Chapter 14
Even after a few hours of chatting with the characters, Aurelia’s questions about what she was experiencing kept multiplying.
Determined to find answers, she found Sergeant Cuff, who seemed to know the most about the magic of the shop, and asked if they could sit and talk.
He agreed, and they made their way to the window seat upstairs.
Cuff waited for Aurelia to sit, then lowered himself onto the window seat. She had to stifle a laugh as a few puffs of mist and words rose from where he’d sat down, like dust rising from an old cushion. But just like Marianne with Fezz’s tail, Cuff seemed unbothered by it.
“I was hoping to ask you a bit about the shop,” Aurelia began.
“Certainly, miss. In fact, Marigold had hoped we would have the opportunity to speak so that I could help explain things to you. I believe that is why she left my book on the table for you, at the end.”
“Really?”
Aurelia thought of how close she’d come to putting something new on the table and was grateful for her last-minute change of heart.
“Well, actually, I’m not all that surprised. She must have known I’d have a million questions. I mean, all of this is very unusual,” she said, sweeping her hand toward the other characters.
“It is unusual, miss. I certainly never had encountered such a thing before my first evening here. I cannot say I was a frequent customer of bookshops when I lived in London, but on the few occasions when I did visit one, I never came across characters from the very books on the shelves.”
“I still can’t believe this has been happening for years without me knowing anything about it. You mentioned that you visited the shop when Cristobel, Lucy, and then my aunt—Marigold—owned it?”
“Yes, I visited with each of them on several occasions.”
“Did they seem surprised when you appeared?”
Sergeant Cuff thought for a moment before responding.
“It is my recollection that they were not surprised to see characters in the shop, though they were surprised, at times, by which characters appeared.”
“What do you mean?”
“It seems that each time a book is placed on the table below, different characters appear to the owner of the shop. As you know, Rachel and I have appeared to you from our novel. Were you to place our book on the table again several months from now, it is my understanding that two different characters might appear. Or perhaps I might appear again with someone other than Rachel, or she might appear with someone other than me.”
“Interesting… And do you know why a major character like Anna Karenina hasn’t appeared from her own novel?”
Sergeant Cuff looked around the room, his lips pulled tight as though he were trying to keep from speaking.
“I don’t suppose you have a theory about that?” Aurelia asked.
“As it happens, I do. It is my supposition—mind, simply a supposition—that only characters who survive their novel may appear in the shop. Count Vronsky has indicated that Mrs. Karenina, his novel’s namesake, was not so fortunate as to have survived hers.”
Aurelia considered this. If it were true, she would never meet Anna, or Marmee’s Beth. The shop’s magic apparently reflected reality—those who were lost could never return.
“Why do you think that is?” she asked Cuff. “It seems very unfair.”
“Some things are too mysterious for even me to understand, despite my best efforts,” Cuff said philosophically.
“Do you know, there is a rose variety at my cottage that will not bloom when planted on the left side of my fence post, but which grows quite abundantly when planted on the right side. The light, air, and water are the same, thus I cannot account for it using rational processes of deduction. Yet I know by observing with my own eyes that the rose prefers one side to the other. Regardless of the reason, the fact remains. Some aspects of this phenomenon”—Cuff raised his hand to signal the shop and its population of characters—“elude me, but they are no less evident, even if I am unable to define or categorize them.”
“Unanswerable mysteries,” Aurelia said quietly, recalling her recent conversation with her father.
“Indeed,” Cuff agreed.
They sat in silence for a few moments, reflecting on the mysterious.
“There is one question I felt convinced you would ask me.”
“I hate to disappoint you, Sergeant,” she said with a wry smile. “Okay, let me think.”
Aurelia’s mind ran back over the list of questions she’d written out earlier in the day.
“Well, I waited a few hours for you tonight, but you didn’t arrive until midnight. Is that when you always appear?”
“Yes. We arrive at midnight and depart at first light.”
“Oh.” Aurelia drew out the word, remembering the sudden disappearance of the people—other characters—she had spotted on that early morning just days ago. “What about your novel: do you know everything that’s been written in it—what happens to other characters, their thoughts and feelings?”
“Not at all! I know what I observed and what was told to me in the course of my story, but nothing else. It would be very intrusive if I did, would it not?”
“Right, yes.” Aurelia felt foolish before reminding herself that she couldn’t possibly know, let alone guess, the ‘rules’ of the shop and its characters after only a few nights with them. So she asked another question.
“And your ending—I remember you went back into retirement, but what happened after that?”
“I am still living the ending. I returned to my cottage and assume that I will continue to enjoy the life I lead there—cultivating my roses and infuriating my housekeeper.”
“You don’t know what happens after your book ends?”
“I do not, no more than you or I know what will happen tomorrow, or the day after.”
She thought for a moment, then asked, “Were any of those the question you had in mind?”
“No, none was the question I referred to earlier.”
“Are you willing to tell me without my guessing?”
“I think the question will occur to you when the time is ripe for an answer. Therefore, I will keep my counsel until then.”
Trying hard to keep from huffing in disappointment like a nineteenth-century heroine, Aurelia nodded.
“I am happy to discuss any other topics that may interest you. Might I suggest rose propagation? It is one of my favorite topics, and I have much occasion to reflect upon it in my retirement.”
Opening her mouth to come up with an excuse—in his novel, Cuff was like a dog with a bone when it came to roses—Aurelia was saved by the arrival of Elinor and Marianne at the top of the stairs.
“May we join you?” Elinor asked.
Cuff stood, bowing to them.
“Please, ladies, you are very welcome. Were you, perchance, seeking to discuss the propagation of rose varieties?”
