Chapter 22
Celia braced herself for what could only be more disastrous news. They’d all been so infatuated with Joshua Starling, albeit
for different reasons, that it had escaped their notice that he’d been spying on them all this time.
“Was I really careless?”
“No, not at all, just overly imaginative.” He smiled, obviously amused. “Maybe more than was necessarily called for, but I
for one appreciate your effort.”
“So you knew what I was doing?”
“Not entirely, until the night in the alley.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose.” She frowned. “So that wasn’t just a coincidence?”
He shook his head. “Not entirely. We’ve been watching the shop for a while now.”
“A while? How long? Why?”
He gave her a look that said he wasn’t amused. “You have a stolen item in your possession. Or in the building somewhere.” He held up a preemptive hand. “Don’t deny
it. If you don’t have it, then we’re all ‘up the creek,’ as Mr. Kirsch so quaintly put it.”
“Mr. Kirsch knows?” she blurted, then realized she’d just admitted they did have the stolen manuscript. “Will my sisters go to jail, too?”
“No one is going to jail, except the thieves and possibly the buyer, though I doubt it.”
“If you knew we had it, why didn’t you explain the situation? It’s been nothing but trouble since it landed in our throwaway
box.”
His eyebrows rose. “How so?”
She shrugged. “We didn’t know who to return it to, and Olivia was . . . uh, trying to follow the provenance, but it’s going
nowhere.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake, tell her to stop.”
If only it was that easy, thought Celia.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
He tilted his head, eyeing her curiously. “The pull of literature and art can be enormous; it makes people act out of their
normal character. It leads men to steal for profit or for possession. Think of it. To own a piece of art but never be able
to share it without announcing your infamy. An onus of desire.”
Celia shuddered. Olivia was already obsessed with the poetry fragments. Celia feared that she might do something reckless
if forced to give them up.
He leaned back, releasing her from that awful revelation.
“The authorities are determined to catch this guy, but they have to wait until he’s in possession of the, uh, item. We think
he’s responsible for several big heists out of the museum. We had information that the sale was going to happen, and everyone
was in place, until Comstock decided to arrest that postcard seller and all hell broke out.” He flinched. “Pardon—”
“No need, it was hell. And still is to us. Are you a policeman?”
“Good heavens, no. I’m an investigator; I trace lost or stolen books, prints, manuscripts, and the occasional illustration. I was only staying around until after the arrest to identify the item as property of the British Museum and arrange for its return. It’s been a cock-up from the day I docked.”
“Why can’t you just take it back? All you have to do is prove it belongs to you.”
“It doesn’t belong to me. And, quite frankly, that’s an international sticky wicket that I don’t care to get involved in.
My responsibility is to return it to the British Museum. Legally.”
“Some things can’t be done legally.”
He sighed. “Like your Mrs. Sanger. She will eventually have to pay for that.” He held up his fork, preempting her argument.
“Right or wrong, it’s a choice she’s made. Comstock flaunts the law; it’s an abuse of power. Unfortunately, honest investigators
have to work within the boundaries of legality.”
Celia had broken the law many times, just not on the night she was arrested. What did that make her?
“What if the laws are wrong?”
“Then . . . what did Dickens say? The law is an ass.”
That startled a laugh out of her. “Mr. Bumble in Oliver Twist. That’s no help.”
“It’s a choice that you’ll have to make. But I think college sounds like an excellent alternative and more far-reaching and
longer-lasting in the end—for you. But that’s something for another discussion. Right now, you are going home to explain to
your sisters about your work with Margaret Sanger . . . unless they already know?”
“No.” At least she hoped not. She put her fork down and realized that she’d polished off the plate of food without knowing it. She pushed the plate away. “Unless . . .” She thought about Daphne’s curiosity about the bookmark, the questions about Yannis, the morning she followed Celia to the church.
He leaned forward. “Unless what?”
“Daphne betrayed me. She’s been suspicious lately. She saw a note; she couldn’t read it because it was in code. . . .” She
winced. It did seem a bit overly romantic at the moment. “I think she followed me the other morning.”
