12. Two Strangers, One Bookshop
Chapter Twelve
Two Strangers, One Bookshop
Henry Sotheran & Co., Little Tower Street, London
Darkness had already descended over London when Catherine took her leave of the Temple of the Muses, rushed to her town coach, and gave the driver instructions to take her to Little Tower Street.
Nervous and annoyed with the weather—a drizzly snow had been falling all day, and fog would no doubt follow—Catherine entered the bookshop mentioned on the note she had received from Mrs. Dove-Lyon and quietly closed the door behind her.
Try as she might to prevent the bell at the top from tinkling, it still gave away her arrival.
Stripping her damp gloves from her hands, her gaze darted to the large, mullioned window where a number of rare books were on display, as was an older gentleman ensconced in an upholstered chair reading by the dim light from a candle lamp.
When she heard his soft snore, she realized he wasn’t reading—he was sound asleep.
For a moment, she worried this man might be him, the one Mrs. Dove-Lyon claimed would meet her in the shop. A quick glance at the book held in his lap showed it had a dark-brown leather cover, though, and she audibly sighed with relief.
She was to look for a man carrying Dante’s Divine Comedy bound in bright-red leather.
Inhaling deeply, she immediately relaxed as the scents of vellum and vanilla wafted past her nostrils. There were other familiar scents, too. A hint of mildew overpowered by leather and something citrusy that might have been lime.
She lifted her hands to her hat, glad she had elected to wear one with small silk flowers and not the one that was meant to match her carriage gown. The feather in it would have appeared bedraggled given the damp.
Stuffing her gloves into a pocket before placing her umbrella in the stand near the door, she listened intently for any hint of movement in the shop. The vibration of footfalls in the floor beneath her feet confirmed she wasn’t the only one awake in the shop.
A quick glance down one aisle showed a well-dressed gentleman perusing book titles while he flexed and fisted a leather-gloved hand. When he noticed her, he dipped his head in her direction but quickly turned his attention back to the bookshelf.
She noticed he didn’t carry a red leather book.
Although it had been some time since her last visit to the rare books shop, Catherine remembered there was a reading room somewhere near the back.
She made her way down the only other aisle in the shop, her attention occasionally caught by a title or a glint of gold or silver foiling in the candlelight from an overhead chandelier.
Even though Mr. Sotheran sold mostly bound books, he did have old folios for sale as well, and because those were displayed on racks above the tall shelves, they required a ladder to access them.
With her gaze on several folios—the light was too dim to easily determine their titles—she nearly collided with another patron.
“Oh, pardon me,” she said, stepping back.
“It is I who should ask for pardon,” he claimed. “There is simply too much to see in these small bookshops.” When his gaze went to her face, he said, “It’s you,” as if he recognized her.
Catherine’s eyes widened when she saw he was holding the red leather-bound copy of Divine Comedy.
But how did he know what to look for when meeting her?
She didn’t waste time wondering and instead quickly dropped a curtsy. “Good evening, sir,” she said. When she straightened, he reached for her hand and brushed his lips over the back of it, their warmth welcome against her chilled skin.
The moment his head was bowed allowed her to determine his hair was dark—very nearly black—and given how the ends rested on his cravat, perhaps a bit longer than was the current fashion.
She had a thought to use her free hand to smooth it over his head in an effort to discover if his hair was as silky as it appeared.
“You are Miss Kingston?” He kept his voice low, the timbre of it sending little shock waves through her. With her pulse pounding so hard in her ears, she barely heard the man’s query.
“I am, but I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, sir.”
His eyes rounded. “Oh. Uh… Higby,” he stated, as if he was having trouble remembering his own name. “Matthew Higby.”
“It’s very good to meet you, Mr. Higby,” she said. She considered offering her right hand but thought better of it given he had just kissed the back of it.
“You as well. I… I thank you for coming out in this awful weather,” he murmured, before waving to a doorway. “If you’d like, it’s warmer back there in the reading room, and there are chairs.”
She nodded and made her way into the room he indicated.
Set up much like a small parlor, it featured a fireplace that was blessedly burning wood rather than coal.
On the opposite wall was a bookshelf nearly full of books that had probably come from someone’s library, given how they were matched in both size and binding. All of them displayed foiled spines.
