Evelyn giggled, a bright flare of rebellion warming her chest. She had not felt so alive in weeks.
They ran together down the street.
The townhouse where Evelyn lived was at the edge of the Kensington district, a little more than a half hour’s walk along the edge of Hyde Park to St. James’ Park. Their favourite bookshop was close to St. James’ Park, in Birdcage Walk. On a pleasant, windless day, it was a tiring but enjoyable walk. In the wind, it was an adventure.
Ordinarily, the streets teemed with Londoners—fashionable ladies, hawkers, tradesmen, beggars. But the wind had driven nearly everyone indoors.
“There—look,” Lucy said, pointing. A few people huddled miserably under the corner of a shuttered teahouse. Evelyn was surprised by how invigorated she felt, buffeted by the wind; she had not felt so keenly alive in days.
“Let us see how fast we may go,” Lucy said as they slowed to a brisk walk.
“I wager we can reach Birdcage Walk in half an hour,” Evelyn replied. With the wind pushing them from behind, it might indeed be possible.
“Mayhap!” Lucy giggled.
They set off at a swift pace. The gusts rushed around them, tugging at their skirts and bonnets like mischievous hands.
They reached the bookshop just as the nearby church bell chimed.
“Hurrah!” Evelyn exclaimed, delighted.
“I knew we should manage it!” Lucy crowed.
They tumbled in through the door, shutting it briskly behind them. The little bell above the door chimed, and the proprietor, Mr Woodward, greeted them with a smile.
“Ladies! Welcome. You honour my humble shop on a day such as this?”
“It is exceedingly windy,” Evelyn agreed, breathless. She tried discreetly to smooth her hair beneath her bonnet; several dark curls had escaped.
“Have you anything new today?” Lucy asked eagerly.
“I do indeed,” Mr Woodward said, his round face glowing with pride. “Come—allow me to show you. I believe these will interest you.”
Evelyn and Lucy followed him. Relief washed over Evelyn at the quiet warmth of the shop—the shelter from the howling wind, the gentle crackle of the fire, the rows of books waiting like friends. Comfortable chairs sat near the hearth for browsing. The newest volumes—first editions and rare printings—were displayed near the counter.
“Here, my ladies,” Mr Woodward said happily. “Feast your eyes.”
Evelyn scanned the spines, skipping those too dear for her means. Her gaze caught on a small leather-bound volume, dark and elegant.
“Shakespeare’s Complete Works,” she murmured, lifting it. Her heart thudded. It was a pocket-sized edition—light enough to read in bed. Oh, how desperately she longed for it.
“Let me see,” Lucy said, holding out a hand. Evelyn passed it to her.
“How much is it?” Lucy asked.
“Two pounds, my lady.”
Evelyn bit her lip. She could never afford it. She had no money in her reticule, and if she returned home to fetch the little of her pin-money she had saved up, it would not come close tocovering half of it. She reached over to put it back, but Lucy was opening her reticule. She took out two pounds and handed them to Mr Woodward, who smiled.
“Thank you, my lady,” Mr Woodward beamed.
Lucy handed the book to Evelyn. “Only do not sit up all night reading it,” she teased.
“Lucy!” Evelyn gasped. “But—but—” Her throat closed with emotion. Tears pricked her eyes as she stared at the precious little volume. “You cannot…”
“I wished to buy you something for your birthday,” Lucy said lightly. “And it is the perfect gift.”
“Thank you, Lucy,” Evelyn whispered. “It is beautiful.”
