Chapter Eight
Jo
“You’ve had a letter,” said Alma, when Jo arrived at the shop the next morning.
Jo found it on the counter, noting the return address.
It was from Dr. Clarke.
She tore into the envelope to find a profuse apology. If Jo didn’t know better, she’d assume it was their mutual companion Mr. F—Forester, that meddlesome matchmaker—who’d sent this in a conciliatory scheme worthy of a dime novel. But Forester had the open-topped O’s of a gossipy people-pleaser, while this script was tidy and perfectly slanted, complete with those swooping, lusty descenders she’d noticed in Surrey. The hand was undoubtedly Dr. Clarke’s.
And if the hand was hers, the sentiment must be as well. As Jo scanned the words once more, leaning over the bookstore counter, she caught herself smiling.
She shook that foolish happiness off, though, trying to settle into more fitting temptations. The part of her that never wanted to forgive Vanessa’s poor treatment wanted to throw the letter on the fire as was suggested in the greeting. A petulant, tit-for-tat part wanted to respond with a devastatingly polite rejection. Yet another very insufferable part longed to dig out those dirty old photographs she’d found on her disorganized shelves, select an especially rude one, and scribble bugger off right across the image of her own plump backside.
If she did any of those things, this really would be the end. She’d never see the woman again. Never be blighted by her presence, her opinions, her stiff-spined judgements.
Never see that intriguing fire within her set loose.
And more importantly, she realized with a jolt of her own selfishness, she would ruin the possibility of poor Vanessa getting that appointment.
Jo resigned herself to the fact that she must respond to the letter.
She also must not write that response upon a photograph of her own bum.
But she did not have to agree to a cordial meeting of her own. She could put Miss Garcia and Dr. Clarke in touch with one another and step aside, for good this time, praying that her success in finding a physician would propel Vanessa’s friendly feelings through the birth at least. She could wash her hands of this particular scheme, and redirect her energy toward figuring out the next one. One that did not involve any bluestockings, but might start to involve knitting after all.
She could do that.
If she wanted to.
She pulled out a piece of paper, unsure what she was going to put on it. It was of thinner weight and rougher texture than what Dr. Clarke had sent. She unfolded the letter beside her own blank page, contemplating the contrast before committing any words.
While it was nice to forgo the daily risk of typesetting injuries that came with running the printing press, she suspected she’d never lose her fascination for the mechanics of the written word. Handwriting quirks, ink thickness and color, the nuances of paper, the ins-and-outs of typographical anatomy. Not to mention covers and bindings and tin picture plates. It was the difference between a dime novel and a Dickens compilation, a poor man’s filthy postcard and an aristocrat’s pseudo-intellectual erotica, a medical textbook and Gran’s scrawled recipes. The words within were the most vital aspect, but the trappings made a difference, even if most didn’t think about them much.
She ran a hand down each of the sheets: Dr. Clarke’s letter and her own impending one. The difference between the papers was fitting. To further the satisfaction, she picked a nib for her pen that was a little overused and an ink that fell nice and thick. This letter would be undeniably hers, much as the unexpected apology could have come from no one but Dr. Clarke.
As she penned her response, she imagined her correspondent’s severe but pretty face so clearly that she could almost feel that softness the doctor hid under all that starch and scratchy wool fiber. Jo could imagine she was speaking, rather than writing; that there was no distance between them at all.
Dear Dr. Clarke,
Your letter comes as a surprise. I’ll let Miss G—know your offer and put the two of you in contact to arrange an appointment yourselves.
As for a cordial meeting between the two of us...
Jo paused. While Dr. Clarke had certainly done wrong by Vanessa, her crimes against Jo hardly warranted some formal apology. Jo did not need Dr. Clarke’s services. Did not expect her cordiality or companionship. Didn’t really even need that button back, seeing as the waistcoat was doing better with a lighter-weight one anyway.
