Chapter 10 #2
Only when the door closed behind him did Daphne whirl around and make a face at Celia, who emerged from the hallway.
“He is the most ridiculous man I have ever met,” said Celia.
“Like Mr. Snodgrass,” said Daphne, and she collapsed into the nearest reading chair, dissolving into giggles. “Do you think
she’ll ever sell it to him?”
“When a certain very hot place freezes over,” Celia said.
The door opened. Daphne sprang to her feet and turned to meet the customer who was fortunately not Mr. Delereux returning.
“Ah, Mrs. Cooperton,” Daphne said, fully in control of herself. “How nice to see you again. Did your nephew enjoy . . .”
Celia took the opportunity to have a second cup of coffee.
Helping Mrs. Cooperton was always a full-time endeavor, but today Daphne welcomed it. It took her mind off the manuscript
hidden upstairs, Mr. Delereux who refused to be snubbed, and her life plans, which were on hold. Mrs. Cooperton never bought
on a whim. And she always bought new, but never before asking questions about every recently acquired new book on the shelves;
Daphne never became impatient. She didn’t mind talking about books; it gave her something to do.
Today, it also helped stave off the chills of fear or dread that assailed her whenever she wasn’t actively thinking of something
else. Like what if Olivia hadn’t locked their discovery away. What if Mr. Delereux had insisted on seeing her and discovered
her leaning over a stolen book that was pornographic on top of it?
Olivia had said she was going to lock it away, but Daphne had seen that glint in her sister’s eye. Olivia was a sucker for old, creepy books. She might be up there this very minute poring over every salacious word.
Daphne used to think Olivia’s interest in old books was just to get their father’s attention. But now she realized that Olivia’s
interest was a real passion. Ugh. Daphne would save her passion for her husband, thank you very much. If she ever met anyone
who was suitable . . . but not too suitable. Someone dashing, with a bit of adventure about him, but who came home at nights,
not drunk, and not smelling of someone else’s perfume, like some husbands she’d read about.
She was surrounded by potential suitors . . . hidden within the pages of the books that lined the shelves of the Arcadia,
and she was beginning to steel herself for never getting any closer to the real thing than the touch of paper against her
fingertips as she turned the page.
“Are you getting in The Lost Prince by Francis Hodgson Burnett?” Mrs. Cooperton asked as the volumes stacked up on the counter.
“I’m sure we will,” Daphne said, though she had no idea if Olivia had ordered it. Sometimes it seemed like Olivia was the
real owner of the shop, with Daphne and Celia just employees. Olivia made all the big decisions. Well, to be fair, she asked
for their opinions, but Daphne wasn’t sure she actually listened to what they were saying. She would tell Olivia to add The Lost Prince to the order list.
Mrs. Cooperton was holding another three novels in her arms. “I want to make sure I have plenty to read during our stay at
our Tuxedo house. We’ll be there through hunting season.
“What do you think of The Primrose Ring?” She held up the book and bobbled the others she was holding; Daphne quickly took them from her and placed them on the counter.
“It’s kind of sad, but it’s also very romantic, and it has a happy ending.”
“I’ll take it. My husband used to make fun of my reading, but really sometimes I just need to get away from the everydayness
of every day.”
Daphne nodded. She’d just been thinking the same thing. But Mrs. Cooperton had a husband, and children, and grandchildren. Daphne couldn’t imagine wanting to get away from all that.
She arranged to have Mrs. Cooperton’s purchases delivered, and the lady went on her way. “Just a few trifles from Wanamaker’s,”
she said and bustled out of the store.
Daphne wondered why she didn’t just buy her books there, though perhaps Wanamaker’s didn’t have the selection that the Arcadia
did. The few times Daphne had time to visit the grand department store, she most certainly didn’t look for books.
The morning passed fairly quickly. The shop was busy, and Daphne made some nice sales, in spite of the fact that a number
of people who stopped in were other store owners who had come to get the details of the postcard seller’s arrest, which the
sisters had had the benefit of witnessing firsthand and from the comfort of the store side of the bow window. Just like being
at the picture show, Daphne would say. She didn’t mention that they all had been petrified. Well, at least she had been.
It wasn’t until the afternoon that foot traffic slowed.
Celia was in the office working on some figures for Olivia, and Daphne found herself pacing aimlessly through the stacks, rearranging books with half a mind and trying to stave off the worry that had been kept at bay while she’d been busy with customers.
