Chapter 2
Daphne was still put out—and out of breath—when she reached the fourth floor. Why did she have to do all the work? Especially
when she had only four chapters to go in the latest Montgomery novel, Anne of the Island. Olivia didn’t even give Celia a scold for shirking her duty. Too busy getting ready for Mr. Delereux. Ew. Well, thank you,
but no thank you.
Olivia could have him. He did buy things now and then. But Daphne was sure he mainly came for the coffee and Turkish delight
Olivia always served.
Olivia generally wouldn’t let any food or drink within miles of her precious rarities. Everything had to be handled with white
gloves. But she made an exception in Mr. Delereux’s case. He was a “good” customer, good enough that Olivia didn’t mind offering
tea and sweets after showing him a priceless volume even if she had to brush off a little powdered sugar when he left. Daphne
was just glad she didn’t have to do it.
Mr. Delereux reminded her of Mr. Snodgrass from The Pickwick Papers.
Just silly. And a very rich art connoisseur, Olivia would always remind her.
Well, Daphne hoped he bought The Decameron today.
It made her nervous just knowing it was in the shop.
It had been banned for ages, though Daphne didn’t see what the fuss was about.
She had no idea what else was locked away in Papa’s secret safe.
She just wanted it all gone. And Mr. Delereux, too.
She fiddled with the bow of her apron. It had worked itself into an impossible knot. That’s what happened when you did something
in anger. She tried to be nice, she really did, but it was sometimes impossible. Now she would be forced to go back downstairs
and ask Celia to help her with it. It was so lowering, and what if a customer saw her like this, dressed like a common stock
boy? Why did these things always happen to her?
Celia shirked her duties, went off all over the place, and she didn’t get knots in her apron. Even if she did, she wouldn’t
care. Celia wouldn’t mind spending all day in a musty old apron; she didn’t care how she looked. She didn’t care if anyone
liked her. But most everyone did anyway.
Tears pricked in Daphne’s eyes. Her life was passing by without her, stuck in the bookshop, talking to people who only came
for books.
She was going to end up just like Olivia, already twenty-four, almost twenty-five, with no prospect of ever marrying. Just
getting older and older and never having a life of her own.
Daphne sank down on her bed, in a room she had to share with Celia because they’d closed their parents’ room up like it was
a mausoleum. It wasn’t. They were buried in Green-Wood Cemetery with a host of other Applebaums. Daphne wanted to be buried
in Père-Lachaise in Paris. But not yet. First she wanted to have a life outside of books. Ideally in Paris.
Why were all the rich clients too old, too silly, too prudish, or too pompous?
Why couldn’t they be handsome and rich but not averse to loving a poor girl from the bookshop like in the dime novels they kept in the “cheap” boxes in the back of the shop.
Daphne’s manners were just as fine as any Fifth Avenue debutante.
She’d studied every etiquette book that came through the store—she even practiced walking with books on her head.
Books, books, books. She sniffed again, reminded herself that debutantes didn’t sniff. And swore never to do it again.
Maybe today would be the day when something wonderful happened. Mr. Delereux would leave, and a young handsome art connoisseur
would enter. Handsome and rich, who only had eyes for her, instead of the usual young men, mainly clerks on their lunch break,
who came in looking for a bargain.
Some were quite nice, but Daphne didn’t think she’d be happy as a clerk’s wife. The only other young man she knew was Yannis
from the printshop next door. He was nice enough looking and polite, even kind of brooding, with his dark hair and eyes, but
they’d known each other for donkey’s years. Besides, he always had printer’s ink on his hands.
She would be happy with someone like Mr. Darcy. If he had come into the shop, she would have recognized his good qualities right away, unlike Lizzy Bennet. Of course, if Lizzy
had liked him right away, there wouldn’t have been much of a story. And it was a great story.
Resigned, Daphne dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her apron. Rubbing them would make them red and puffy. She rearranged
the curls around her face and gave herself an encouraging smile.
Maybe if she stuck the points of the scissors in the knot, she wouldn’t have to demean herself by asking Celia for help.
She twisted the apron around so that the knot was in front.
Worked the scissor points in between the sashes.
After a few moments, the knot began to loosen, and finally the ends fell free.