“Then by all means, tell them. Get the mutual suspicion out of the way. Though I think your betrayer is more likely the thief,
or one of his associates, who saw a chance of getting you away from the shop while Olivia was at the auction, and you became
a pawn. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was an attempted break-in while everyone was out.”
“He’s following us that closely? Oh no! My sisters!” Celia pushed her chair back.
“They won’t succeed. And your sisters have friends who took them home and probably are still with them.” He frowned at her.
“But very well, let’s go see for ourselves.”
“But why was she arrested?” Olivia asked aloud as she paced from the window to the sofa, where Daphne had curled up against
the arm. It was at least the tenth time she’d asked since Mr. Krause and Mr. Henderson had left over two hours ago.
“I don’t know,” Daphne said, biting her knuckle to keep from going mad. “I didn’t know the last time you asked. I still don’t
know now.”
Olivia turned back. “You didn’t inadvertently tell anyone about the poems, did you?”
“Me? I’m not the one who sneaks around making assignations in coded words. I’m not the one forever being late to open and going off to nonexistent knitting groups at night.
“I don’t know what she does, so how could I give her away?”
Olivia stopped midstride. Turned around. “Oh, Daphne, I didn’t mean that. I—I’m just so worried.”
“Well, it’s your own fault. Yours and Celia’s. I’m the one who wanted you to put that package back. If anyone had listened
to me, none of this would have happened. We could have turned them in to the police, but you refused to do that, too. We could
have burned them.
“I don’t see what the fuss is about anyway. I found some of the poems in a little book in the basement. There’s nothing pornographic
about them. Though we don’t know what’s in the ones you have because you won’t let us see them. So how could I tell anyone
anything about what I don’t know?
“And even if I did, do you really think I’d betray my own sister?”
Olivia’s expression fractured, and she hurried over to her. “Oh, Daphne, I didn’t mean that. I’m so, so sorry.”
Daphne knew she was about to hug her and apologize. But she was in no mood for apologies. Or hugs. She was in a mood to be
angry and hurt, but most of all she was scared. “I’ll clear the tea things.” She slid away from Olivia and began collecting
the cups left by Mr. Henderson and Mr. Krause.
For all the things she did that she didn’t get credit for, the things that everyone thought were her fault, she’d never been
accused of being a traitor. So what if everyone thought she was shallow and selfish. Maybe she was. What else did she have?
A dream that was quickly fading away with each year she grew older.
She plunked a teacup down on the tray. “And another thing. I’ve done all that work trying to make the store more profitable,
and you haven’t even noticed. You’re so consumed with whatever you’re doing with that man, Max—” She stopped, one hand on
the tea tray, as a horrible thought occurred to her. “Did you tell him about the poems? Did you show them to him?”
“Max would never tell anyone about the poems.”
“Really? You’ve got a lot of nerve. Trusting a stranger more than your own sisters.”
“Max isn’t a stranger.”
Any other time that statement would have piqued Daphne’s curiosity. But not tonight. She was too hurt, humiliated, and downright
spitting mad that she would be accused of something so odious to care about a mysterious man suddenly appearing in Olivia’s
life.
Daphne picked up the tea tray. If anybody should feel guilty, it was Celia or Olivia. They were obviously doing things that
they were keeping hidden from Daphne. She was the only one doing any of the work around here lately. Celia didn’t even seem
to be around even when she was standing right next to them. The only thing Olivia had even said was to nix the idea of selling
the useless overstock until Olivia priced them. The way she squinted at everything, Daphne bet she wouldn’t even be able to
tell if they were good or not.
Olivia dropped onto the sofa, hanging her head. “It wasn’t Max, but I’ve been so unkind, so uncaring, to both my sisters.
Can you forgive me?”
The tea tray rattled in Daphne’s hands and she quickly put it down.
It landed on the table like a clap of thunder.
What was she thinking? Her younger sister had been arrested.
