The Lost Bookshop

Chapter 31

Chapter Thirty-One

OPALINE

Dublin, 1923

I had arranged to meet Mr Hanna from Webb’s bookshop at Bennett Dickens, Thackeray and Disraeli were frequent visitors.’

The following lots were ephemera: letters and locks of hair, ghastly portraits of long-dead people I did not know. A man took the seat beside me and nodded to myself and Mr Hanna. He did not have a catalogue and so I handed him mine. My interest had begun to wane until I heard the name Lady Sydney Morgan.

‘And here we have a signed copy of her most well-known work, The Wild Irish Girl , gifted to the Irish People newspaper.’

I shifted forward on my seat so far that I was hardly sitting on it any more. The book itself was beautiful – red boards with a gilt-framed title, almost botanical in nature, with a swooping swallow descending from the top left, pretty ferns growing upwards and an illustrated butterfly on the bottom right. I had to have it.

‘A passionately nationalistic novel,’ the man continued, although I had already raised my hand – an auction room faux-pas! – ‘and a founding text in the discourse of Irish nationalism. The novel proved so controversial in Ireland that Lady Morgan was put under surveillance by Dublin Castle.’

I didn’t care how much it cost, I would own that book. Mr Hanna touched my arm in such a way as to calm my temper, but I was no longer open to advice. Besides, what was it the printer from Bath had said? Women’s literature was not as valuable as men’s …

‘Six pounds to the young lady in the red hat.’

‘Hah!’ I punched the air and presumably made a display of myself, but I didn’t care.

Mr Hanna clapped me on the back and I felt such a thrill as I had never known. Now I understood how Mr Rosenbach must have felt in Sotheby’s.

‘Congratulations, Mademoiselle,’ came a voice from beside me that almost made me jump. I turned around to see a young man with bright eyes and fair hair. My heart fell back into its regular rhythm.

‘ Merci, Monsieur …?’

‘Ravel. You speak French?’ he said, shaking my hand.

‘Like the composer, Maurice! Just a little,’ I replied. ‘Do you have an interest in Irish literature?’

‘ Certainement. I am writing an article about the Irish vampire.’ He delivered this with the most innocent smile, which was quite disconcerting.

‘Good Lord.’ I nudged Mr Hanna. ‘I do hope there is no such thing.’

‘Ah, that’ll be our very own Bram Stoker.’

‘Oh, yes, now that I am familiar with. What a fascinating book,’ I added.

But the Frenchman shook his head. ‘Not just Bram Stoker. Le Fanu also. But today, I am in search of an older book than that. In fact, it is said that Stoker was inspired by it.’

‘Pray, which book? You must tell us!’

Just then, the bearded man called our attention to a dark-looking tome.

‘And here we have a rare copy of Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Maturin.’

‘Ah, this is it!’ he said.

I could not have been more excited if a vampire was in the room with us. That was the thing about books and writers and stories – you never knew where you would end up. I was so pleased when he won his trophy and also congratulated him.

‘You said that Stoker was inspired by this Maturin fellow. How did you discover it?’ I asked when the auction had ended and the sound of chairs scraping the floor filled the air.

‘At Marsh’s Library. It was the first public library in Ireland. Mais , why do I tell you this? I am certain you already know.’

I shook my head. I felt like a dunce that I had been in Dublin this long and still remained unforgivably ignorant of its literary heritage, beyond the standard Anglo-Irish authors whose writing was easily exported.

‘But these are not Irish names, are they?’ I turned again to Mr Hanna, the encyclopaedia.

‘Huguenot, am I correct?’ he replied.

‘Yes, indeed,’ the Frenchman agreed and before I knew it, he had invited me to visit Marsh’s Library with him.

* * *

It was a fine day and it felt good to stretch my legs. Mr Hanna ‘left us young ones to it’ and we chatted enthusiastically as we crossed the Liffey and strolled down Fishamble Street. It turned out that Mr Ravel was from Paris and was studying Irish Literature at Trinity College. He was suitably impressed when I told him about my time working in Shakespeare and Company and we both wondered how it was that we hadn’t met before.

‘I used to go there all of the time! I took my coffee juste en face.’

‘Isn’t life queer?’

‘I find the same in my research. For instance, I only just found out that Charles Maturin was in fact Oscar Wilde’s great-uncle.’

‘You cannot be serious?’ I said, stopping just as we reached the imposing facade of St Patrick’s Cathedral, its grey spires stretching towards a sky of the brightest blue.

‘Yes, it’s true. His niece was Jane Wilde, Oscar’s mother. Of course, you must have read her works.’

‘I’m afraid my academic knowledge of Irish literature is sorely lacking compared to yours, Mr Ravel, but I find this all so fascinating!’

‘I must warn you that her writings are quite anti-British.’

I laughed as we carried on walking past the railings of the church grounds.

‘I am not very easily offended on that score.’

He stopped at an iron gate and ushered me to take the steps ahead of him.

It looked like such a humble entrance for this, the oldest public library in Ireland. The building was equally modest – redbrick and inviting in its own way. No colonnades or grand statues, just a sign with the opening hours.

