Chapter 25
Olivia’s first reaction was to wake her sisters and make a thorough search, but she’d barely made it to the door before she
stopped, took three, long shuddering breaths. She wasn’t being rational. She probably just hadn’t straightened up since . . .
since Max had left that last time.
Last. She wouldn’t see him again, not after the way they had parted. She’d let him walk out. Because she couldn’t make herself
admit that she was afraid of being a burden. Her father had entrusted the family and the business to her, though she knew
he was loath to do it. She did the best she could, but she was going to fail as sure as her eyesight dimmed.
Sometimes she resented the responsibility when Daphne and Celia were sniping at each other, when Daphne was dreaming about
marrying and getting away, when Celia took that filthy bag and sneaked away, even now that Olivia knew it was for a worthy
cause. God help her, she resented having to be the one responsible for their lives—resented them.
And she dreaded more than anything that one day she would have to quit her work—even now the pittance of commissions she called work—and have to be taken care of.
She didn’t want that life for Max. She didn’t want to see his love turn to resentment, as it surely would.
She wouldn’t tie him to that future, no more than she would tie the girls to hers.
She would let them go and hire someone to run the store; when she could no longer work, she would find a companion or go to one of those places for . . . She swallowed.
She must be losing her mind. She stepped back inside the workshop. Looked around. Max had pushed the stool back in anger before
he left. She must not have replaced it. She really didn’t remember what happened next. He was there . . . so close, his fingers
on her temples, competent, sensitive. And then he was gone, catching the rung of the stool with his foot and nearly upsetting
it.
She hadn’t righted it, just stood there while he walked away. She could have stopped him with a word, a gesture. But she’d
stood there. It was hopeless. It was over.
She returned to the workbench. She didn’t need to wake the girls, to make a search of the building. They wouldn’t find anyone
there, only fragments of their spinster sister’s past.
Up and down Book Row, business resumed as usual, just as Mr. Kirsch had said it would. Only Celia hadn’t resumed any semblance
of normal life. She jumped at every unusual sound, shrank back when the door opened, and had to force a smile to greet the
customers who entered.
“You’ll get over it,” Joshua told her. “Or else you’ll quit and soon forget about it altogether.”
That made her scowl at him. Did he think she was that shallow? A coward? A lightweight? Did he think . . . Maybe she was,
but she couldn’t live in this no-man’s-land of discomfort.
On Saturday she took her knitting bag, thoroughly brushed and spot-cleaned from its trip to the jail, and struck off for her post-hearing morning rounds.
She intended to go into the church garden, but when she arrived, she hesitated, then turned away. Tomorrow, maybe. Or the
next day. When she felt stronger. Then she would sit in the garden, and life would return to the way it had been.
There was a crowd around the newsstand that morning.
She’d almost passed by, too embarrassed to face them quite yet, but Mr. Bender and Mr. Schulte caught sight of her and greeted
her enthusiastically.
“Miss Celia, you’re just in time.”
The crowd parted as everyone turned around. Celia forced herself not to shrink away. They’re your friends and colleagues, she reminded herself. And they came to stand by you at the court.
“Listen to the news,” Mr. Stammer said, holding up the morning edition of the Sun. “‘A rumor was heard yesterday that Anthony Comstock, founder and mainstay of the Society for the Suppression of Vice, would
not be a United States Post Office Inspector after June 30 . . .’”
Was it possible? Celia wondered.
“‘When asked about the reports, Comstock replied that it was news to him and that he would be unable to make any other statement.’
Guess they caught him off guard.”
That encouraged a resounding cheer from the others.
“It’s just rumor.”
“True,” Mr. Stammer said, folding the paper. “But there’s a good chance it’s true.”
“We’ll have to wait and see,” Mr. Bender added rationally. “Let’s not breathe easy yet.”
They agreed and turned to the more pressing news of the war in Europe. Celia left them to it, and hurried to her other errands. She didn’t think she would ever breathe easy again.
Mr. Krause and Mrs. Franchetti both beamed at her and sent her on her way. Mr. Henderson was going through his throwaway box,
and Celia began to think she might feel normal again after all.
Back at the Arcadia, Daphne took the meat and bread without a frown or complaint, and Celia noticed how different the shop
was looking. Daphne had made great progress with the new look, a term she’d learned from a book by Elsie de Wolfe, the former actress turned interior designer. It certainly was making
the Arcadia more welcoming. Though Olivia, she learned, had nixed Daphne’s idea of painting the walls white.
She was surprised not to see Max Lienhardt. He’d been haunting the place lately, to the point that Celia and Daphne had begun
to have “expectations” about him and their sister.
“You mean it was just about those poems?” Daphne said in disgust when Celia brought up his absence that afternoon.
Celia could only shrug and hope it wasn’t her tarnished reputation that had frightened him away.
She was more concerned that Joshua Starling was also absent. She’d seen him for only a brief moment right after the hearing,
which as far as she knew he hadn’t attended.
Had he given up his attempt to restore the Sappho to the museum? And where did that leave the Applebaums? With a stolen manuscript
that could still send them to jail. With or without the presence of Anthony Comstock.