She hated having to hide the most expensive books; some of them were quite beautiful. She didn’t care about how rare a book
was, just if the story was good. But “Olivia’s books,” as she’d come to think of them over the years, kept the shop afloat
and put food on the table and new dresses in their wardrobe, as Olivia often reminded them.
Daphne had just run her fingers along the spines of the row of new books and was about to repeat the mindless activity with
the other side of the row when the front door opened. She quickly brushed off her hands and turned to greet the customer.
It was just like she’d stepped into the pages of Lochinvar. He stopped just inside the door. . . . Tall, well dressed . . . to remove his stylish hat . . . a straight nose, and smile . . . the lighting was too dim to see his eyes. . . .
Not a regular customer. She would have remembered.
Daphne stepped out of the shadows and glided toward him, reminding herself of her posture and resisting the urge to pat her
hair as she went.
Her “good afternoon” sounded friendly and professional.
He looked in her direction, and she wanted to sing “good afternoon” to him. He was handsome, even up close, with grayish-blue
eyes, dark blond hair, or perhaps light brown—yes, golden, like wheat at harvest.
“Good afternoon.” And his voice . . . Daphne sighed. An accent. He was English.
“Am I addressing Miss Olivia Applebaum?”
Daphne’s happily-ever-after bubble burst.
“No, I’m Daphne, but perhaps I could help you?”
“Well,” he said, looking around, “I’m actually interested in antiquarian volumes. I was speaking with Mr. Kirsch from across
the street yesterday, and he thought your sister might have some things of interest.”
Her flight of fancy fled, and anxiety came back in a storm of nerves.
“I don’t have an appointment,” he added apologetically.
“Uh, I don’t know. I’ll have to ask. If you could wait here. Uh. Have a seat.” There was no seat. Mr. Estes, one of their
regulars, had pulled the only chair near the window to see better, and it was now filled with books that had been perused
but not reshelved. “I’ll just call up to her office . . . to see if she’s available.”
She whisked away and made a beeline for the small office in the front corner.
Celia looked up from her accounts.
“There’s a man out there. He’s interested in antiquarian books.” Her throat felt like it might close up. She leaned close
to Celia’s ear. “He wants to talk to Olivia.”
“Tall, nice suit?”
Daphne nodded. “And the dreamiest eyes.”
“I think I met him yesterday.”
“He’s the same antiquarian dealer you were talking to at Mr. Kirsch’s?” Daphne sighed, only now in disappointment. “Oh.” Why
was she always the last to have anything different happen, and she wasn’t even the youngest. “I told him I’d call up and ask.”
Celia stood. “I’ll just say hello while you’re about it.”
“Wait, what if he’s after the . . . you-know-what?”
“Shh, forget there is a you-know-what.”
“But—”
“No buts. Just think of the nice new dress you can have if he buys something.”
“Ohhh.” Daphne felt like she might be sick.
“Stop it.” Celia turned to go.
“Wait!”
“Now what?”
“I forgot to ask his name.”
“Joshua,” Celia said. “Joshua Starling, like the bird.” She hesitated. “And Daphne, be very discreet. Understand?”
Of course she understood. And where did Miss Youngest Sister get the idea she could boss Daphne around? Daphne could be as
discreet as everyone else. She waited as Celia walked unhurriedly out of the office, then stamped her foot and buzzed Olivia’s
office.
Celia walked calmly across the salesroom, determined not to primp, fluff, or straighten her skirts on her way to meet Mr.
Starling. He was a potential client, after all. Perhaps. They would not know until Olivia either agreed to see him or put
him off to another day.
Mr. Starling greeted her, then looked around as if he was pleased by what he saw. He asked about the various sections of books,
and the number of floors the shop occupied, all couched in polite interest. But if the words he spoke were mere commonplace,
his eyes held a keen look of observation, as if what he was seeing mattered.
So Celia smiled and chatted on about the “Americana” section and the extensive “Nature” section and everything from lawbooks to detective stories, and she watched him peruse his surroundings.
They were standing in front of the home decorating shelves when Jane Addams jumped from a shelf behind them and landed with a heavy thud, startling them both.
Then Mr. Starling leaned over and stroked the encroaching Jane, setting off a rumbling purr and a couple of head butts against
his immaculate trouser leg, before she flopped on her back at his feet to have her belly rubbed.
“Jane!” Celia admonished, hoping he wasn’t a thief or a black-market privateer. Jane didn’t usually fawn at customers’ feet.
He stood. “Her name is Jane?”
“Yes, after Jane Addams, the—”
“Sociologist, suffragist, and founder of Hull House in Chicago.”