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“Footstools,” said Coggins. “Firestarter.”
“Coggins!” Mrs. Kettle huffed.
“Mr. Coggins,” said Beatrice. “That is not even remotely funny. These books are precious. They must be protected and stored properly. Mrs. Kettle, I remember that there was a catalog published twice yearly?”
“There used to be, my dear, but we fell behind and it’s all in a jumble now. We’re still under contract for several months yet, by the provisions of Mrs. Castle’s will. Some of the books are quite valuable, as you know. Why, before he died, Mr. Castle sold a medieval illuminated book for five hundred pounds.”
“How long have you been in my aunt’s employ?”
“Nigh on forty years now. I started as a maid and worked my way up to housekeeper. Mr. Coggins is the man of all work.”
“And you live on the premises?”
“Mr. Coggins does. I live with my daughter, Ann, and my granddaughter, Kit.”
“And when did the bookshop close?”
“When Mrs. Castle became too ill to meet with customers. That would be a year ago. Poor thing. She loved this shop and wanted nothing more than to carry on her husband’s business.”
“I own the Skinner folio,” Beatrice said wonderingly. “Who would believe it? I own one of the most rare and most sought-after dictionaries in the world. It’s a dream come true.”
“If you say so,” said Wright with a smirk.
“Do you have any idea how much this dictionary is worth?”
“Ah, so there are authors of etymological dictionaries who turn a profit in their lifetime?”
“It was published posthumously,” she admitted.
“Shocking,” said Wright.
Isobel and Viola had matching smiles as they witnessed the interchange.
“It’s a phenomenal collection, Mrs. Kettle,” Beatrice said firmly.
“It’s all yours, my dear, all of it. Why, you could even open the shop again! That is, if you wanted to, you being a fine lady and all . . .”
Beatrice’s mother would never allow her to engage in trade. That would definitely be the straw that broke her mother’s back.
“My mother wouldn’t approve. She wants me to sell it immediately.”
“What a pity that would be.”
“See, Mrs. Kettle?” said Coggins. “She’ll evict us early, she will. Time’s run out for us. We’re for the scrap heap. It won’t be long before we freeze to death in a doorway.”
He was a ray of sunshine, that one.
“Don’t make any decisions just yet, dearie. I’ve always said never to make up one’s mind about anything until you have a nice steaming cup of tea in your hands. Everyone come into the parlor and I’ll make a nice pot of tea, shall I?” She bustled away, glancing back over her shoulder to make sure they were following her.
“She might have sandwiches,” Isobel said, giving Wright a wink.
Mrs. Kettle ushered them through the showroom and into a parlor crowded with mismatched and overstuffed sofas and chairs.
“And there’s a letter for you from Mrs. Castle, Lady Beatrice. Now where did I put it?” She hastened out of the room. “Help me in the kitchen, Mr. Coggins.”
Coggins backed out of the room, eyeing them suspiciously, one by one.
“Well, it’s a little run-down and it’s overcrowded and overstuffed, but isn’t it an enchanting place?”Beatrice couldn’t stop the excitement welling in her heart. If she could move her writing supplies here, she could work in a house filled with books.
