6. One Proposal, Three Pounds
Chapter Six
One Proposal, Three Pounds
Catherine stood in front of the one-hundred-and-forty-foot-wide facade of the bookshop known as the Temple of the Muses and read the plaque over the entrance.
Cheapest Bookstore in the World.
Another sign claimed:
Two Hundred Thousand Volumes upon an Average are constantly on Sale.
She had to grin, for there were some who claimed there were over a million volumes in stock.
The six-story building featured the largest collection of books for sale in London. If it had been a circulating library, it would surely be the most popular simply for its variety of books.
She knew exactly why it was so popular, for her own father had contributed to its success in a roundabout way.
Long ago, the original owner, James Lackington, had adopted a business model that had proven rather successful.
He stocked his store with remaindered books—the unsold stock of publishers’ print runs—and sold them at very low prices.
He’d also purchased entire libraries, then resold the individual used books at a hefty profit.
She had learned from her father that there were times Lackington had even published authors’ manuscripts so he could sell them exclusively at the shop.
How many of the those manuscripts had Cornelius Kingston declined to publish before they reached Lackington’s desk?
How many remaindered volumes from Kingston Publishing had been sold over the years?
Perhaps Lackington’s most effective business strategy was to accept only cash for transactions. He never extended credit, not even to aristocrats, and he refused to haggle. The price marked on the book was the final price.
With his death the year before, James had left the business to his third cousin, George Lackington.
Catherine entered the shop and paused a moment.
Despite having been there every week of her life since it had opened, she still thought of it as a shrine to books.
Besides the massive circular desk in the middle of the ground floor, there were antique paintings decorating the walls, and marble busts and classical knickknacks were displayed throughout the store.
A wide staircase led to lounging rooms, and beyond them, there were four floors featuring galleries of bookshelves. The higher the floor, the more tattered the books, which also meant they were cheaper in price.
At the moment, only men staffed the positions inside the circular desk, their jobs requiring them to write receipts, total the amounts due for each sale, and collect the cash payments.
Another man on the ground floor was charged with unpacking boxes of new books, adding a slip of paper with the price written on it inside each volume, and arranging the books for sale, either in bookshelves or in stacks atop caryatids.
Catherine knew from her many visits that there were such men on every floor, sometimes more than one, preparing books for sale. On the upper floors, the prices were written in ink on the back of the books, especially if they were used.
The only women she had ever seen working in the establishment were those who cleaned the lounging rooms or dusted the bookshelves.
“Back again so soon?”
Catherine gave a start at the appearance of a gentleman she recognized as one of the bookshop’s managers. “Mr. Allen, it’s so good to see you again. You’re just the person I was looking for,” she replied. She held out her right hand. “Miss Catherine Kingston.”
The stocky man bowed his head and displayed a look of surprise as he shook her hand. “It’s good to finally meet you. I see you here in the shop…”
“Every week,” she finished for him.
“Kingston,” he stated. “Are you a relation to the publisher, perhaps?”
About to answer in the affirmative, Catherine experienced a moment of spite. “Apparently not,” she replied. “However, I do love books. In fact, I am so familiar with your shop, I can find what I’m looking for in a matter of…” she waved a gloved hand, “half an hour,” she said.
A look of confusion crossed the man’s face. “Well, you could ask one of our clerks,” he suggested, indicating the four young men who staffed the circular desk.
“Oh, I do,” she replied. “However, if you were to employ me for the purpose of arranging your stock to make it easier for your customers to find what they’re looking for, they could do so within minutes.”
Mr. Allen furrowed his gray brows. “But… our customers tend to browse,” he countered. “They like to… to linger, and take time to read.”
“Not all of them,” she said. “Some do not have the luxury of time. They are here to find a book, buy it, and continue with their other errands. Some have jobs to which they must return,” she explained.
“And how much time is it taking for your employees who must fulfill the orders you receive from your catalogue for them to find the books?”
Glancing left and right, his face taking on a flush of red, Mr. Allen lowered his voice. “What exactly are you expecting, Miss…?”
“Kingston,” she said. “A position here at the shop, where my skills as a librarian can be used to… organize your volumes for efficiency.”
“A librarian?” he repeated. “Why aren’t you applying for a position at one of the circulating libraries?”
