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“We prefer ‘bluestockings who knit stockings,’” said Miss Beaton.
Ford considered that. “I thought bluestockings was a derogatory term.”
“We’ve reclaimed it, Mr. Wright.” Lady Beatricemade that little gesture with her chin and eyebrows—everything winging upward—that meant she was about to lecture him about something.
“We proudly call ourselves bluestockings. A term originating in the last century to describe a group of ladies who hosted literary salons for men of letters. They admitted all true scholars, regardless of their social standing, overlooking the inexpensive blue worsted stockings of the more insolvent of their guests. Hence the origin of the derisive term Blue Stocking Society. Though the ladies cleverly adopted the epithet and began referring to themselves proudly as bluestockings.”
Ford wondered what color her stockings were under those long skirts. White, most likely. And did she wear silk garters, or plain cotton ones? She had lovely long limbs and elegant, expressive fingers that she waved about while she was lecturing a fellow.
And... he should leave now. Too much imagining of underthings. Desks were next; he knew that from experience. Desks and the decidedly objectionable uses he’d like to put them to with bookish ladies. “I should be on my way, ladies.”
Mrs. Kettle returned with the tea and placed an enormous pile of sandwiches in front of him. Maybe he could stay just a few more minutes. These sandwiches looked much more substantial than the paltry offering he’d been served at the duke’s townhouse.
“You’re a ship’s carpenter with the Royal Navy, Mr. Wright?” asked Miss Beaton.
“I worked my way up from a floating apprenticeship to carpenter’s mate, and now I’ve beenpromoted to warrant officer, with responsibility for the maintenance of the HMSBoadicea, a seventy-four gun third-rate ship of the line. She’s being refitted in Bristol and will arrive in London for coppering soon. I’ll have to wait for the shipwright to sheath her in copper to protect her against the salt water, and then we’ll follow orders to wherever she’s wanted.”
“The HMSBoadicea,” said Lady Beatrice. “Named after the legendary Celtic warrior queen, I presume?”
“How romantic,” said Miss Beaton.
“Not very romantic, Miss Beaton. There will be hundreds of sailors living on that ship. With all of those men in such close quarters you can imagine the...”
“Odiferousness?” supplied Lady Beatrice.
“I was going to say challenges, Lady Beatrice. But yes, it doesn’t smell like a ship full of roses.”
“A navy man,” said Mrs. Kettle, pouring him more tea. “And so handsome. Are you married, Mr. Wright?”
“I’m not, Mrs. Kettle.”
“You should be.”
“You’re the second matron to tell me that today.” And he hadn’t changed his mind on the subject in the length of two hours.
“I don’t wish to be unmannerly, Mrs. Kettle,” said Lady Beatrice, “but I was told there was some scandal attached to the bookshop?”
“There’s nothing scandalous about our little shop, nothing untoward whatsoever. Isn’t that right, Mr. Coggins?” Mrs. Kettle glanced at Coggins, whostood beside the doorway studying the ceiling, his hands behind his back.
“Erm,” he replied noncommittally.
“So those double-sided, revolving bookcases don’t hide anything?” Ford had noticed some interesting shelves in the front room.
“Pardon?” Lady Beatrice caught his eye.
Mrs. Kettle poured more tea, her hand trembling slightly.
“Hidden bookshelves?” asked Miss Beaton. “How intriguing!”
“Nonsense. They’re just ordinary bookshelves,” said Mrs. Kettle.
“Shall we go and look?” asked Ford.
As the party rose from their chairs, Mrs. Kettle began fluttering around them, emitting reassurances that there was nothing to see.
Lady Beatrice entered the front room of the shop first. “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.”
“I know a swiveling shelf when I see one.” Ford ran his fingers over the seams of the wood. “There.” He pressed a hidden button and the shelves began to swivel, revolving a full turn and presenting an entirely new set of shelves.
