polished wooden floors beneath.
Jane had settled on a deep sofa by the window with a book of poetry. Charlotte chose a plush armchair in a sunlit corner and was already thumbing through a novel. But for me, the sheer exhilaration of being surrounded by such literary treasures was intoxicating. Sit still with one book when I could admireallof them?
I wandered through an aisle dedicated to history, then drifted to another lined with freshly printed works. I lingered for a moment, studying the titles. Would not Papa like to hear what was new?
A small, older man who looked like a clerk approached me with a respectful nod. “I see you were admiring the latest by Wordsworth, Miss. May I show you anything else?”
I smiled and shook my head. “Oh, no, thank you. I will be perfectly frank—I only came to look. Your time may be better spent on customers who intend to buy.”
“Today’s shoppers, tomorrow’s customers,” he said. “No trouble at all. Might I point out a particularly exciting new edition? We’ve just received Lord Byron’s latest,‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage’. I’ve at least four gentlemen of stature who have been waiting most eagerly for this volume, and I believe one of them is planning to come in even today. Would you care to see it while I still have it?”
“Would I?” I gasped. “But only a look. I daren’t touch, for fear I might drop it.”
He walked to his sales desk to pull the book from a shelf behind it. “Nonsense, madam. I’m afraid it is probably already sold, but you may certainly hold it.”
He handed me a beautifully bound book, gold flourishes embossed on rich leather with the title proudly emblazoned across the front. I turned gingerly to the first page and was instantly transported by Byron’s lyrical prose.Howdid the man write like that? And what a treat it would be, to be able to just soak in his words with no thought for passing time.
One day… I promised myself thatoneday, I would save enough of my pin money to buy such a book. And I would readallof it, a hundred times over, until I had worn the cover through and the pages were falling out. And I wouldn’t even feel badly about it, because I would have purchased it for enjoyment, and got every penny’s worth from it.
But this book in my hand would belong to someone else. Hopefully, someone who would admire it for its true worth rather than display it as a prize. With a sigh I couldn’t mask, I thanked the man and gave it back before it accidentally found its way into my reticule. “Have you anything else new?”
“Oh, yes, quite. Allow me.” He led me up the iron staircase to a row of shelves I’d not yet explored, and tugged a green-bound book from the collection. “Very interesting little novelty, this. It is a collection of fairy tales by The Brothers Grimm. Just published this year, and it has been increasingly popular with the ladies, particularly.”
“I would love to look at it. May I?”
The man bowed and left me to my amusement, and I promptly lost myself. I knew not how long I stood frozen in the row of shelves, my eyes so fixed on the page I could not have recalled what day it was. Ten or twenty minutes might have passed and I would have known nothing of it until a soft “excuse me” drew me out ofCinderellafor an instant. Shifting slightly to make room, I continued reading, only half aware of the young lady who had entered my secluded corner. But when she lingered, her gaze darting from shelf to shelf with an almost frantic energy, my curiosity became stronger than my fascination with the story. I lowered the book.
She was slightly taller than I, but with the quiet way she moved, she gave the impression of being petite. She was probably about Kitty’s age, with a delicate beauty accentuated by her rosy cheeks and wide, doe-like eyes. Soft curls, the shade of scotched butter, framed her face in an artful mess, as if she’d battled wind and rain to arrive in that bookshop. She glanced nervously my way when she noticed me inspecting her, and just as quickly returned her gaze to the shelves. She searched high and low, and twice she reached for a spine in interest, then replaced it after reading the title.
“Are you looking for something specific?” I asked.
Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, as she replied, “Yes, actually. You might think it silly, though.”
“I am rather fond of silly things. May I help?”
She shot me a dubious look, and then a cautious smile appeared. “I saw it only yesterday, but I suppose it might have been sold since then. It was a book of fairy tales. My brother said he would buy it for me today, but I suppose I am too late.”
A wry smile formed on my lips as I held up the very book she sought. “It seems we have similar tastes. Here, please take it.”
Her face lit up like an October sunrise. “Thank you! But what of you?”
“Oh, think nothing of it. I was only nibbling, if you will. I’m afraid my purse does not permit me to devour at present.”
She blinked and clutched the book to her chest. “Thank you,” she murmured again.
