Chapter 14 #3
“Here’s an idea.” Cassie leaned in, lips tight.
“You could say that we’re in this together, you, Billy, me.
And that until we find the portal and are safely through to the other side—at which point you can do whatever the hell you want, come back and live this total fantasy life, in this totally retro place, with all your little cosplay friends—until then, your number one goal is getting us back.
And mostly me, your sister.” Her lower lip began to quiver. “To the real fucking Bloomingdale’s!”
“You’re right. It was selfish of me. Of course we’re in this together.”
“Good. Okay. Let’s go get Billy.” Cassie looked toward Wakefield Green, where Billy stood gabbing with Fanny and Althea.
“He seriously better not be flirting with those girls. Can we just stay on task, people?”
Annabel was looking past her into a store window. “Oh my god. This is Bunty’s shop . . .”
“Who’s Bunty?”
Annabel was already pushing through the door, a bell jingling overhead.
Cassie followed her inside and found her sister standing, agog.
The vast room was the same two stories high, same tall arched windows, but it looked brand-new.
The bookshelves all the way to the ceiling teemed with leather-bound volumes in every color.
The cupola’s dome was framed with books, too, and under it, customers lined up at the round wooden counter waiting to purchase their items from shop clerks.
Small groups of well-dressed Wakefielders gathered around various display tables, assisted by other clerks offering advice, pointing out the newest arrivals. It was a thriving booktopia.
“Smell that,” said Annabel, reveling in it. “Real books.”
“I don’t see a writing desk,” said Cassie. “Why are we here?”
“Someone here will know where to find one.”
Cassie pointed to a man standing on a tall rolling ladder, handing books down to a customer. “Him. Dead ringer for that Sotheby’s guy? I bet he’ll know.”
“Okay, we’ll ask. But we should browse a bit, peruse. We don’t want to seem too anxious.”
“Annabel, this is as anxious as I’ve ever been in my life. Off the charts.”
“I know. But all the more reason. Just come with me.”
Annabel took her by the hand and led her to a table stacked with new books, a few displayed on small giltwood stands. “Act natural. Like we’re shopping.”
“For books?” Cassie said, as if a somewhat foreign idea.
“Just do what I do.” Annabel casually picked up the book closest to her. She turned it to read the gold title on the leather spine. And gasped.
“Mansfield Park . . .”
“We are not doing this again,” said Cassie.
“But it’s another real book. By. Jane. Austen.”
“That is the rumor,” said the proprietor, now upon them.
He was a birdlike man with a finger to his beak, as if they should keep it hush-hush.
“Her family prefer it not mentioned, of course.” He slipped the book from Annabel’s hands.
“Shall I wrap it for you?” He winked at her. “Discreetly, of course.”
Cassie plucked the volume from the bookseller’s hand, to Annabel’s chagrin.
“We’re not here for books,” she said. “We were actually wondering if you knew where we might find the biggest possible selection of writing desks.” She put on her drawl and a self-assured smile. “Hepplewhite ones.”
Annabel screwed up her brow and looked at Cassie. “Or not a Hepplewhite?”
“But probably Hepplewhite,” said Cassie, overriding her.
“Ah, you must be the Misses Blake, from America.”
“I’m the elder, she’s the younger,” Cassie said, as if asserting her authority in the matter.
“Well, Hepplewhite or no, everyone who is anyone has retreated north or south for the season, and all the best London shops are closed. Which is where one would find a Hepplewhite. Or any other kind of desk, for that matter.”
“Oh, that is too bad,” said Annabel, provoking a death stare from her sister.
A female customer cleared her throat two display tables away, loud enough to be heard. They turned to see a tall bonnet spouting white plumes and the skirts of a lilac dress. The woman was turned slightly away, face obscured behind an open book.
“Will you ladies excuse me for one moment?” said the bookseller, snatching the leather-bound book back from Cassie and sashaying off to attend to the woman in lilac.
Annabel watched the book go with a sigh.
“‘Oh, that is too bad’?” said Cassie, mimicking her sister.
Annabel snapped to, a fresh worried look on her face. She lowered her voice to a whisper.
“Cassie . . . we’re not exactly ‘everyone who is anyone.’”
“We’re acting. Like you said.”
