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Her best hope was to sign the shop over to the League, remove every trace of the bawdy books, and complete the renovations swiftly, before Foxton made his next move.
Coggins was too old and frail to be of much help, and Ford required an assistant. She might not be especially strong, but she’d learned how to swing a sledgehammer with gusto.
She was determined to make herself useful.
This morning she’d risen early, before her mother awoke, and taken a shirt and a pair of trousers from her absent brother Rafe’s adjacent apartments. She’dleft her mother a note saying she would be inventorying books at the bookshop and would be back in time to be made presentable for this evening’s entertainments.
She arrived at the bookshop before the sun had taken its coffee and decided to put on a bright face. Ford had removed the sign above the door. Beatrice had liked the sign with its fairy-tale castle and mysterious woods. Without the sign this was just a building, nameless like the empty buildings next door.
Not empty for long.
She and the ladies would have a plate inscribed for the door with the name of their club and the year of dedication. A name that was less about knitting, but not so radical as to reveal their true purpose to the world.
She let herself in with her key. The shop was quiet save for the bell announcing her arrival. Coggins appeared wearing a nightcap and rubbing his eyes. “Lady Beatrice?” he croaked. “What time is it?”
“Time for carpentering.” She marched into the entrance hall and he locked the door behind her.
“Mr. Wright is still abed,” he informed her.
“Perfect.” She’d be hard at work when he came downstairs. “I need a quick start to my day. My mother owns the second half of it and I’m determined to own the first. Is Mrs. Kettle in?”
“Not yet. She never arrives until later.” He yawned. “I’ll make you some coffee. Could use some myself.”
“I need tools, Coggins.”
“Tools, milady?”
“Hammers, and nails, and such things.”
“Mr. Wright left a bucket of tools in the front room.”
“Excellent.”
She changed her clothing in Mrs. Kettle’s little sitting room under the stairs. It was a difficult feat to wrestle out of her gown and corset with no maid, but she managed it. She put on the shirt, tucking it into the trousers. Rafe was slimmer in the hips—the trousers were quite close fitting.
Lady Beatrice Bentley. Displaying your limbs. Shameful!
She banished her mother’s voice. She had no jurisdiction here. This was Beatrice’s domain. She could wear trousers, wield a hammer, revel in her new library, and do it all on her own terms.
When she emerged, Mr. Coggins stared at her, his brows closing into one straight line.
“Do stop staring, Coggins. You don’t expect me to carpenter in my frilly gown, do you?”
He handed her the coffee. “What’s the world coming to?” he mumbled. “Ladies in trousers. I’m going back to bed.”
She sipped her coffee and openedPractical Carpentry, Joinery, andCabinet-makingby Peter Nicholson, written “for the use of workmen” with “fully and clearly explained” instructions.
She turned to the chapter entitled, “Flooring for First-Rate Houses.”
So these rotting floorboards in the showroom were nailed on top of the joists. But which type of construction was it? She’d have to rip up a floorboard to determine the structure beneath.
She found a hammer in the bucket. This one was much smaller than the one they’d used for knocking down the wall. It had a metal head set crosswiseon a wooden handle. The curved end was obviously meant to pry things apart. But how to insert it beneath the board? And, once inserted, how did one succeed in dislodging the board?
What felt like hours later, but was probably only ten minutes, Beatrice’s back ached and her knees hurt from kneeling on the floorboards.
She’d only managed to pry up one small wedge of timber. “Come loose, damn you despicable board!”
“Cursing at it won’t help,” said a deep voice over her head.