If Dr. Clarke should apologize for anything, it was that feeling of her fingers in Jo’s pockets, the flash of her stocking on the stairs, the wrath and passion that had stuck to the matter of Jo’s brain like pretty little burrs that seemed innocent enough until you tried to unstick them. After a childhood spent muddying herself up in wild country, she knew returning to the thicket to put those sticky blighters back never worked. You’d just come out with more trouble than ever.
As for a cordial meeting between the two of us, I don’t think...
The bell above the door chimed. An inky-fingered young man was trying to fit a cart through the narrow doorway.
Abandoning her half-finished rejection, she sprang up to help the lad.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he huffed as they got the wheels over the threshold.
“Why the devil didn’t you bring this to the back door?” She resisted the urge to smack him upside the head only due to the cart between them. “It ain’t going to fit.”
The lad glanced over his shoulder. Jo followed his gaze to find that Paul was holding the door open with one hand, ushering the lad faster with the other. All the while, he stared over his shoulder, face pinched with paranoia.
That sort of look on a man in his sort of business got superhuman feats accomplished. Jo managed to slip the rest of the cart inside without half the trouble it should have been, clearing the way so that the delivery fellow and Paul could step inside.
Jo did not need telling that she ought to bolt the door.
“What are you doing?” she snapped. Paul was smoothing his mustache and clothes like he was perfectly comfortable now, but was still looking out the window instead of at her. “Why aren’t you taking these through the proper door?”
“Well,” Paul said brightly. “Because I didn’t fancy that bloke following us into an alley just now.”
He pointed to a man walking briskly away from the shop.
She left the lad alone, but did grab Paul’s hat so she could smack him upside the head.
“You fancy showing him to the front door so he can nose around my business later?”
“Your business is the respectable branch of the operation,” he said. “If I come in this respectable door, it means I’m probably carting respectable inventory.”
She crossed her arms. “Are you?”
“Bit of both, believe it or not. These are from home. I went through the shelves for your grandmother’s book.”
Jo’s mood threatened to brighten in spite of herself. “Did you find it?”
“Alas, not yet,” he said. “But I’m optimistic it will turn up in the next go-round, and in the meantime, I did find quite a lot of other things that—as you said—ought to be stashed at the print house.”
“Then why come here?”
He reached in and grabbed a hand-sized stack of the paperbound adventure novels that Jo snacked on like cakes in her spare time. “I’ll bring those troublesome ones down to the Row when I get the chance, but figured I’d bring your things along first.”
Jo stared at the books. Her books. Her books being moved out of her house.
“Th-those are mine,” she said shakily. “Why are you bringing them here?”
“To save you the trouble of coming after them, of course,” he said, his voice very light but his eyes belying a darker edge. “You’re going to such obvious pains to avoid being home with me. Looks like a lot of effort. As your oldest and dearest companion, I thought I’d make your endeavor to never speak to me again a bit easier. So here you go; all your favorite books are here now. One less reason for you to head home in the evenings.”
She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved that he wasn’t actually moving her things out or annoyed to death that he’d done something so characteristically obnoxious to force the conversation she’d avoided.
“Bloody hell, Paul.” Jo snatched the books out of his hand. “Did you seriously drag my shit all the way here for a stunt?”
“You know I love a good stunt.” With a flashy, unconvincing show of good humor, Paul paid the lad for his part in the ridiculous show and sent him off. Once he was gone—and another glance at the street had been spared to be sure there were no further followers—he looked back at her with decidedly less humor. “You can’t avoid this forever.”
“Oh yeah?” Jo challenged. “Seems to be going pretty well so far.”
Paul ran a frustrated hand down his face. “All I want is to have a bloody discussion, Jo. Like the friends we are. The friends we have been for years. Please.”
“There’s nothing to say,” she said, so firmly it almost sounded true. “Our—” He’d said friendship. She should too. That’s what they were. But there was distance between them now, a sense that their futures were no longer as entwined as they’d been. The word felt like nails in her throat, far too painful to make it out. Something else made it, though. Something that, when it appeared, proved decidedly cold:
“Our arrangement is what it is.”