Annabel ran a gloved finger across her brow. “But I hadn’t thought about how we’d pay for a desk. Much less a Hepplewhite.”
“We charge it!” said Cassie.
“Well, we can live on our good name for a while, but eventually, we have to pay!”
“So? We’ll be long gone by then!”
The sisters’ whispering had escalated. Annabel’s eyes darted around in hopes no one could hear them. The proprietor had moved on from the woman in lilac, still incognito behind her book.
“This better not be about that D’Evercy guy,” said Cassie.
“Look, I admit I like it here. And he seems to like me here. No one’s more surprised than I am.”
Cassie pursed her lips, trying to contain her frustration, but her voice moved a register higher.
“Annabel. You have wanted to live in this world since, well, forever. Wanting to be a novelist since you were like six? All those years fantasizing and writing about some perfect guy who everyone knows doesn’t actually exist, and now thinking you’ve actually found him, in Regency England!”
Annabel tilted her head, unsure. “I guess. When you say it that way . . .”
“Listen to your elder sister,” said Cassie, but there was something plaintive in it. “Can we just find the writing desk and go home. Please?”
“Of course,” said Annabel. “We’ll find the desk. We will.”
Cassie looked down, when another book caught her eye.
She picked it up, the slim volume, shiny brown calfskin, title stamped in gleaming gold: Ladies’ Fashions, 1815.
She gasped and dropped it on the floor with a thud.
Which was the moment Harriet Lackington swooped in, plumed bonnet and swishing skirts. She held the book out to Cassie.
“Miss Blake,” she said, dripping with faux sincerity. “I believe you dropped this.”
Annabel shot Cassie a wary glance.
“Thank you.” Cassie took the book and fumbled to place it back where she found it.
Harriet turned to Annabel. “And the other Miss Blake. How lovely you both are this morning.”
“Miss Lackington,” said Annabel, doing her best to act composed.
“I see you’ve found our little bookshop.”
“Your little bookshop?” Cassie said.
“Well, a very small replica of our shop in London, where we have one hundred thousand volumes in stock.”
“One hundred thousand?” said Annabel, impressed.
Harriet pointed to a large portrait on the wall of a middle-aged man in a white wig. “My great grandfather, Edgar Lackington. Clever man realized that if he refused to sell on credit, he could lower prices. Made a fortune selling ‘the cheapest books in the world.’”
“No credit?” said Cassie.
“None at all,” said Harriet, smiling like a hot sun.
She turned her fiery gaze to Annabel and lowered her voice.
“However, given that I couldn’t help overhearing, it might interest you to know that we have, over the years, developed relations with a good many publishers.
” She snapped open her French reticule and pulled out a calling card.
“And it so happens I’ve just met a Mr. Bickles on my last trip to town, publisher of the new Lady’s Weekly.
A brave experiment, indeed. I’m given to understand he is quite keen to uncover new talent.
” She handed the card to Annabel. “Who knows? Perhaps our next great novelist.”
Annabel looked at the card, then at Harriet. Maybe she’d misread her. “Thank you, Miss Lackington.”
“Funny, since we’re talking about writing,” said Cassie, taking her shot. “We happen to be in somewhat desperate need of a desk.”
Annabel had to admire her sister’s one-track mind.
“Yes, I’m afraid I heard mention of that as well,” said Harriet.
“And it so happens that Mother and I have, shall I say, overindulged on our last shopping spree in town, and now find ourselves with a surfeit of desks, in fact, one in particular that is of no use to us at all.” She looked from one sister to the other. “As it turns out, a Hepplewhite.”
Cassie brightened considerably. “An actual Hepplewhite?”
“Unless we have been fooled by people smarter than we are.” The smile was now plastered on her face.
Cassie looked at her sister. “That is so great. I daresay. Isn’t it, Annabel?”
“So great,” said Annabel with something shy of enthusiasm.
“Well then, it’s settled. I shall have it delivered to Kidlington first thing tomorrow.”
When Harriet strode away, Cassie looked at Annabel, heartened. “See? That’s how it’s done. ‘You bring about what you think about’? Manifesting 101.”
Annabel nodded, belying her ambivalence about the desk, and slipped the calling card into her purse.