4. No Position, One Proposition
Chapter Four
No Position, One Proposition
Catherine regarded the exterior of her father’s book publishing company and wrinkled her nose.
North of St. Paul’s Churchyard on Paternoster Row, the dingy house was one of many involved in the book trade.
Other houses in the neighborhood were home to bead makers and stationers, businesses that did well near a church.
“Is your father expecting you?” Eliza asked, her arm entwined with Catherine’s. The slightly older matron glanced back nervously, as if to ensure the Kingston town coach was still parked on the narrow lane, a continuation of the wider Union Street.
The odors of ink and paper, the faint scent of coffee from a nearby coffee house, and coal smoke combined to create an acrid smell in the chilly air.
“No, but I always stop if I’m in the area,” Catherine explained. “As you know, I am determined to learn as much about what goes on at Kingston Publishing as I can.” She led Eliza to the door and entered as if she owned the place.
She hoped someday she would.
Besides, she knew Eliza was anxious to wed again and had asked after her father’s situation on more than one occasion.
Cornelius Kingston had been a widower for nearly a decade, his wife and Catherine’s mother having died of a fever the year Catherine returned from completing her terms at a Swiss finishing school near Geneva.
If her father was in search of a new wife, he hadn’t made his intentions known to her, but she didn’t wish for Eliza to give up hope.
There were worse situations than having a friend as a stepmother.
Benjamin Silverton, her father’s secretary, greeted them with his usual smile despite the chaos surrounding his messy desk.
A young caddy—Catherine was fairly sure his name was Brian—wheeled a cart filled with crates of books past them, and she snagged one in a gloved hand.
She opened the chipboard cover and arched a brow before turning the book over to discover the binding had been applied upside down. “Oh, dear,” she murmured.
“The bookbinder made an error—”
“Ivy Lane?” Catherine guessed, knowing her father tended to the use the one closest to his business.
“In Ivy Lane, yes,” Benjamin said on a sigh. “They have already been made aware of the problem.”
Catherine scoffed as she shook her head. “If only they would employ people who knew how to read,” she said, “this wouldn’t happen.”
“Brian is taking them back now to have them redone,” Benjamin explained. “Should I tell Mr. Kingston you’re here, or—”
“I already know,” Cornelius announced from where he leaned against the door jamb of his office.
Catherine turned her attention to him and allowed a prim grin. His dark hair, shot with streaks of gray, was furrowed from where he had run his hand through it, probably in frustration. Otherwise his appearance was impeccable.
Clean shaven with an oval face and wide-set eyes, he bore a nose with the slightest of hooks at the end.
In harsh light, his cheekbones appeared as if they had been carved.
His topcoat, made from superfine, was navy blue, as were his breeches and stockings.
A yellow embroidered waistcoat and a white silk cravat completed his attire.
Although most men in his business would have forbade a woman from entering it, he didn’t seem to mind the interruption.
“Mrs. Buxton, so good to see you again,” Cornelius said, bowing to Eliza.
He took her gloved hand to his lips and brushed them over the back of her knuckles.
He held her hand longer than was necessary, which had Eliza displaying a pink blush.
Turning to Catherine, he said, “Ah, my daughter and favorite librarian!”
“How do you do, Papa?” She stood on tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek, a move she knew would surprise him.
Apparently nonplussed, he asked, “How was today’s literary society meeting?”
Having watched his rare display of formality with her best friend, Catherine arched a curious brow. Perhaps her father was finally considering courtship. “A bit more gossip than talk of books, I fear,” she replied. “But that tends to be the situation when Mrs. Peabody hosts us.”
“Any gossip you wish to share?” he asked, hope in his voice.
Catherine tittered. “Men are the worst when it comes to gossip,” she complained. “You’ve already read about it in that rag you have delivered every week.”
Chuckling, he crossed his arms. “What brings you to the office today?”
“As usual, I am after a position, Father. I wondered if you might have an opening for me,” she said.
She had made similar requests over the past decade, sure that if she nagged enough, her father would assign her something to do at the publishing company.
She had developed skills as a librarian by organizing the libraries of friends and, when their owners weren’t looking, reorganizing the shelves of bookshops.