Catherine winced. “I will if I must,” she replied, thinking of at least three where her background in books would prove helpful.
For example, Noble’s in King Street, Covent Garden, catered to the middle class, their subscription price a half guinea per year or three shillings a quarter for books in both English and French.
She knew they purchased books as soon as they were published because they were a frequent customer of Kingston Publishing.
Hookham’s Circulating Library in New Bond Street was another possibility.
Their higher subscription rate of two guineas per year meant their clientele tended to be more upper class, though.
Their books were, too, since they lent and sold works in English, French, and Italian.
Catherine had often wondered if her father should look into having them do the bookbinding for Kingston since they offered the service to their customers.
Finally, there was Dutton’s Universal Circulating Library at 45 Gracechurch Street. Catherine had never actually been a patron of the concern, but she knew of some who not only borrowed Dutton’s books, but had purchased them as well.
“However, I would prefer to be employed here,” Catherine added, completing her answer to Mr. Allen’s query about why she hadn’t applied for a position at a circulating library. Her gaze on him unflinching, she said, “I am, after all, most familiar with this establishment.”
Mr. Allen once again furrowed his gray brows. “How exactly do you propose to arrange the shop?”
“First by subject, then in alphabetical order by the author’s last name,” she replied. “On each floor, of course, starting with…” she glanced around, realizing the first floor was the domain of new releases, “the second floor.”
He frowned. “We do have a semblance of order already,” he argued. “If we do it as you’re proposing, we’ll forever be moving books about to accommodate new acquisitions.”
“As you do now,” she replied, waving to where a young man was shoving a collection of books to one end of a shelf to make way for those he was unloading from a wooden crate.
“I would leave space for one or two books at the end of each shelf for new arrivals, and of course there would be voids created by the books that are sold,” she explained.
“Having just completed arranging my father’s entire library of over ten thousand volumes—”
“Ten thousand?” he repeated, scoffing. “That’s not even a… a…”
“A twentieth,” she supplied for him.
“A twentieth of what we have at any one time,” he claimed.
“But it’s a personal library of vast variety, like yours,” she replied. “The arrangement is…” she spread out her gloved hands, “scalable. Easily able to accommodate more volumes when necessary and shrink when a subject is no longer very popular.”
Mr. Allen huffed. “I suppose you’d wish to be paid,” he groused.
Catherine blinked, surprised he’d acquiesce so easily and offer payment, besides. “I would, of course. This is the most profitable bookseller in all of London. I am well aware Mr.
Lackington’s profits exceeded five thousand pounds a year when he was alive, and I have every expectation the current Mr. Lackington is doing at least as well.”
His eyes widening, Mr. Allen leaned toward her. “How is it you know of profits and such?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Not wishing to admit her relationship to her father, Catherine sighed. “Books are my business and have been my entire life, Mr. Allen,” she replied. “I am merely proposing to help make this bookshop even more profitable.”
He inhaled and let the breath out in huff. “Two pounds a week,” he stated.
She gasped. “I’ll take not less than three,” she countered, hoping she would be able to let a townhouse in a decent part of London. When he displayed a look of alarm, she added, “I happen to know you pay those gentlemen at the desk more than four pounds a week.”
“They handle the transactions,” he countered. “And they’re paid for their knowledge about books.”
“A knowledge I also possess,” she argued.
“In fact, should one of those gentlemen be unable to work one day, I could take their place for you.” Seeing he wasn’t convinced, she added, “Your customers of the female sex might prefer dealing with another female when making a purchase, and since you seem to have so many of them…” She glanced over to confirm that, indeed, every single customer currently at the circular desk was a woman. “It’s worth a try, wouldn’t you say?”
Mumbling something about women mucking up his day, Mr. Allen crossed his arms. “All right. Three pounds a week, but this is only a trial. A fortnight,” he stated. “You can start tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”
Catherine inhaled softly. “I’ll be here,” she said.
“You’ll need to wear gloves. And we don’t provide them.”
“I already have them,” she said, knowing he meant a pair of white cotton gloves for handling the more delicate volumes. “Thank you, Mr. Allen. You won’t regret this.” She held out her right hand, and he displayed a grimace before giving it a shake.
“See to it I don’t,” he replied.
She dipped a curtsy and took her leave of the shop.