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“And you own it,” said Isobel.
She did. She owned this folio. These shelves. This bookshop and everything in it.
The thought settled in her mind, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. She’d never owned anything before. Not truly. She owned nothing that hadn’t been purchased for her by a family member.
These books were hers. Not her brother’s, or her father’s, hers alone.
“Have you noticed the buckets?” Wright called from the far end of the room.
Beatrice followed the line of his finger. Several buckets were lined up against the side of the room, collecting drips that gathered on the ceiling and then splashed down with aplink,plink,plink.
“Leaky roof. That’s not good.” He bounced up and down a few times. “Floor’s like sponge cake in places.”
The roof might be leaking but the folio she held was intact, even though it had been written over one hundred and fifty years ago.
“Unhand that folio, you knaves!” A tall shape brandishing a heavy silver candelabra charged into the room.
“Out, thieves!” a plump woman shouted, waving what appeared to be a rolling pin.
Wright placed himself between Beatrice andthe ladies and the two people with their strange weapons.
“Put down that candlestick,” he growled, “or I’ll be forced to take it off you.”
The tall thin man shook the candlestick. “I’d like to see you try!”
“You don’t want to test me. Trust me on that.”
Beatrice shivered. Wright’s voice was menacing and low and brooked no argument.
“We’re not intruders,” she said, attempting to come out from behind Wright, but he spread his arm to prevent her from walking any farther. “I’m Lady Beatrice Bentley, the new owner of this bookshop.”
“Oh!” The woman lowered her rolling pin. “Oh, it’sher, Coggins. The one Mrs. Castle told us about. Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” She dropped the rolling pin onto a chair and hastened toward Wright. “Come in, dearies, come in and make yourselves comfortable.”
Wright maintained his protective posture. “The candlestick, if you please.”
“Could be a trick,” Coggins grumbled. “Says she’s Lady Beatrice but could be anyone.”
Wright folded his arms. “She’s Lady Beatrice and your new mistress. Put down that candlestick and show some respect.”
“I’m Mrs. Kettle, dearie. And this is Mr. Coggins. He’s quite harmless, really. Relinquish that candlestick, Mr. Coggins.”
Coggins finally lowered the candelabra. The old servant had a suspicious look in his eyes, but a rather whimsical curled mustache. Beatrice didn’t detect any true menace from his presence.
“These are my aunt’s servants,” Beatrice whispered to Wright. “We’ll be safe with them.”
Wright finally relaxed his protective stance, allowing Beatrice to circumnavigate his imposing frame.
“Mrs. Kettle, Mr. Coggins, this is Miss Mayberry and Miss Beaton, my friends, and this is Mr. Wright, my... consultant.”
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance, though I do wish we’d known you were coming. We’ve let things run away from us, I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Kettle, who was shaped like her namesake, a comfortable, cozy figure with wisps of white hair escaping her lace cap.
“Why are there so many unopened crates?” asked Beatrice.
“Mr. Castle only had this small showroom for the public, and it was by appointment only. His clients were mostly eccentric collectors of antiquities.”
“I visited the shop once to view this folio.”
“He kept the most precious manuscripts and books in a warehouse, but there was no money to pay the rent for them and so Mrs. Castle used the last of the funds to bring all the books here. She was very ill at the end.” She blotted at her eyes with a handkerchief. “We haven’t unpacked them all because we don’t know where to put them.”