‘It does belie the significance of what lies within,’ he said, reading my thoughts.

I gasped as we got in and I had my first full view of the library. Row upon row of books housed in beautifully dark wooden shelves, ancient books, whispering like leaves on a breeze. There were benches in every alcove and the air was thick with knowledge. I was stunned into silence.

‘Come, I will show you the cages,’ he said, again with that sweet smile that jarred with his frightful words. ‘Maturin lived quite close by and so he spent hours here, every day, voraciously reading books from the sixteenth century.’

We came to the ‘cages’, which were in fact little compartments with doors that were half wood, half metal grid. Inside, a private space walled in books for study.

‘While it is a public library, it is not a lending library. The librarians noticed that many of their priceless manuscripts were being stolen from the library and—’

‘Hence the cages. So, do they lock you in while you read, is that it?’

At that moment, I thought I heard someone calling my name. But I didn’t turn around.

‘ Mon Opale .’

My body stiffened. I didn’t dare hope.

‘ Bonjour ,’ Mr Ravel said to whoever stood behind us.

I turned around to see Armand, more handsome than my memory could ever do him justice, his dark features all the more beautiful here. It was all I could do not to fall into his arms and, but for the fact that Mr Ravel was beside me, I dare say I would have. Instead, we embraced and kissed on each cheek.

‘Mr Ravel, may I introduce my … fellow book dealer, Mr Hassan.’

The two men shook hands and I found myself at a complete loss as to how I should handle the situation. My hand cradled my belly instinctively. Here stood the father of my child, but social etiquette prevented me from uttering a word. Mr Ravel had been so kind and chivalrous, how could I tell him to leave?

‘Mr Ravel, I beg your forgiveness, but I have a very important business matter to discuss with Mademoiselle—’

‘Gray!’ I shouted.

The two men looked at me.

‘He always pronounces it incorrectly,’ I stammered, feeling utterly stupid.

‘Of course,’ Mr Ravel bowed slightly in the most respectful way that I felt a pang of guilt at simply abandoning him.

‘And do call in to my shop,’ I said, hoping that he would.

He smiled kindly and was gone.

Armand took my hand and led me into one of the open cages. I let my body lean against the ladder that was placed there for reaching books on the higher shelf and he pressed himself against me, his mouth on my neck, like a vampire himself. We didn’t speak; the only sound was our breathing and the occasional turn of a page from the readers outside.

‘Wait, wait. Stop,’ I said, panting slightly. ‘What are you doing here?’

He looked up at me and smiled, his deep brown eyes lit by rays of the afternoon sun, revealing flecks of amber. I knew then I loved him. I loved him madly. But I wasn’t sure if he ever could or would love me.

‘I’m after a book, of course,’ he grinned and pulled the top of my blouse down revealing the white curve of my breast.

Not for me, then. He kissed me and I forgot myself momentarily.

‘No, I mean what are you doing in Ireland? Why didn’t you send a telegram?’

He stepped back slightly and sat on the desk opposite, where some old books lay open. His body language changed; he picked up a pen and fidgeted with it. When he looked at me, there was an air of disappointment in his eyes that I had spoiled the moment with my question. I’m not sure I had ever observed him so keenly, but then, I was never carrying his child before. An uncomfortable truth formed first as a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, and his lack of response confirmed it in my thoughts.

‘You weren’t going to tell me you were here, were you?’

He got up again, all charm.

‘It’s not that, Opaline. You know what it’s like, following a lead. I had not planned to come here, but a collector requested a very specific manuscript—’

I’d heard enough. I straightened my blouse and was struggling with the doors of the cage when I felt his arms around me.

‘Please, Mon Opale , there’s no need for such hysteria. I’m here now. Let’s not ruin it.’

I sighed deeply, then turned around to face him.

‘I have something to tell you,’ I said, unsure of how exactly I was going to do it.

‘Marvellous, we shall meet tonight for dinner. But now I have work to do.’

He looked so pleased with himself and I realised how much I liked being the one to make him happy.

Perhaps he would want the baby after all.

* * *

I arranged that he should come to the shop for an aperitif. My excitement made me giddy and ditsy – I dropped a glass and scratched one of my favourite records while preparing the shop for his arrival. It was overwhelming, Armand being in Ireland. I wanted him to love it as much as I did, so everything had to be exactly right.

Not long after the cuckoo clock announced that it was eight o’clock, I heard the handle of the door opening and the sound of his shoes scuffing the tiles. Mother had always said that punctuality said a lot about a person. I smoothed my hair behind my ears and climbed the stairs to the shop.

‘Opaline?’

‘Yes, j’arrive .’ I hadn’t spoken French in so long, it sounded strange and I blushed. When I reached the top of the stairs I saw him standing there in a dark suit, his hair damp from the rain outside. ‘Come in,’ I said, even though he was already inside. I was so nervous and I began rushing around and generally fussing with drinks and chairs and frothy conversation about the books on the shelves and Mr Fitzpatrick’s antiques. In a silly way, I suppose I wanted him to be proud of what I had accomplished.