Something had to be done. If she didn’t hear from Joshua by Monday . . . or Tuesday . . . Maybe next Wednesday, she would
confess to Mr. Kirsch, throw herself on his mercy and ask him to return it.
But why would Joshua just disappear like that? He had to be hatching a plan.
On Sunday, instead of doing the normally scheduled inventory, Olivia treated them to ice cream in Union Square, where they
watched a puppet show, and it felt almost like they were kids again.
“We should be doing this more,” Olivia said. “In fact, we’re going to. There are going to be some changes made.”
Celia and Daphne exchanged looks. Daphne’s clearly an expression of an anticipated announcement of nuptials between Olivia
and the Met’s rare-books expert. But Celia didn’t think Olivia looked like a soon-to-be bride, blushing or otherwise. Her
face was drawn, there were dark moons beneath her eyes, and she’d tossed her ice cream in the trash before she’d even reached
the cone.
Whatever the changes she hinted at, it was not about her own happiness, present or future.
On Monday the rumor became a reality. Celia was coming out of the church garden, where she’d forced herself to make a quick
visit, when a larger crowd than usual was gathered around the newsstand.
She hurried over to see, hoping they weren’t at war.
“He’s hitting back with everything he’s got,” said Mr. Stammer. “Damned busybody. Claims he’s been a victim of a conspiracy
to put him out of public service.”
“Hogwash. He’s insulted and infuriated the people at the top one too many times. And one of them is right here. Hats off to
you, Miss Celia.”
Celia shook her head; she hadn’t done anything but get arrested.
“And that he has proof.”
“Oh, double hogwash,” Mr. Bender added.
“No, listen to this. . . . ‘I am a victim of a conspiracy that had its conception among government officials in the Federal
Court Building.’”
“A conspiracy? What a crock. The only conspiracy was the one he created and carried out by himself and his hired thugs. Good
riddance.”
“Wait. It gets even better. He says he’s investigating something highly important that will have ‘appalling results.’” He
shook the Times he held. “This guy just doesn’t let up. In the next paragraph he complains about all the money he’s lost serving the post
office. That he could have been a millionaire, and the rest is just malarkey. Brags about all the arrests he’s made, and the
smut he’s confiscated. The man certainly has a good opinion of himself.” He folded the paper.
“What a blowhard. Good riddance. But don’t forget he’s still employed by the society.”
“Yeah, but I hear they’ve soured on his strong-arm tactics. They’ll be curtailing his powers, mark my words. I have it on
good authority they have his replacement waiting in the wings, so to speak. His days are numbered.”
“Can’t happen fast enough. We deserve a little peace and quiet and good sales around here.”
By the evening editions, their hopes were proved true.
Mr. Henderson burst into the store, then stopped to look around and catch his breath. He held up the afternoon edition of
the Tribune.
“It’s official,” he huffed.
Celia slipped the paper from his hand and spread it out on the counter. Daphne and two of the regulars, Mr. Estes and Mr. Rutkowski, crowded around to see the headlines. “Comstock’s Rule in Vice Society Near Overthrow: Loss of Post Office Job Forerunner of Complete Retirement.”
Celia looked over her shoulder to Mr. Henderson, who had recovered his breath.
“It says right here, ‘Already he has been stripped of most of his power at the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice,
the financial management has been shifted to the shoulders of another, and the actual work of the society placed in the hands
of John S. Sumner.’” Mr. Henderson tapped on the paragraph. “It’ll take them time to get organized, but surely this new guy,
Sumner, won’t be the lunatic that Comstock was.”
The door opened, and everyone froze, as if they’d conjured up the old morality man just by mentioning his name, but Yannis,
his father, and Mr. Kirsch entered.
“Did you hear? They’re replacing Comstock at the SSV,” Mr. Kirsch said triumphantly.
“Got the Tribune article right here,” answered Mr. Henderson.
The newcomers added themselves to the group.
“He says it’s a conspiracy,” Mr. Teller said. “To these people, everything is a conspiracy.”
“Not in America, Mr. Teller,” Mr. Kirsch said. “The district attorney’s office has already dismissed his charges as ridiculous.
We have law and order here. Every now and then, some crackpot steps out of line. But we know what to do with him. Just sometimes
takes longer than is comfortable.
“Anthony Comstock made his bed, now he can sleep in it.”
“But this really burns me.” Mr. Henderson pulled the paper closer. “‘With the passing of Comstock, one of the most extensive collections of pornographic matter in the world will be destroyed. Until now occupied in two rooms on Nassau Street.’ I wonder how many works of art are there.”
“He probably burned all those, just to keep the smut for his own entertainment,” said Mr. Estes.
“Ladies are present,” Mr. Henderson reminded him.
Mr. Estes mumbled, “Pardon,” but got in a parting, “But it’s true,” before he wandered back to rummage through the newly created
“Northwest Passage” shelf.
Both customers and booksellers went about the rest of their day with lighter hearts. Books that hadn’t been banned but were
possible targets of the overzealous morality man were brought out and displayed. Windows were updated; advertisements announced
the return of the classics that hadn’t been seen in the windows for years.
Up and down the avenue, booksellers dusted off their stock and breathed a collective sigh of relief. It was a breath too soon.