Chapter 16
Celia lay in bed listening for Olivia’s return, not deep enough into sleep to actually dream, but enough that images appeared
and transformed behind her eyelids. Shadows becoming faces, changing from a man in a top hat to a woman with a high chignon,
a smiling child melting into several faces of strangers, as she drifted in and out of fits of nightmare. All the time listening
for her sister’s return. She awoke with a start late the next morning to discover Daphne’s bed already made up and no sign
of her usually slowpoke sister.
The apartment was eerily quiet. The faint aroma of coffee told her it had been made and drunk long ago. The clock on the bedside
table proved it. Late but not too late to get downstairs in time to put the carts outside and to see if someone had tried
to contact her.
She threw back the covers, but when she tried to sit up, every bone and joint in her body protested. And then she remembered.
Lord, she’d been attacked in the courtyard last night.
She eased herself to her feet, limped over to inspect herself in the vanity mirror.
A quick examination showed a scraped elbow and knee where she’d hit the pavement.
Hopefully nothing that showed would give her away.
Thank heaven for that. She’d have to tell her sisters eventually.
They might be at risk, too. Not that they ever went out the back except to take out the trash. And that job fell mostly to Celia.
She eased herself across the hall to the bathroom, wondering what would have happened if Joshua Starling hadn’t shown up when
he did. Celia, as it turned out, was singularly unfit for back-alley brawling.
A closer look in the bathroom mirror showed that her face had survived unscathed. The only telltale sign of her late night
was the puffiness beneath her eyes. They would have to do. There was no time to place cucumber slices on them. She managed
to dress in record time, in spite of her general stiffness.
Today, she took the elevator downstairs. She didn’t stop at the third floor to see if Olivia had heeded her advice or had
worked through the night and lay slumped at her desk in sleep. Part of her didn’t want to know. She would just go on as if
today was the same as all the others. But here, too, she was caught by surprise.
Daphne had not only preceded her downstairs, but was balanced precariously on a stepladder in front of one of the ceiling-high
bookcases as she struggled to hammer a piece of white cardboard to the wood.
Several ornamentally lettered signs had already been tacked to the ends of each bookcase, labeling the subject of the books
it held: “Science,” “Mathematics,” “Classics,” “Adventure/Travel.”
So that was what she’d been doing last night.
“Does Olivia know you’re doing this?”
Daphne let out a squeak, and, for a moment, Celia was afraid she might fall. Unfortunately, there was no handsome young man to save her and sweep her away to a better life. Celia bit her tongue. She’d just been saved by a handsome-enough man last night. And it was no joking matter.
“Oh, you startled me!”
“Sorry,” Celia said. “I’m just not sure she would approve.”
Daphne glowered down at Celia. “Well, she did. And she does. She thought it was a great idea. And she gave me carte blanche
to do what I thought best.”
Celia rather doubted that. But it was a nice idea. Unfortunately, they weren’t all completely level.
“Then lift that side a bit before you attach it,” Celia said.
Daphne looked at the sign she was still holding in place with one hand. “It’s impossible to tell if it’s straight or not without
climbing up and down a million times.”
“Let me get the carts out, and I’ll help.”
“You will?”
“Sure.” Her penance for getting her whole family tied up in some nefarious situation that was quickly slipping out of her
control.
Daphne climbed down from the ladder and stood surveying her accomplishment, while Celia pushed the two carts out to the sidewalk
and carried in the throwaway box. It was fairly full this morning, and she had a hard time hoisting it to the counter. She
quickly looked through it for a cookbook but found none, and she felt an inordinate disappointment. One raid and they were
thrown off completely. There were other groups that were still working. Surely they would at least have suggestions, offer
help. There needed to be better communication than this.
If the Henry Street Settlement House could grow from one building to a whole block, Celia and her team could at least get their one little cog in the machine to work smoothly. She separated the books into “Keep,” “Trash,” and “Return to the Box,” then went to help Daphne with her signs.
Customers came and went, still stopping to ask the sisters to direct them to the areas that were now clearly denoted by the
new signage.
Daphne was visibly downcast by her lack of success. “I don’t think they even noticed.”
“Patience,” said Celia. “They will. You just have to retrain them.”
“You sound just like Olivia.”
“Gee, thanks. But in this case, I agree. Have you seen her this morning?”