Then, feeling very self-sufficient, she pinched her cheeks, plumped her skirts, and went downstairs to do the same things she did every day of her life except Sunday.
As soon as both sisters were gone, Celia slid the bookmark out of her pocket, checked the numbers handwritten on the back,
and tore it into tiny pieces before returning them to her pocket. Then, making sure no one had entered the store in the last
two minutes, she carried her knitting bag to the very back of the store to the reference section, knelt down, and pulled three
volumes of the OED off the bottom shelf. She pressed the corner of a plank on the bottom of the shelf, and it lifted with a quiet snick.
Keeping one eye on the front of the aisle, she dumped the contents of her knitting bag into the secret compartment. Then she
replaced the wooden section, slid the OED volumes back into place, and carried her knitting bag back to the front counter, where she could watch the store until Daphne
overcame her delicate feelings and decided to come down and wait on some customers.
As she sat at the counter waiting for the first arrivals, Celia began to think she might have been overreacting to the things Margaret had said that morning.
There was no reason to believe they would be raided.
Their shop had been visited only a few times in the years since their father’s death.
She supposed the authorities assumed that, as three young women, they could be dismissed as the purveyors of smut.
Except Comstock was a misogynist. And women’s punishments were severe—more severe than those for men.
With Margaret’s flight, Comstock would be looking for others on whom to wreak his revenge.
At least Margaret would be safe to continue her work.
Celia smiled. She outfoxed you again, you silly old man.
Celia was considering taking a feather duster to the window display, when the first customers of the day entered; three law
clerks interested in used textbooks. Celia directed them to the legal section in a far corner of the narrow showroom. All
the better-quality volumes were upstairs, but these fellows didn’t look like they could afford a Nick Carter dime novel between
them.
Daphne came down the stairs just as the three young men were preparing to leave, bookless. But when they caught sight of Daphne
and her flounces wafting down the stairs; they made a U-turn in unison, a move that the Follies would be proud of. They spent
another fifteen minutes looking at tome after tome and probably couldn’t name one title they had seen.
Celia rolled her eyes and grabbed her duster.
She was on her second row of shelves when she heard the elevator begin its descent, returning Olivia and Mr. Delereux to the
salesroom. She couldn’t tell from where she stood if there had been a sale or not, so she crossed her fingers and feather
duster behind her back and went to see.
Neither of them was holding a wrapped package the size of a rare book, or anything else, for that matter, though Mr. Delereux
had a fine dusting of powdered sugar down his vest.
Celia let out a sigh of disappointment.
Mr. Delereux tipped his hat and shoved it on his head, then left.
Olivia smiled and nodded, but as soon as she shut the door behind him, she turned back to Celia and Daphne. “He tried to bargain
me down.” The glint in her eye was well known to her sisters; they instinctively moved a little closer to one another.
“We’d already negotiated; I’d even added in a small discount because he was a frequent customer.
Ugh. He actually offered to ‘take it off my hands,’ as if cheating me was a way of helping me out.
” Olivia assumed the prissy stance of Mr. Delereux, something she had a knack for but rarely used.
And never for fun. “It must be so stressful for you to carry such a weight and unfair for you to be placed in the vulnerable position of having it in your possession, through no fault of your own.” Olivia sniffed indignantly. “As if Papa were a common thief.”
“Or pornographer,” agreed Celia, who got a harsh glare for her trouble.
“That odious tightwad. If it weren’t such a singular volume, I would have bashed him over the head with it.”
“Guess there won’t be roast beef for Sunday dinner,” Celia said under her breath to Daphne. Daphne sighed. “Or new dresses
or shoes for summer.”
“That was the last Turkish delight Mr. Delereux will enjoy at the Arcadia.”
“I’ll gladly take it off the grocery list,” Celia said. “There will be other buyers.”
“Undoubtedly,” Olivia agreed. “But I would like to have it off our hands.”
Both sisters nodded. Beautifully crafted with exceptional block-cut illustrations, The Decameron had been banned in the States since 1873.
The Applebaum sisters tried not to deal in questionable material, but art was art. Literature was literature. And even Celia
recognized a rarity when she saw it.
“I wish Papa had sold it before he died,” said Daphne.