Although most women her age were married with children, she had been away at school in Switzerland until she was nearly one-and-twenty.
Once she was back in London, the thought of a come-out ball had seemed wrong with her mother so sick.
By the time her mourning period had ended, she had become her father’s hostess for business dinners.
Courting for the purpose of marriage held little appeal when the world of books beckoned. Reading everything her father published as well as what she could find in his library at Kingston House meant she would never be satisfied merely running a household.
She was also quite happy to attend literary society meetings, where the discussions sometimes veered from books to politics and world events.
Cornelius shook his head. “What about my library at home? You were going to organize it.”
“I finished it, Father. Grouped by subject matter, and then alphabetized based on the author’s last name,” she replied. “I would have thought you noticed there were no longer any books stacked on the floor in the library.”
That particular project had taken far longer than she thought, given her father had over ten thousand volumes—some stored in crates—and she’d had to wait for construction to be complete before she could begin her work.
The result was well worth it, though, for now anyone would be able to find any book on any topic in a matter of seconds.
Cornelius gave a start before he stepped behind his desk, the surface stacked with manuscripts and contracts, a stained blotter, and several ink pots and pens.
“I probably would have noticed if I had been in there recently,” he said.
“I’ll take a look tonight. I appreciate you seeing to it.
” He waved to the two chairs in front of his desk and waited until the women were seated before taking his chair.
“I didn’t mind doing it a bit,” Catherine claimed, watching as Eliza settled into the chair next to hers. Her friend still displayed high color, and a quick glance at her father had her realizing he was openly admiring the woman. “I could do it for you here, too, if you’d like.”
Cornelius leaned back in his chair. “Mr. Silverton has already seen to it, my dear.”
Catherine sighed her disappointment. “Perhaps you have something else I could do? You know I could spend every waking hour around books if I were given the chance.”
From the time she had been a young girl, Catherine had loved books.
The smell of ink and vellum, vanilla, and leather.
The feel of a cloth binding against her hand as she read the book.
The look of them lined up on a library shelf.
When it came time to choose which chipboard-clad books deserved a leather binding, she argued their merits, and her father usually agreed.
Books were their very best when lined up in a bookshop, their bindings unbroken and begging to be chosen.
She had already been to Hatchett’s earlier that week to peruse the new offerings, and following their literary society meeting at Mrs. Peabody’s house, she and Eliza had spent an hour shopping at the Temple of the Muses in Finsbury Square.
Remaindered books were the latter’s specialty, and because remaindered books were less expensive than the newly released titles, the Temple of the Muses had the reputation of being the cheapest bookseller in London.
“Do you have a position for me here?” she prompted.
Cornelius tore his appreciative gaze from Eliza. “I have nothing for you, my dear,” he replied.
Visibly disappointed, Catherine sighed. “Is it my lack of experience? Because I’m willing to start at the very bottom.
” She glanced out of his office to see Brian wheeling another cart of books towards the back door.
“Even Brian’s position, should you wish to promote him, or I could load the sorts into the type case form for the press,” she suggested, referring to the movable type required for letterpress printing.
She had watched the process being done on a number of occasions, soon realizing one had to think backward when loading the forms.
“It’s not for lack of experience, I assure you,” he replied. “But I’ll not have you working anywhere near a printing press. It’s dirty and dangerous work. Your beautiful hands would be permanently stained with ink.”
Catherine glanced down at her gloved hands. “I could read manuscripts,” she offered.
“I already have someone—several someones—who do that,” he countered. “They’ve worked here for years, darling.”
Disappointed, Catherine nodded. “Well, thank you for seeing me. Will you be home for dinner?”
He shook his head, his attention briefly going to Eliza. “I’m going to a pub and then to my club. I won’t be home too late, though. I have meetings all day tomorrow.”
Catherine nodded. “I’ll let the cook know,” she said. She stood and gave Eliza a beseeching glance as the matron joined her at the door.
“It’s very good to see you again, Mrs. Buxton,” Cornelius said, bowing.
“Oh, do call me Eliza,” she said, giving him a curtsy. “It’s so good to see you, too, sir.”