Eventually he put his hand on mine and asked me to sit beside him. I immediately filled the silence with yet more casual conversation, as though we were two complete strangers.

‘So where are you staying?’

‘The Shelbourne.’

Of course. Only the best for Armand. Or rather his employers.

‘What is it? You are not yourself.’

I took a deep breath. I could no longer put it off.

‘There’s something important I have to tell you and I just don’t quite know how to put it.’

He smiled.

‘With words, of course.’

I returned his smile, but my doubts grew.

‘You know I had the impression you were hiding a great secret, ever since I met you in England.’

‘Really? Oh, Armand.’

Did he already know? Perhaps he had come to Ireland for me after all.

‘One can always tell,’ he said assuredly.

‘Can you?’ I covered my stomach.

‘Of course! You found the manuscript you were looking for, didn’t you? It doesn’t take a genius to work out why you were at Honresfield. It’s something to do with the Bront?s, is it not?’

My heart sank, but I kept the smile frozen on my face.

‘Oh. Why, yes. You know me too well.’

I sat there, smiling inanely like an idiot while he smiled politely back.

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Aren’t you going to show it to me?’

Wasn’t I going to show it to him? I repeated the words in my head. It was, after all, the discovery I had been simply dying to tell someone about. And here I was with one of Europe’s greatest book scouts, one of a small, select group of people who could truly grasp the significance and sheer luck of my achievement, and yet I hesitated. In that second, my conscience revealed to me the truth I had been trying to not see, ever since we’d first met. I didn’t trust him. And yet now, here I was, faced with a choice of telling him about the baby or the manuscript. I had to decide what I was willing to risk.

I chose the manuscript.

‘Wait there,’ I said, as I took the sewing box from the drawer. I insisted we both wear cotton gloves to handle it and while he examined the notebook, I told him the story of how I found Mrs Brown in London and that my last-minute decision to buy this piece of memorabilia resulted in the discovery of Emily’s manuscript. He wasn’t to know it, but his reaction would decide everything for me.

‘ Non, mais c’est incroyable !’

‘I know,’ I said, pulling my chair closer to him and delighting in this shared moment. ‘Having studied their letters at Honresfield, I’m certain this is Emily’s penmanship.’

‘ Bien joué, ma belle ,’ he said, kissing me on the lips and I felt as though I were sitting on a cloud.

I’d never been so happy. I would tell him. Right away.

‘Armand—’

‘You must let me handle this for you,’ he said, cutting across me.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I will approach some of my collectors. I also have good contacts at the auction houses. Mon Dieu , where to begin?’ He laughed, he was so giddy with excitement.

I reached across and took the notebook and sewing box back from him.

‘There’s no need. I’m perfectly capable of making the arrangements.’

He looked at me rather quizzically.

‘I have contacts in the rare book world too.’ I had intended to say it lightly, but I noticed a slight edge to my voice.

‘But this is of huge significance, Mon Opale . We must achieve the greatest price for this, it will secure our reputation for ever.’

It was astonishing how quickly he had begun to talk of ‘we’ and ‘our’. The elusive Armand had suddenly found it very easy to commit. I stood up and put the box back in the desk drawer, locking it with a key I replaced in my trouser pocket. I finally understood what it meant to have the wind taken out of your sails.

‘Thank you, Armand, but as you can see, I have been running a successful business for some time now. I found the manuscript and I will decide what is to be done with it. Besides, I’m not sure it belongs in private hands. It might be of greater value to a museum.’

‘Oh please, you cannot equate this little shop with the real world of rare literary antiquities. Opaline, you must see sense. I did not want to be forced into saying this, but you give me no choice. No serious collector will deal with a woman. Coming from you, they will never believe the provenance of the item and even if they do, they will know they can undervalue it.’

Armand revealed all of his true colours in a dazzling display. He didn’t think me capable or up to the task because of my gender.

‘I thought we were equals,’ I said.

He stood up and walked towards me, attempting to take my hands in his, but I pulled away.

‘Now you are being ridiculous.’

‘Ridiculous?’

‘I am not questioning your ability, I am simply being realistic. It’s the world we live in.’

‘And you have no interest in changing it, do you? It suits you better to maintain the status quo. That way, you can take my success and pass it off as your own!’ I was shouting now. He had suddenly become ugly to me. The man I had adored for all this time, even though I’d always suspected that he was using me somehow.

‘Why did you come for me at the hotel that day? I can never quite work out why you went out of your way to help me.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m not sure you’ve ever done anything for anyone unless it somehow benefits you.’

He looked at me as though he wanted to strike me, and the woman inside of me that I was still in the process of becoming raised her chin to him. His eyes burned and his jaw tightened.

‘Perhaps you thought I could be of value to you, another contact.’

For the first time, I could see how insecure he was, underneath that glossy veneer. ‘Because deep down, you don’t believe you’re capable of achieving anything on your own, do you? That’s why you charm people into giving away secrets, so you can steal them and make them your own.’

‘ Ferme ta gueule, salope .’

I wasn’t terribly familiar with French slang, but I knew the word for whore. With that, he turned on his heels and walked out, never to return.