Her older one was losing her sight and asking for her, Daphne’s, forgiveness.
It should be the other way around. She was the most selfish person in the world.
If Celia went to jail, who would take care of them, take care of Olivia when Olivia couldn’t care for herself. It would be
left to Daphne to be her companion.
She wanted to be a dutiful sister. But she didn’t know how to take care of things. She wanted her own future. Even if it had
no castles, no princes, not even a Mr. Darcy. But a life that was all hers.
Was that asking too much? Was she being shallow and selfish to wish for something all her own? She wanted to run downstairs,
out the door, and away—anywhere, away and away and away. But she didn’t even have a place to run. All her places were in the
books downstairs. Even Union Square, a mere two blocks north, was like a foreign land, and the department store, two blocks
south, was like a castle from a fairy tale.
Her life was lived in other people’s stories. There would be no happy ending for her, just, eventually, an ending.
She turned to see Olivia looking at her, her expression one of loss, and Daphne’s heart shattered. Taking any hope for her
future with it.
Celia didn’t question why there was a car waiting for them as they left the café.
She’d suddenly started to shake. Not from cold—maybe from the coffee, or maybe from the sheer immensity of what had happened to her.
Her joints were stiff, and she hoped she hadn’t contracted some disease from her few hours incarcerated with those poor women.
The women who wouldn’t be going home to a warm bed tonight or any night, probably even when they weren’t in jail. She must
have cried out a bit, because Joshua asked if she were all right.
She merely nodded. She wasn’t all right. She’d tried to work for good, but had brought shame on her family instead. Because
she was certain that by now all of Book Row knew that Celia Applebaum had been arrested for distributing pornography.
The streets were empty for the most part, and the sedan sped along, the buildings passing in a blur through the window. All
the people who lived in those buildings needed adequate health care, especially the women and children. What was pornographic
about that?
They were counting on Margaret and those like her to make things happen because they couldn’t. Well, Celia wouldn’t let them
down. Even if she had to go to jail. But the mere thought made her want to throw the car door open and flee down the street.
Joshua patted her hand, then let it rest on hers as if he’d read her thoughts and was making sure he could prevent her escape.
When the car let them off in front of the Arcadia a few minutes later, she didn’t even question the window boarded over with
plywood.
Joshua Startling had expected as much.
The front door opened before they even reached it, and Yannis’s tense face appeared like a shadow beneath his unruly hair.
“Thank God,” he said, and opened the door more fully to let them in.
“What happened?” asked Celia, though she was pretty sure she already knew.
“An attempted break-in—some passing students scared them away.”
Celia glanced back at Joshua. A tic in the corner of his mouth claimed those students as his “people.”
Yannis looked her over. “I can’t believe they did this to you. How did it happen? Olivia and Daphne have been beside themselves.”
“I’m not even sure,” Celia said, suddenly very tired and dreading the confrontation to come.
“You better get upstairs. But don’t you worry. I’m staying here all night to make sure no one attempts this again.”
“Good man,” said Joshua. “I’ll see her upstairs; when I come back down, you can give me a fuller account.”
Yannis looked as if he might argue but finally nodded.
Joshua had to push her into the elevator, and they rode up to the fourth floor, side by side, Celia’s shoulder touching the
linen of his jacket; and wishing she could rest her head there.
The car clanked to a stop all too soon, and Joshua steered her out onto the landing and the door to the apartment.
But once she stepped out, her feet froze to the floorboards.
She looked back.
He reached past her and knocked.
Celia heard the rustle as her sisters rushed to answer it. The door flew open, and they both started talking at once.
“Thank God you’re home,” Olivia said.
“I didn’t tell on you, no matter what Olivia thinks,” said Daphne.
“It doesn’t matter, she’s home. And first thing tomorrow, we’ll get rid of those poems. I never should have insisted on keeping them.”
“It does matter. I didn’t do it,” repeated Daphne.
Celia took a breath and stepped over the threshold. “It wasn’t about the poems. I have something I need to tell you.”
Joshua Starling quietly shut the door.