“Joey—”
“Look, Paul. Vanessa is a lovely woman who you’ve cared about for a long time. If you’d done this with some young thing who meant nothing to you, we’d have something to talk about. But this is just one possible result of a situation we all agreed to. Plain and simple.”
“Ah yes. So plain. So simple.” Paul rolled his eyes. “I know this isn’t what any of us planned for, but do you really wish I’d left her to it? Is that what this is about? Because that doesn’t sound like you, Jo.”
“That’s not like me, obviously.”
“Then please, for the love of all the unholiness we have dedicated ourselves to, will you let me ask what we’re doing about the living situation?”
Jo wanted to start unloading the books, to do something useful and comforting with her hands, but seeing as half of them belonged in the secret cellar under the printing press and the other half belonged back home, it wasn’t a great option.
“Look, Paul. You’ve done it. You’ve cornered me. Say what you want to say, will you? You want me out?”
Jo hadn’t quite realized how badly she’d been fearing it until she heard herself say the words. She feared confirmation of what she knew in her bones: that another reinvention was on the horizon, another life abandoned, a new start forced upon her.
Paul was a theatrical sort of chap, but the way his jaw dropped and his brows went up had no artistry or charm involved. He looked a decade younger. A decade less sure of himself. A decade less happy. At last, he looked how Jo felt.
“Is that why you haven’t talked to me?” he said quietly. “You think the second I get you alone, it will be to kick you out?”
He looked so crestfallen that Jo wanted to backtrack. But what good would that do? They’d started this inevitable conversation; to stop now would just prolong it.
“I know you want them with you,” she said instead, rationally as possible. Because it was rational. Being rid of the mistake you married when she started getting in the way was more than rational. “I know you, Paul. I married you, didn’t I? I know how you are when you’re in love. You want them with you.”
“Of course I do. And that’s exactly why we need to talk, Jo,” he pleaded. “It’s just something to discuss. Frankly, I haven’t even gotten her to agree to it yet; she values her independence so highly, and—seeing as you’ve gone so terribly out of your way to make her love you nearly as much as she loves me these days—she values your say in the matter. She won’t even consider it until she has your full blessing. There are practicalities, Jo, but that doesn’t mean anyone’s being kicked out of their home. Give me a little more credit than that.”
“Why should I?”
Paul raised an eyebrow. There was a moment, a fragile little moment, in which they could choose to laugh at her melodramatic reply. There was a list a mile long as to why she should believe him. They’d been lovers, and spouses, now business partners and dear old friends. Never had either of them betrayed the other like that.
And yet, Jo couldn’t shake the feeling that this would soon change. After all, her parents hadn’t betrayed her, either. Nor her parish here in London. No one she’d relied upon had given a hint that she’d soon be out on her arse. Not until the day they crossed the lines that forced her to scrape up whatever she could carry and run.
She opted not to laugh.
“You’re right, Paul,” she muttered. “I’ll just have to trust you, won’t I? At the end of the day, it’s all yours anyway. I’m sure you’ll make the very best decisions possible, given the circumstances. I only ask that if you decide there isn’t room for everyone, that you allow me to continue working at the bookshop until I’ve gotten on my feet.”
Paul stopped even pretending to seem casual and confident, allowing himself to look baldly hurt. She felt like a bit of an arse, but why should she? It was true. Though the laws on wives’ property rights had changed in her favor since their wedding day, habit and trust had led her not to keep their items and assets as separate as she should have, especially given the tricky nature of his enterprise. There was very little she could prove belonged to her. Not in the house, not in the publishing business, and not even in the shop that had become her lifeblood.
“Since when,” Paul said, “is that how we’ve seen things?”
“It’s the way things are, Paul. The truth of the situation is that I will have to tolerate whatever you decide,” she hissed, daring him to agree with her, to lord this fact over her. This uneditable shift in her greatest friendship would be easier if he proved he’d been a wanker all along.
“The truth? It’s not the truth of anything,” he all but sneered. “It’s the bloody law, maybe, but I’d like to think that by now, we are not in the habit of confusing the two.”