Marianne pulled a face, while Elinor said smoothly, “We were not, Sergeant Cuff. We had hoped to discuss literature with Aurelia.”
“Then I shall leave you and allow you to pursue that topic to your contentment.”
Sergeant Cuff made another slight bow to the women, then walked to the spiral staircase and descended to the floor below.
Marianne and Elinor joined Aurelia on the window seat, setting off their own small, momentary wisps of words before Marianne leaned toward Aurelia, her entire body tense with excitement.
“Rachel was telling us about the modern literature of her time! She mentioned an author called Dickens and another called Trollope. Have you read their works? I wish I could—they sound delightful.”
Marianne paused for a breath and Aurelia realized it was her turn to speak.
“Dickens and Trollope, modern?” She thought for a moment and then remembered that Sense and Sensibility was set in the 1790s, decades before Dickens began publishing his work. “Well, I guess you could say that.”
“I once met David Copperfield in the shop. He is one of Mr. Dickens’ characters,” Elinor explained to Marianne. “I found him very amiable and well-mannered.”
“Who were you with on that occasion?” Marianne seemed to struggle to keep the envy from her voice.
“Margaret and I were together. She liked Mr. Copperfield very much and said she wished she could return to his book instead of ours.”
“As do I,” sighed Marianne.
“Dickens was a fantastic writer. His stories are full of vivid characters, and twists and turns.”
From Marianne’s dismayed look, Aurelia realized she might have overdone her enthusiasm.
“But your author, Jane Austen, is also known for writing really engaging characters. Have you met her other characters when you were visiting the shop?”
“I once met a woman named Elizabeth Darcy and her father, Mr. Bennet,” Marianne offered. “I understand they also came from Miss Austen’s pen.”
“Yes, they’re in Pride and Prejudice, her best-known novel.”
Once again, Aurelia noticed Marianne’s look of disappointment.
“I, uh… I’m overstating that, really,” Aurelia stammered. “I’d say both Pride and Prejudice and your novel are her most popular books.”
Elinor and Marianne exchanged pleased glances and Aurelia let out a quick breath of relief to have saved the moment.
She started thinking of questions she’d like to ask about Lizzy, but was distracted when she spotted Count Vronsky looking at a bookshelf filled with literary criticism along the back wall of the mezzanine.
Glancing toward him, Elinor observed, “Count Vronsky appears to be widely read on a great deal of subjects.”
“Does he? I met him last night but haven’t spoken to him much since then.”
“He was very complimentary of your shop. He said it had some fine examples of the fiction of his day. In fact, he was with us when we were discussing the merits of Dickens and Trollope.”
“Really? I don’t remember a scene in his novel where he read their books.” Aurelia turned to Marianne. “I know some of the poets you like because Austen wrote that you liked them, but are there other poets you’ve read, like… William Wordsworth? I don’t remember her mentioning him in your book.”
“Oh yes, Wordsworth’s poems are a dear favorite,” Marianne said in what Aurelia recognized as her typically passionate manner.
“I often feel as though his poems travel straight into my soul and roost there. His work has been a source of comfort in difficult times and a source of joy in happier ones.”
“So, you have experiences and memories that aren’t on the pages of your book?”
Aurelia looked up as she asked her question. Out of the corner of her eye, she’d noticed Vronsky slowly making his way toward the window seat. He now stood in front of them and bowed deeply.
“Forgive my unaccountable rudeness, ladies, but I could not help overhearing a portion of your conversation. I myself was a great admirer of Dickens. My life’s vagaries may not have been captured on the page, but thus far I have lived a full life, though it has not come without its sorrows.”
At these last words, Vronsky’s charming smile faded.
“I, too, have lived a full life beyond the page, Count Vronsky,” Marianne agreed.
“Not every pastime, happiness, or hurt was described in my novel, but by no means has that limited the scope of my pursuits.” She seemed to understand he’d been alluding to romantic difficulties and perhaps sensed a kindred spirit.
“Do you disagree with anything your authors wrote about you? Are there things you believe didn’t happen the way they described them, or feelings your authors didn’t capture?”
“I do not dispute Miss Austen’s description of events. It may be difficult at times to reflect back on painful moments, but they are true to my experience of them,” reported Elinor.
“I concur completely, Elinor,” Count Vronsky joined in. “At times knowing the patterns of your life have been depicted in stark black ink can be bruising, but on reflection I have not found cause to dispute an occurrence in which I was involved.”
“Sergeant Cuff mentioned that he only knows about things he saw or experienced, or things other people told him about events that he didn’t see for himself.”
“That is true. We cannot know what takes place when we are not present,” said Marianne.
“We know what we think, see, and are told by others, just as you do,” Elinor added.
“I own I do envy readers who know and see all,” said Marianne.
“Yes, but even so, readers only know and see what an author reveals,” countered Aurelia, warming up to their debate. “Writers leave lots of questions unanswered for us.”
“Quite so, Miss Lyndham,” Vronsky said enthusiastically. “Though I am undecided as to whether I like an author who leaves much to the imagination, or one who explicates every moment in such detail that the reader is in no doubt as to what is occurring.”
From just below them, Rachel called up to Elinor and Marianne, asking them to come down and tell Marmee ‘that amusing story’ about their younger sister. Marianne smiled and said they’d be happy to, and she and Elinor stood and curtsied their goodbyes to Aurelia and Count Vronsky.
They looked on as Marianne and Elinor made their way down the spiral staircase, and Aurelia suddenly felt self-conscious. She was finally alone with Vronsky, able to ask him anything, and yet she was tongue-tied and couldn’t think of a single thing to say.