“I’ve no doubt I will.”
She followed him to the door where he hesitated a heartbeat—as though he wished to say something more—before opening it and exiting her shop. Closing it after him, she watched as he halted to study her window display, the one with the miniature desk, before carrying on. A wistfulness, a sadness shadowed him. She wondered if he was without family, alone in the world.
Turning the lock, she was grateful for the sale. It would have been her first day without dropping a single farthing into her till, and she refused to be disheartened by the shortage of customers. She knew not everyone grew up in a family that cherished books as much as hers did, nor could a good many people afford them. Although for some years now, the publishing world had been working to make literature more affordable to the masses, which was the reason she’d been able to sell the one-volume collection of serials so inexpensively.
Her shop had been open for a little over a year now, and business was slowly increasing, thanks in no small part to her brother Mick’s rejuvenation of this area of London. A few years earlier, he’d torn down the dilapidated ruins he’d purchased and replaced them with sturdily built brick buildings. Shops lined either side of the street. On the corner across from hers—and taking up quite a bit of the area—was Mick’s crowning achievement, his grand hotel that bore the Trewlove name. While he’d not wanted to see her working, had preferred she spend her time preparing for her entry into Society, she’d managed to convince him to allow her to use one of his smaller buildings as a bookshop. All her siblings had met with varying degrees of success, and she’d wanted to do her part to make a difference, not only in her life and for her family but in the lives of others.
Walking back to the counter, she smiled as her cat leapt onto it, stretched languidly, and glared at her through green eyes. She ran her fingers through his thick fur, as white as pristine snow. He’d been scrawny and practically furless—what little bit remained in his possession had been matted—when she found him in the mews, bound up like a sausage. If she ever discovered who’d abandoned him there like that, she’d give the tosser cause for regret. It had taken a while to earn the cat’s trust. “Jealous, Dickens? His eyes were a far richer shade than yours, but you’re still my favorite fellow.”
He merely purred in response and began licking his paw.
Picking up her till, she popped into her small office, crossed over to a painting of a woman poised on a ladder while reaching for a book, and took it down to reveal the safe securely tucked away behind it. Tugging free the chain hidden beneath her collar, she pulled forth the key and inserted it into the lock, always feeling a bit mysterious that she had a place in which to secret things away. After swinging open the door, she tucked the till inside and then relocked the safe. The painting went back onto its spot on the wall, and she stuffed the key behind her bodice.
That chore taken care of, she snatched up her small flower-adorned hat, moved over to the oval mirror hanging on the wall, and positioned the brim just so, giving her a rather sophisticated air. From her siblings, she’d learned how she presented herself should reflect all she hoped to attain. “Half the trick is leading people to believe you’ve met with success,” Mick had told her the day she opened the shop.
Grabbing a tiny book and slipping it into her pocket—most of her frocks contained large pockets where she could easily carry things—she wandered across her beloved shop to the door and stepped out onto the walk.
People were scurrying about, some on their way home from their jobs, others from their shopping expeditions. The fragrance of freshly baked bread wafted on the air, courtesy of the bakery two doors down. They were no doubt finishing up the order they would deliver to the hotel for the guests who dined there that evening. The elegant dining room was gaining a reputation for serving delicious meals—not that Mick would have settled for anything less than perfection. After locking up, Fancy strolled up the street.
“Hello, Miss Trewlove,” a young woman with a lad and a lass clinging to her skirts called out as she hurried the little ones along.
“Good evening, Mrs. Byng. Will I be seeing you during story time tomorrow?” Every Friday afternoon, Fancy gathered children in her shop and read to them.
“My moppets wouldn’t miss it.”
Fancy suspected her son and daughter favored the sweets she provided as much as the stories. While this area resembled the rookeries not in the least, she was very much aware that many of these folks had little money left over once they’d paid for necessities and it made her feel charitable to offer them something extra. Her afternoon readings provided a bit of respite to many of the mothers, especially those with numerous small tykes. She often noticed some of them dozing while Fancy worked to keep their little ones entertained. Knowing few households contained books, she liked the notion of not only introducing children to the power of reading, but possibly giving them a desire to attend school. While the recently passed Forster Education Act provided public funding for children whose parents couldn’t afford to pay their education fees, it hadn’t made school attendance compulsory, which she found unacceptable. Not all parents cared to see their children’s lives improved. She’d grown up in an area where some had felt it was more important for their broods to work and provide coins for the family coffers than to spend a few hours each day in a classroom.