“No, she was already gone when I got up.”
Or had never come upstairs at all. Surely she didn’t intend to keep the poems. That would really be a crime—a real crime.
As far as she knew, there was no “finders keepers,” according to the New York legal code.
But she had to admit the few lines Olivia had read to her were beautiful. What could possibly be “obscene, licentious, and
lewd” about poetry? Stupid question. The so-called Suppression of Vice didn’t have anything to do with keeping pornography
from the mail and everything to do with Anthony Comstock’s ulterior motives, whatever they were.
By the time Daphne installed the last of the signs, it was past lunchtime.
“I’m going out for a paper,” Celia announced.
“Don’t take long. I’m starving.”
“Sure.” Celia grabbed her knitting bag, which had gained a few more stains during her courtyard encounter.
Her first stop was the Tellers’ shop. Mr. Teller was at the counter, but she could hear the press running in the back room.
After a brief exchange of pleasantries and a wink from Mr. Teller, he buzzed the printing room. “Miss Applebaum to see you.”
A minute later Yannis appeared at the door. “Oh,” he said, his smile melting into a worried frown. “What’s up?”
He’d been thinking—hoping—it was Daphne, and my news will only be more of a disappointment. But she had no choice.
She glanced around to make sure the shop was empty, then quickly relayed the basic facts of the burglar and her narrow escape.
“What do you think he was after?” Yannis asked.
“I’ve no idea.” Though she did, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t flyers on birth control. “But you and your father should
be extra careful.”
“Of course. But you’d better use the front door from now on.”
“So we’re still printing?”
Yannis glanced at his father, who had moved to the far side of the room and was beaming contentedly at the two of them.
“Of course. We’ll just have to adjust.” His mouth quirked. “You know, my father has some pretty clever ideas.”
“Ah, another Teller joins the shop?”
“Maybe. But Celia, what did Olivia and Daphne say about the burglar? Are they okay? Are they frightened?”
“I haven’t told them. Just that I thought I heard something.”
“You must tell them.”
“How can I without explaining what we do? No, it’s too dangerous.”
“Celia, family is the most precious thing you have; your sisters need to know so they can protect themselves. You don’t have
to explain. But they have to be alerted. Promise me.”
She promised, but felt resentful that she always seemed to be the one who was being checked, no matter what she did, like the final moves before checkmate. Not a good analogy. She had no intentions of losing.
She left and hurried to the church garden in hope that some kind of message or material had been left for her there. But found
nothing in either of their usual places. Disappointed, she returned to the street and stopped at the newsstand. Since it was
lunchtime, it was getting a lot of trade.
Though there was not a bookseller in sight, which meant no gossip. She snagged a Times and a Sun and managed to arrive back at the shop out of breath, but with ten minutes left to eat her sandwich.
As soon as she returned to the floor, Daphne, who had been standing at the window, announced she, too, was going out. “I’m
in dire need of a root beer,” Daphne said. “I’m absolutely parched. Want me to bring you one?”
“Yes, please.”
Daphne grabbed her purse and was out the door before Celia could suggest she stop by Yannis’s just to see how they were doing.
Shaking her head, Celia took her newspapers to the stool behind the counter and searched for any news of Margaret’s whereabouts,
her unpublished manuscript’s whereabouts, and the status of the other item which she dared not think about aloud.
News of the war, the baseball scores, an update on the reparations Germany was supposed to make for sinking the Lusitania. She turned the pages, scanning quickly, but found no mention of Margaret or her unpublished manuscript. Or the theft of
any ancient poetry.
The front door opened, and she stashed the paper under the counter, only to see Daphne flounce through the door.
However, she was accompanied by Joshua Starling, carrying several thick sheets of cardboard under one arm and a bag of what had to be art supplies, if the paint brushes sticking out of the top were any indication.
“Look who I ran into,” Daphne chirped.
Celia pushed her newspaper farther under the counter. Mr. Starling was the last person she wanted to see today. She hadn’t
said a word to her family. And she didn’t want him upsetting things.
She aimed a smile in his direction. “Mr. Starling.”
“Miss Applebaum.” He nodded back, quite seriously, except for the twinkle in his eyes that she had noticed the first time
she’d seen him.
Daphne was bubbling. “Mr. Starling was kind enough to see me home.”