Chapter 1
Miss Sybil Stamper did her best not to allow herself to become distracted by the contents of the leatherbound volumes she was sliding onto the shelves in a colorful pattern.
She had read all of these titles before, which one might think would lessen the temptation to crack open the covers and read. And perhaps that could have worked, had she not been instructed to choose her very favorite books of all time for inclusion in the charity lending libraries she and the fellow members of her weekly reading circle had recently launched all over London. By definition, favorite books were the ones she could not help but want to read again.
She also couldn’t help the pang of envy at the thought of dozens—or hundreds—of eager new borrowers who would get to experience the magic and wonder of Sybil’s favorite authors for the very first time. It was absolutely going to knock their stockings off in the best possible way when they reached chapter seven, only to learn—
“Brilliant!” boomed the local cobbler, looking not at the gothic adventure tale in Sybil’s hand, but rather beaming directly into her face.
The cheerful, portly older man had thanked her four times already—Sybil had kept count; she kept count of everything, she couldn’t help it—and he showed no sign of ceasing his effusive praise.
“Along with countless maids and footmen,” the cobbler continued, “even some ladies are bringing their boots in themselves in order to have a look at the new shelves whilst I secure their soles or resew their seams. Business has blossomed, and I have you to thank!”
“Not me personally,” Sybil demurred.
As the self-appointed list-maker of her philanthropic group of bluestockings, Sybil collated all of the book donations and additional title suggestions, and catalogued which volumes were to go where, and when. But the new books were not purchased from the coins in her purse. Largely because there were never any spare coins in her purse. It was the largesse of her wealthy friends and of the charity endeavor’s aristocratic benefactors that enabled the miniature lending libraries to exist.
“I indeed thank you, personally,” the ruddy-cheeked cobbler insisted. “It is you who inspects these shelves every fortnight or so—”
“Every other Wednesday, at ten forty-five in the morning.” Sybil’s calendar-keeping was just as obsessively correct as her list-making.
“—and it is you who tidies the collection and keeps it fresh for the next customer.”
She had a system for that, as well. The titles were organized by color, then size, then subject, with fiction sliding in before fact. Her purse might be of no assistance, but Sybil’s hands could make quick work of a task as simple as this. Besides, who didn’t want to spend an hour playing with books every morning?
The best part was seeing the positive effect that her club’s libraries had on communities where constituents didn’t usually have access to expensive luxuries like books.
Sybil herself had borrowed far more books in her life than she had ever purchased. The two dozen bluestockings in her reading circle collectively owned enough titles to rival the Royal Library. Sybil borrowed their books for free. A privilege, considering the subscription costs to most circulating libraries—if indeed they allowed women or the average commoner to become a member.
These charity libraries were different. They were located in ordinary shopping districts and residential neighborhoods. It cost a lowly farthing to borrow a book. One hundred percent of those earnings, as well as the coins in convenient donation boxes, went toward the purchase of more books. And the better-connected members of the reading circle regularly coaxed their wealthy friends to donate old books or greater sums of money to the cause.
The sight of all these volumes warmed Sybil’s heart. The two dozen members of her reading circle were as close as family, but the ordinary girls out there in desperate need of a literary escape felt like an extension of Sybil’s self.
“What’s that chart you’re always checking?” asked the cobbler.
“An activity timetable.” Sybil adjusted her spectacles. She kept good lists and checked them thrice.
She didn’t expect the cobbler to understand her love of lists. And what was a timetable, but a specific sort of list? Sybil had created a special page in a fresh journal for each miniature library. Every week, she tracked which titles had been borrowed, which had been returned, and which went ignored. In this manner, she could tailor the local catalogue to each neighborhood’s preferences, ensuring the right books found their way into eager hands.
And…if she was being fully honest, she used list-keeping as a distraction. In this case, from her nervousness about tomorrow’s meeting with Mademoiselle LaChapelle, the second best modiste in London.
All right, third best. Maybe fourth. Oh very well, Mademoiselle LaChapelle had few ton clients at all.
But Sybil wasn’t part of the ton either. Mademoiselle LaChapelle was the fanciest modiste she could afford—if saving every penny for three years meant the cost was “affordable”.
Mlle. LaChapelle was an up-and-coming diamond. Just like Sybil longed to be. Many of the ladies in her reading circle were spinsters by choice. Others wouldn’t remain unwed for much longer.
And then there was Sybil.
She wasn’t just a wallflower. She was from a family considered shabby-genteel. Respectable, but a little bit embarrassing. Not so low as to be dealt the cut direct by her betters, but also not cultured enough to be invited to their teas and their balls.
But this year would be different. A fortnight from now, Vauxhall Gardens was hosting an extravagant ball which was already the talk of the Town. Everyone who was anyone would be there—as well as Aspiring Someones like Sybil, because Vauxhall Gardens was a public venue. Tickets had sold out within hours, but Sybil’s friend Lady Eunice had purchased entrance for anyone in the reading circle who could not afford it.
This was Sybil’s chance! But attending the ball was not enough. She would need to be noticed. Er, favorably.
The bell above the cobbler’s door tinkled and an elegant lady swept in. The brim of her bonnet dipped too low for Sybil to see her face, but the cut of her gown was so exquisite it nearly brought tears to Sybil’s eyes.
She waited for the woman to hand an impossibly expensive slipper to the cobbler for repair, but instead the lady strode straight to the bookshelves Sybil had just restocked.