There were no settees in the reading room, but several tasteful upholstered chairs surrounded an old Turkish carpet with small side tables set with candle lamps. Although the chairs appeared well used, none were threadbare.
Mr. Higby waited until she was seated before he took the adjacent chair, which gave Catherine a moment to study his features by the light from the fireplace.
He was taller than she, but only by an inch or so, and his middle didn’t display the rounded belly of those who lived a life of leisure.
His hands didn’t appear callused, although there was a hint of an ink stain on one of his fingers when he tugged down his topcoat.
Before she could discern more, he announced, “I’ve never done anything like this before. ”
She tittered, her nervousness dissipating when she realized his nerves must be just as bad as hers. “Nor have I.”
“Is your lady’s maid out there somewhere? I would hate for your reputation to suffer should anyone see us… a… alone,” he stammered with worry.
“I did not bring her, sir. I am of an age where it’s no longer necessary, nor am I of the opinion anyone would find it advantageous to kidnap me for ransom,” she explained.
She watched carefully for his reaction. If he thought to marry her for her money, she wanted to make it clear she didn’t have a lot of it.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon had been right, though, in supposing her father would pay a man willing to marry her more than the amount she could get from him directly.
“I would think you, with your red hair, would be quite a prize,” he countered.
Catherine felt the heat of a blush warm her cheeks. “If that’s a compliment—”
“It is. You’re quite comely,” he said.
Blinking, Catherine straightened in her chair. “Thank you,” she replied. “Might I ask what you were expecting?”
He chuckled softly, and she noticed how he, too, seemed suddenly embarrassed.
“Truth be told, I had no idea what to expect, so my imagination has conjured all manner of older women with buns so tight, their faces are distorted, wearing black gowns covering every inch of their bodies, and their chins showing the beginnings of beards,” he replied, grinning.
“Oh, dear. Spoken as if you have read a great deal or spent too much time in the company of older widows,” she remarked.
“Oh, I am guilty of the former, my lady,” he confirmed. “Reading is my passion, I suppose. Perhaps my Achilles’ heel as well.”
Catherine gave a start. “Achilles’ heel?” she repeated. “But, why?”
He visibly sobered. “I cannot claim a desire to read for the sake of learning, for I prefer to read novels. I tend to escape into a book when the news is bad. Which it has been ever since my father died.”
She gave a start. “I am sorry for your loss,” she offered.
Mr. Higby seemed to think better of what he was about to say.
“My father was a gambler. I am not,” he stated.
“So having learned he was in debt when he left this mortal coil had me rather angry at him. I was able to pay off some of the vowels—the debt markers,” he explained, “but then Mother Nature decided to play an awful trick on those of us who make our livings off the land.”
“Leaving you once again in debt,” Catherine finished for him.
“Indeed,” he agreed.
They sat in companionable silence for a moment before Catherine asked, “Would you tell me why it is you are seeking a librarian to be your wife?”
Mr. Higby visibly brightened. “Who else would I seek?” he countered.
Taken aback, Catherine said, “You’re a landowner.
You’re handsome, and much younger than I was expecting.
You could probably gain invitations to the Little Season entertainments here in London.
Find a wealthy young lady in the Marriage Mart,” she grinned as she waggled her brows, “Maybe even a daughter of the aristocracy,” she added with excitement.
“You think me handsome?”
Catherine opened her mouth and quickly closed it, once again feeling the heat of a blush color her cheeks.
Of all the suggestions she had just mentioned, she was shocked he would remember that particular compliment.
“I am quite sure I am not alone in that assessment, Mr. Higby, and I rather doubt you were unaware of it.”
He leaned forward in his chair and placed his elbows on his knees. “I probably should marry a blue blood,” he murmured thoughtfully.
The way he made the claim had Catherine on alert. “Should?” she repeated.
He nodded. “I don’t want to, though. I rather doubt there is one who is as learned as you. Who has read as many books as you have. Probably more even than me.”
For a moment, Catherine wondered how much Mrs. Dove-Lyon had shared with the gentleman. “What makes you believe I’m as voracious a reader as you?” she asked.
“You are the daughter of the man who owns Kingston Publishing, are you not?”
So the matchmaker had told him everything.
“I am. I suppose you learned that from Mrs. Dove-Lyon?”