Nine. Recalled to Life
Nine
Recalled to Life
Nelson Brothers and Co., June 1, 1865
Messrs. Nelson Brothers & Co.
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, U.S.A.
May 21, 1865
Gentlemen,
I was most grateful to learn of your possession of a first American edition of our dear “Emma.” The family was unaware of this foreign publication—certainly we have not received any compensation of note from your American publisher Mr. Carey. Mr. Dickens himself has brought attention here to the prevalence of such piracy abroad—a word I hesitate to use, having been involved in an altogether different kind! But such is the world of commerce, at which you surely excel, and I myself have avoided in favour of the sea.
It might interest you to know that Emma is my favorite of all the books, as well as that of my late younger brother Charles, who read our Sister’s own presentation copy threefold while on the high seas. Emma has long been considered by the family as an antidote to self-indulgent thoughts and a reminder of all that is great in English country life.
As I understand, your trade includes that of rare books and, as such, it feels serendipitous that you should have chosen to correspond with me at present. I have experienced a recent bout of illness, and this has put me in mind to settle some affairs. I wonder if your skills for appraisal might be available? I have certain objects in my possession which I am hesitant to introduce to the London market just yet, and which I seek to keep in the greatest of secrecy for the time being.
I would encourage you both to consider a visit this summer when passage will be most uneventful and secure. I understand the SS China, a remarkably competent American-made vessel, departs from Boston this coming June sixteenth. I would be happy to undertake payment in advance of your tickets and to arrange pleasant accommodation for your stay. Do consider what I know to be a rather odd, even impertinent, request. I can only promise, it will be worth your while.
Most respectfully and sincerely yours,
Francis W m Austen
The shop bell rang out, and Haslett Nelson instinctively tucked the letter inside the account ledger on the desk. Poking his head out the office doorway, he caught sight of Sara-Beth Gleason sweeping through the front vestibule to the shop. The young man prevaricated over what to do next: Sara-Beth was the most frequent customer of the Nelson brothers, although they doubted she read anything she bought. Haz sat back down at the desk, deciding to wait to be called. He knew he would be.
The rustle of expensive silk and cotton along the floorboards could be heard coming nearer, swish, swish, swish . Sara-Beth’s father was a powerful state senator and her mother socially ambitious, leaving nothing beyond their eldest daughter’s reach. The four younger Gleason daughters displayed nowhere near the nerve of Sara-Beth, who appeared to have used up everyone’s allocation like so much extra salt.
Every season, she received trunks of the latest clothing designs by Charles Worth, Royal Couturier to French Empress Eugenie. There were tailored outfits for morning, afternoon, tea, evening, the opera, balls, riding, travel, and even sleep: Sara-Beth lived a jam-packed life and needed the clothes for it. From his brief glance, Haz knew she was donned today in her special shopping outfit: an overcoat fashioned from tightly woven herringbone tweed, which gave her an interestingly masculine air, and a little feathered cap at the back of her head to suit her huntress spirit.
“Oh Mr. Nelson!”
Stepping into the corridor, Haz discovered Sara-Beth high up on the rolling ladder, perusing the shop’s small collection of books on equestrianism.
“Miss Gleason, please—do be careful!” he cried.
“You’ll catch me!” she happily called out. “Your eye is unerring!”
A slender volume from the top shelf now hurtled straight for the floor, and Haz dashed forward to grab it just in time.
“See?” Sara-Beth triumphantly said. She had been taunting him like this since their Sunday School days, when she had first set her cap at the older Nicholas, shy to a fault. Then one day Haz shot up in height to join his brother, and her acquisitive gaze turned on him.
Haz tucked the book under his arm. “Our insurance won’t cover you if you fall.” The Philadelphia Contributionship company, founded by Benjamin Franklin, extended coverage to the city’s property owners for damages caused by fire— not by the likes of Miss Sara-Beth. She beamed down at Haz from the ladder as if his words were an invitation to play. She was always willing to test her luck that way. He never responded to any of Miss Gleason’s advances, yet still she circled him like a shark.
Sara-Beth descended the rolling ladder and extended her hand well before his was within reach. Helping her down the last few steps, Haz caught the scent of vanilla in her French perfume and realized he was late for his lunch. He held the book out to her with his other hand, grateful to put something concrete between them.
“Thank you, Mr. Nelson. I shall take it.”
“Then I shall add it to your account.” Haz headed for the counter, which had been situated in the middle of the shop floor so that customers could easily be watched.
“You’re still not ready to leave Nicky to all this?” She waved one gloved hand about the book-lined walls as he wrapped her selection in brown paper. “Father thinks you the perfect specimen for political life.” Haz didn’t answer, but that was no hindrance to Sara-Beth. “You should discuss with him at Mary-Beth’s coming out in July—you did receive the invitation?” She tilted her head admiringly as he concentrated on tying an indigo-blue ribbon about the package. “Addressed to you and your brother as one, of course.”
“I’m afraid we must decline.” He was out with it before he could stop himself. “We’re to sail soon to London.”
Miss Gleason’s face fell, a rare sign of real emotion, but she quickly recovered. “I should love to return to Europe. But you are always here! I rely on it.”
“We’re hoping to make some needed acquisitions for the store abroad, and establish valuable connections.”
Sara-Beth brightened at the unusual note of ambition in his voice. “You are looking to the future, then? I like that. It’s as it should be.”
Except, of course, it wasn’t. It was a way to put an ocean between them, and Haz inwardly grimaced over how he would explain any of it to Nick once he had read the letter for himself.
“ Haz, we will not go all the way to England just to escape Miss Gleason.”
Nicholas Nelson sat with his brother in the parlor above the shop, reviewing the letter from Admiral Austen with its surprise invitation. Neither brother had ever traveled farther than the South, where Haz had skirted death near Sharpsburg and Nick took the bullet to his leg. Somewhere along the way, travel had lost much of its appeal.
Haz and Nick were part of the first generation of American men to be conscripted for war. The brothers could have hired a substitute in their place or paid three hundred dollars for an exemption to the draft. Their postwar existence felt equally conscripted: a daily life of carrying on the family business (their uncle and late father having founded Nelson Brothers and Co. in 1836), a life at night above the shop. The two men received their fair share of invitations from the Sara-Beths of the world, their guardian uncle having made sure to introduce them to society and enroll them in the best schools. Yet both men’s spirits remained stuck in the war—in fact, the war was actually still being fought on sea with one last gasp, as Confederate ships resorted to hiding out in British ports.
“But we will go?” As he said the words aloud, Haz felt something stir inside him— recalled , even, to life, like that famous line from A Tale of Two Cities . Ever since seeing muddy rivers full of floating dead during Sherman’s march, Haz had been content with regular buying trips to New York City. Manhattan was his Box Hill—now, like Austen’s Emma Woodhouse, he suddenly yearned for the sea. Perhaps a wider horizon was exactly what he and his brother needed.
Nick gave one of his slow, methodical nods.
“Your leg—you believe yourself up for it?”
Nick nodded again. “Thank you, Brother.”
“‘ I promise it will be worth your while.’” Haz beamed with excitement. “What do you suppose the admiral means by that?”
They ticked off all the possibilities together: letters, manuscripts, first editions, unknown works, a piece of jewelry or clothing that Jane once wore, a lock of hair. Whatever was physically left of her, Francis—the sole surviving sibling—might today be in possession of it all.
Neither brother could guess that Admiral Sir Francis Austen was in possession of an entirely different notion altogether.