“Easy for you to say.”
Before he could gather up another highly-reasonable-sounding rebuttal, she whipped around toward to the counter without any idea what she was going to do when she got there. Fortunately, Dr. Clarke’s letter peered up at her. A perfect distraction. A perfect way out of this conversation.
“Dr. Clarke has had a change of heart regarding Vanessa’s case,” Jo said, waving the letter around before jotting the doctor’s address on a bit of scratch paper. “You ought to contact her and set something up. In the meantime, I agree to nothing. I don’t want anyone else moving into my home, not even someone I admire as deeply as Miss Garcia. She values her independence, and so do I. If you want to shake that up, Paul, you’re welcome to do so at any time. Say what you want about truth, but the law says it’s in your hands, and that’s something you’re just going to have to face.”
She passed the address to him with a final-enough glare that he rolled his eyes and tipped his hat.
“I wish you wouldn’t do this,” he said. He put up a single finger between them, glaring irritably around it. “Don’t mistake me; we’ve been together long enough that I’m not surprised you’re doing it. But I wish you wouldn’t.”
He left, peering with the barest trace of caution up and down the street for pursuers as he did.
Jo returned to Dr. Clarke’s letter. All of a sudden, the rejection she’d planned was less appealing. She felt sickened by what was happening between her and Paul. Perhaps a bit of time with a doctor—a pretty, intelligent, and sharp-tongued doctor at that—was just what she needed.
As for a cordial meeting between the two of us, I don’t think I find myself surprisingly open to the idea. As for a place to meet...
Her sapphic club, Miss Withers’s Orchid and Pearl Society House, was the obvious place. She had a standing invitation to bring friends along to its prettily decorated parlors anytime. As different as Jo and Dr. Clarke were from each other, the doctor was actually not so different from Miss Withers and some of the other women in the society. It was part of her...well, not appeal of course; she was far too prim to be appealing to anyone, but it was part of what made Jo more convinced that friendliness between them might be worth exploring. She’d probably fit right in.
But Jo wasn’t sure she wanted Dr. Clarke to fit in. She’d enjoyed seeing her tightly bound edges fraying on the staircase. In fact, the more she thought on it, the more she felt that the whole point of seeing Dr. Clarke again was to inspire that unraveling once more. To see her off-balance, warm, human, and uncomfortable.
That’s how Jo felt all the time now, after all. With everything so unstable around her, she liked the notion of going where she would have feet firmly on the ground, while her company wobbled a bit.
As for a location, I humbly suggest The Curious Fox. Mr. F—is very capable of arranging a cordial meeting and I trust him to handle the details admirably.
Most sincerely,
Miss Jo
She could see it now. Prim and perfect Dr. Clarke muddying her shoes up in the alleyways, wrinkling her pretty nose at the smell of cigar smoke and incense, shielding her innocent eyes from the Grecian-style artwork. If anything would shake her balance up while letting Jo sit comfortably in her own, it was The Curious Fox. They’d have to go off-hours, of course—the political situation was too dire to let outsiders see faces they could not unsee—but David Forester trusted the doctor well enough that he’d set up a little daytime chat for them. And the more she emphasized the “setting up” of it all, the more enthusiastic he’d be.
And the more embarrassed Dr. Clarke would find herself. More flustered. More interesting.
It was only as she was folding the letter up with a little grin at the mischief she was making, that Jo realized she’d signed the thing without a full name: just Miss Jo. She considered adding the surname by which the doctor knew her, the one she used for the convenience of it when first names wouldn’t do. Jo Smith was technically the name she went by. She’d at least had a bit of say when choosing that surname, but it meant little to her, and who knew how much longer she’d be using it anyway? Was it really any better than Paul’s original Shanahan or her father’s O’Donnell? Surnames were certainly a matter of luck. Not to be trusted.
So she left well enough alone, improper though it was. It was satisfyingly different from Dr. Clarke’s complicated sign-off, and undoubtedly more polite than the photo of her bum would have been, anyway.