9. Two Women, One Proposition
Chapter Nine
Two Women, One Proposition
An hour later, at the Temple of the Muses, second floor
Stepping back from the first bookshelf on the left beyond the stairs, Catherine Kingston wiped her cotton gloves on her apron and regarded the empty shelves with a sense of relief.
Although she had hoped to begin rearranging the shelves with as little disruption as possible—there were already customers milling about—she soon discovered she required room to work, and the volumes that had occupied the top three shelves were now stacked on the floor.
She held the small label that had been tacked at the top and winced.
The letter A could have referred to an author’s last name or the subject matter of a book—without context, it meant nothing.
Discovering books that pertained to neither had her wondering if those who had stocked the shelf could even read.
Worse were the novels she found interspersed with non-fiction books. Was it someone’s idea of a joke that a horror novel was next to a book about recent advances in surgery? Or that a book about blooming flowers was tucked in the middle of several novels featuring stories of love?
Given the number of fictional books she had pulled from the three shelves, she knew she had to separate them from the non-fiction volumes. They would have their own home on the opposite side of the room.
Having already perused the other bookshelves on the first floor, she had determined how many titles might be included in a section on “Anatomy” by pulling them from their shelves and stacking them in yet another pile on the floor.
Catherine was in the middle of arranging them on the top shelf, ordered by the authors’ last names, when she felt the hairs at the back of her neck prickle.
Glancing to her left showed only the landing for the stairs.
To her right, a bespectacled older man was holding an open book in one hand as he used the finger of his other hand to turn the pages.
When she looked over one shoulder, she noticed two younger women tittering over an illustration.
Finally, she turned slightly in the other direction and discovered she was subject of the attention of a woman wearing widow’s weeds and a wide-brimmed hat with a netting that completely obscured her features.
“Oh, pardon me. May I be of assistance?” Catherine asked, thinking the widow was waiting for her to step aside so she might gain access to the books on the lower shelves.
From the way the hat suddenly angled to one side, Catherine had the distinct impression she was being studied, much as the subjects in the anatomical illustrations found in the books she was arranging.
“Possibly,” the woman replied. She stepped forward and offered her right hand. “Mrs. Bessie Dove-Lyon,” she stated.
Catherine was careful to keep her expression passive.
She recognized the name almost immediately.
She had seen it in print on the calling card Eliza had given her the day before in the coach.
“Miss Catherine Kingston,” she replied, shaking the woman’s hand.
“It’s very good to meet you.” She struggled with keeping a question from sounding in her introduction.
“Kingston? As in… Kingston Publishing?”
Catherine nodded. “My father’s business, yes.”
The older woman glanced about the room. “I don’t wish to interrupt your work, nor get you into any sort of trouble with your employer, so I will be brief,” she said in a quiet voice.
She held out a calling card, and Catherine gingerly took it, immediately recognizing the script.
“I’m a matchmaker with a client who might suit you,” she added.
Blinking in surprise, Catherine allowed a quiet guffaw. “I rather doubt that. I am, uh, a spinster,” she said.
“But not yet thirty years of age.” The comment wasn’t a question.
“True,” Catherine replied. “I am eight-and-twenty.”
“You have been running your father’s household?”
“Yes.”
“Acting as his hostess?”
Catherine’s suspicion had her hesitating before she said, “Yes.”
“But now he’s…” the matchmaker waved a gloved hand toward the bookshelf, “no longer in need of your skills? Betrothed to Mrs. Eliza Buxton, is he not?”
Catherine swallowed, surprised. “He is courting her, yes. How did you know?” For a moment, she remembered what Eliza had said in the town coach. She came highly recommended, but I didn’t think I could afford her services. And now it sounds as if I don’t need them.
Catherine glanced down at the card and knew the one in her carriage gown pocket was exactly like it.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon
Proprietress, the Lyon’s Den, and Matchmaker
9 Cleveland Row, St. James’s, Westminster
“Eliza said she didn’t think she could afford your services,” Catherine added, before Mrs. Dove-Lyon could reply.
The widow shrugged. “It didn’t matter if she could or couldn’t. Mrs. Buxton was going to be betrothed to your father no matter what I did or didn’t do. Which brings us to the matter of you, Miss Kingston. You are about to lose your position in your father’s household.”
“It is time I see to my own affairs,” Catherine stated, lifting a shoulder as if she wasn’t bothered.
“Have you already taken new lodgings somewhere?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon asked, her query sounding urgent.
“Not yet. I thought to look—”
“Don’t. At least… not yet,” the matchmaker said. “Has he given you your marriage portion?”
Catherine scoffed softly. “Pardon me, ma’am, but that’s really none of your concern.”
“Oh, but it is, Miss Kingston. Your generous dowry could gain you a husband.”
“I am aware,” she replied, keeping her manner guarded. “The question that comes to mind, though, is do I want one?”