Several other people greeted her as she carried on. She would miss living here when she married, but was well aware that her future husband, no matter his title, would have a posh residence in an exclusive area of London that he would expect her to share with him. To be a proper lady, she would have to give up the management of her shop. Although Gillie still ran her tavern, it had always been understood that Fancy was destined to become a scion of Society, and that wouldn’t happen unless she immersed herself fully into that culture by making morning calls, as well as hosting afternoon teas, dinners, and balls. Not to mention providing her husband with his heir and spare and a daughter or two.
But until her official introduction into Society, she was free to do as she pleased, and it pleased her to have dinner at the Jolly Roger, a pub Gillie had opened in the area six months earlier. Because she was busy managing her tavern, the Mermaid and Unicorn, overseeing her duchess duties, and raising the daughter she’d delivered to the duke, she’d handed the reins of her new venture over to Roger, who’d assisted her at the Mermaid. The cook, who also happened to be his love, had come over with him. Hannah prepared simple fare that was a delight to the palate and often reminded Fancy of her mum’s cooking.
While she appreciated having her own lodgings, she did miss her mum quite a bit, just as she had when she’d been off at a posh finishing school paid for by Mick as the first step in achieving her mum’s dream of seeing Fancy well married. As a result, her manners were above reproach, her speech more refined, and she didn’t sound as though she crawled out from the gutter.
Although she’d never truly spoken as though she came from humble origins. Gillie had insisted all her siblings speak well, with clear pronunciation, because she believed proper speech was essential to bettering one’s life, and her first employer had educated her regarding correct enunciation. Before Fancy had ever attended a formal classroom, Gillie had sat her down and taught her how to speak like those who lived in the most affluent areas of London.
While Fancy had made the most of her time at the finishing school and understood the need to learn how to speak, walk, and eat as those among the upper classes did, she had resented the time it had required to be away from her family. Although her brothers and Gillie were much older than she was and had moved to their own lodgings before she’d seen half a dozen years, they’d remained a constant in her life, frequently visiting, taking her on outings, bringing her sweets, dolls, and other gifts. They’d spoiled her rotten—still did—and she loved every one of them for it, didn’t want to let them down by not earning a place within Society that would make them proud. The magnitude of what she needed to accomplish weighed on her constantly. But she would see it through and not give her family any cause to be ashamed of her.
Enough thinking about that.She was going to spoil her dinner if all those thoughts kept rumbling around in her mind. She’d headed to the pub for the distraction it would provide. Opening the heavy door, she stepped over the threshold and stumbled to a stop, very nearly smashing her nose against the broad wall that appeared before her. Not a wall. A chest. One that had been in her shop only moments earlier. Plastering a smile on her face, she looked up. “Hello again.”
“Hello.”
Although undeniably handsome, if he would only sport a grin, he’d be quite devastating. “You ate rather quickly.”
“I’ve been waiting for a table. It seems none are to be had.”
“Oh.” She’d arrived later than usual. Glancing around, she could see he had the right of it, but then on the other side of the room—
“Look! One at the back there is becoming available now.” Two gents were heading away from a small square table nestled up against the wall.
“I’ll snag it for you.”
Before she could tell him that it was his by rights for being there ahead of her, he was gone, his long legs and lithe frame making short work of his edging his way between the crowded tables until he reached the empty one only seconds before the lad with a small copper tub did. Without being told, the young man who had probably seen fifteen or sixteen years began gathering up platters and glassware before using a damp linen to wipe the top of the table and the wooden seats of the chairs.
The customer who had been in her shop earlier lifted his arm and beckoned her over. She was struck by the ease with which he communicated a great deal with so simple a movement, as though he were accustomed to commanding and being obeyed without question. With no help for it, she wended her way around the tables, chairs, benches, and people, greeting those she knew as she passed by. Finally, she reached him. “While I appreciate your gallantry, you were here before me. The table should be yours.”
“You’d have arrived ahead of me if I’d not delayed you in your shop.”
His mien reminded her of her brothers, and she was well aware of the time involved in striving to win an argument with them, so she graciously accepted her defeat, but decided one last rally was in order. “As there are two chairs, I don’t see why we can’t share the table.”
