“Not all of them,” she said. “Some do not have the luxury of time. They are here to find a book, buy it, and continue with their other errands. Some have jobs to which they must return,” sheexplained. “And how much time is it taking for your employees who must fulfill the orders you receive from your catalogue for them to find the books?”
Glancing left and right, his face taking on a flush of red, Mr. Allen lowered his voice. “What exactly are you expecting, Miss…?”
“Kingston,” she said. “A position here at the shop, where my skills as a librarian can be used to…organizeyour volumes for efficiency.”
“A librarian?” he repeated. “Why aren’t you applying for a position at one of the circulating libraries?”
Catherine winced. “I will if I must,” she replied, thinking of at least three where her background in books would prove helpful.
For example, Noble’s in King Street, Covent Garden, catered to the middle class, their subscription price a half guinea per year or three shillings a quarter for books in both English and French. She knew they purchased books as soon as they were published because they were a frequent customer of Kingston Publishing.
Hookham’s Circulating Library in New Bond Street was another possibility. Their higher subscription rate of two guineas per year meant their clientele tended to be more upper class, though. Their books were, too, since they lent and sold works in English, French, and Italian. Catherine had often wondered if her father should look into having them do the bookbinding for Kingston since they offered the service to their customers.
Finally, there was Dutton’s Universal Circulating Library at 45 Gracechurch Street. Catherine had never actually been a patron of the concern, but she knew of some who not only borrowed Dutton’s books, but had purchased them as well.
“However, I would prefer to be employed here,” Catherine added, completing her answer to Mr. Allen’s query about whyshe hadn’t applied for a position at a circulating library. Her gaze on him unflinching, she said, “I am, after all, most familiar with this establishment.”
Mr. Allen once again furrowed his gray brows. “How exactly do you propose to arrange the shop?”
“First by subject, then in alphabetical order by the author’s last name,” she replied. “On each floor, of course, starting with…” she glanced around, realizing the first floor was the domain of new releases, “the second floor.”
He frowned. “We do have a semblance of order already,” he argued. “If we do it as you’re proposing, we’ll forever be moving books about to accommodate new acquisitions.”
“As you do now,” she replied, waving to where a young man was shoving a collection of books to one end of a shelf to make way for those he was unloading from a wooden crate. “I would leave space for one or two books at the end of each shelf for new arrivals, and of course there would be voids created by the books that are sold,” she explained. “Having just completed arranging my father’s entire library of over ten thousand volumes—”
“Ten thousand?” he repeated, scoffing. “That’s not even a… a…”
“A twentieth,” she supplied for him.
“A twentieth of what we have at any one time,” he claimed.
“But it’s a personal library of vast variety, like yours,” she replied. “The arrangement is…” she spread out her gloved hands, “scalable. Easily able to accommodate more volumes when necessary and shrink when a subject is no longer very popular.”
Mr. Allen huffed. “I suppose you’d wish to be paid,” he groused.
Catherine blinked, surprised he’d acquiesce so easily and offer payment, besides. “I would, of course. This is the most profitable bookseller in all of London. I am well aware Mr.
Lackington’s profits exceeded five thousand pounds a year when he was alive, and I have every expectation the current Mr. Lackington is doing at least as well.”
His eyes widening, Mr. Allen leaned toward her. “How is it you know of profits and such?” he asked in a hoarse whisper.
Not wishing to admit her relationship to her father, Catherine sighed. “Books are my business and have been my entire life, Mr. Allen,” she replied. “I am merely proposing to help make this bookshop even more profitable.”
He inhaled and let the breath out in huff. “Two pounds a week,” he stated.
She gasped. “I’ll take not less than three,” she countered, hoping she would be able to let a townhouse in a decent part of London. When he displayed a look of alarm, she added, “I happen to know you pay those gentlemen at the desk more than four pounds a week.”
“They handle the transactions,” he countered. “And they’re paid for their knowledge about books.”
“A knowledgeIalso possess,” she argued. “In fact, should one of those gentlemen be unable to work one day, I could take their place for you.” Seeing he wasn’t convinced, she added, “Your customers of the female sex might prefer dealing with another female when making a purchase, and since you seem to have so many of them…” She glanced over to confirm that, indeed, every single customer currently at the circular desk was a woman. “It’s worth a try, wouldn’t you say?”
Mumbling something about women mucking up his day, Mr. Allen crossed his arms. “All right. Three pounds a week, but this is only a trial. A fortnight,” he stated. “You can start tomorrow. Nine o’clock.”
Catherine inhaled softly. “I’ll be here,” she said.
“You’ll need to wear gloves. And we don’t provide them.”
“I already have them,” she said, knowing he meant a pair of white cotton gloves for handling the more delicate volumes. “Thank you, Mr. Allen. You won’t regret this.” She held out her right hand, and he displayed a grimace before giving it a shake.