Even though she couldn’t see Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s features, she seemed impressed by her query. “What if you had a husband who could elevate you in Society?”
“I’m quite elevated enough,” Catherine countered.
Once again, Mrs. Dove-Lyon waved a gloved hand at the stacks of books and then at the assorted clientele that populated the first floor of the bookshop. “Your skills would be better suited in the house of an… a gentleman. Of rank.”
Catherine furrowed her brows, wondering at what word the matchmaker almost said before “a gentleman.” An implied the next word began with a vowel. The only ranks beginning with a vowel were “earl” and “admiral.” Neither were of particular interest to her.
“I thank you for your consideration, ma’am, but I am doing this for a reason,” she said as she imitated the older woman by waving at the books. “My hope is to one day inherit my father’s business. I intend to run Kingston Publishing,” she explained.
Crossing her arms across her generous bosom, Mrs. Dove-Lyon huffed. “If Mrs. Buxton bears him a son, you will not inherit,” she stated. “If you wish to run Kingston Publishing upon your father’s death, you’ll need to be married,” she argued.
The words were like a slap across the face.
Although she wanted to counter the matchmaker’s claim, Catherine knew the woman spoke the truth.
Dipping her head, she allowed a long sigh.
“How likely is it a husband is going to allow me to run a publishing company?” she countered, arching a brow to emphasize her doubt.
To her surprise, and despite the netting that covered most of her face, Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s excitement was evident. “The one I have in mind for you will. Why, he might even offer to assist you,” she claimed. “He’ll no doubt buy every book you publish.”
Catherine frowned. “A bookworm?” she guessed.
The matchmaker sighed. “You needn’t make him sound so… undesirable. Especially given how handsome he is.”
“Your client is handsome? And a gentleman?” Catherine chuckled softly. “If that is the case, it hardly seems necessary he would require the services of a matchmaker.”
“Men are fools,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon stated. “They rarely know what they require and usually don’t have it sorted until after they are already in possession of it.”
Catherine shuddered at hearing the word “possession,” and the matchmaker obviously noticed.
“A woman is capable of possessing a man should she wish to. Sometimes they simply require a… a push. A shove in the right direction.”
Once again, Catherine chuckled. “And I suppose you’re the one who is going to do the pushing?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon uncrossed her arms and seemed at the end of her patience. “Simply agree to meet him, won’t you? It won’t cost you more than your time.”
Narrowing her eyes, Catherine considered the offer. “How much will it cost me if I end up agreeing to marry him?”
Inhaling slowly, the matchmaker seemed to make a mental calculation before she said, “Normally, ten pounds, six farthings, and—”
“That’s absurd!”
“—you’ll have to use part of your marriage portion to pay off his debts.” Before Catherine could put voice to another objection, Mrs. Dove-Lyon held up a hand. “Your father will pay him a far greater dowry than what he will be willing to give you directly,” she claimed.
Shocked by the comment, Catherine couldn’t think of how to respond and simply listened to the rest of what the matchmaker had to say.
“Once the weather improves and his farms return to profitability, he’ll be able to restore your dowry to its full amount and set it aside for you so you’ll have funds to live on should he expire before you.”
Catherine was about to ask if he was a farmer when she remembered landowners rarely worked their own fields. They had tenant farmers to see to the planting, harvesting, and livestock. “Where?” she asked.
“Where?” Mrs. Dove-Lyon repeated.
“Where are these farms?”
“Oh. Berkshire. Eastern edge.”
Inhaling softly, Catherine understood immediately why a landowner would be having financial trouble in that particular part of England. Berkshire had been one of the worst hit in terms of the weather over the past summer. The news sheets had been filled with the bad news of late.
She dipped her head and sighed in resignation. “All right. I’ll meet this man, but I won’t make any prom—”
“I shall send word of when and where,” the matchmaker said.
“Someplace public,” Catherine said. “But not out-of-doors.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon seemed to think on the terms for a moment before she nodded. “Agreed.”
“How will I know… it’s him?”
It was the matchmaker’s turn to chuckle. “I’ll be sure it’s obvious,” she said, lifting one of the books from the stack on the floor, its leather binding a bright red. She held it out. “He’ll have this in his arm.”
Catherine leaned her head to one side to examine the title on the spine. “All right,” she agreed, grinning.
“Good day, Miss Kingston.”
Before Catherine could respond, the matchmaker disappeared down the stairs.
Shaking her head in disbelief—what had she just agreed to do?—Catherine returned her attention to the empty shelves and the stacks of books surrounding her.
Although it would take her the rest of the day, she managed to finish rearranging the first bookshelf, noting only after the fact that none of the books had the bright-red leather binding of the book Mrs. Dove-Lyon had taken—Henry Clay’s English translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy.
She hoped she wasn’t about to become the butt of some joke perpetrated by the matchmaker.