Chapter 2
Mr. Nelson bustled up to the counter as Mrs. Draper left the shop. “I’ll take both,” he said, rapping his knuckles on a pair of leather-bound volumes. “That Mr. Farris is quite knowledgeable. You should hire somebody like him to take Mr. Thatcher’s place.”
Nobody could ever take Grandpapa’s place in Chloe’s heart or in the bookshop. His knowledge of literature had been encyclopedic, and his knowledge of the customers greater still.
“Perhaps after the holidays,” Chloe said, “we’ll be in a position to take on a clerk. Shall I wrap these for you, Mr. Nelson?”
“No need. I’m just trotting ’round the corner.” He passed over enough money to pay for both books. “Missus will be very pleased with me. Mr. Farris assures me of that, and he’s a young fellow who knows what he’s about.”
Aidan Farris was something of a mystery for all he made frequent purchases. According to Mrs. Draper, he was a solicitor in the employ of the Wentworth and Penrose bank, an establishment located much closer to the City. A Mr. Stephen Wentworth occasionally ordered books from the shop—always bound volumes, bless the man—but Chloe had never met him.
She surveyed the shop floor, and spotted Mrs. O’Neill browsing the biographies. She was Chloe’s favorite kind of customer—a fast reader with a half-empty library and a full coin purse.
Mr. Farris stepped up to the counter. “I’d like to purchase this one, if you’d wrap it up for me, please.” He’d chosen a tale by Mrs. More, Coelebs in Search of Wife.
“Have you read it?” Chloe asked.
“My sister recommends it, though she says not much occurs, other than the hero coming across one person after another on the way to London. She claims the author writes well and raises worthy philosophical questions in an entertaining style.”
Chloe examined the volume, which was bound in pristine brown leather, the title embossed on the front in gold lettering. “Charles takes a wife and is happy, Mr. Farris, as is the lady. Is that your version of not much occurring?”
He’d extracted a purse from an inner pocket and begun rummaging for coins, but looked up as Chloe posed her question. She at first thought she’d given offense, because his expression went blank, and then…
He grinned. “To the contrary, Miss Thatcher. I account the union of man and wife a very significant occurrence indeed, one which I hope someday might be mine to experience.”
Those wintry gray eyes could dance with humor, that solemn mouth could curve to reveal abundant white teeth and—Lord, have mercy—a dimple in his left cheek.
“We’ve hung a sprig of mistletoe near the door,” Chloe said, taking the money he passed over. “Perhaps if you lingered amid the cookery books, you might begin your quest for a wife under the guise of respect for holiday tradition.”
“Very clever, to hang the mistletoe where the ladies congregate.” The smile dimmed and his gaze softened. “How are you and Miss Faith getting on, if I might inquire? Losing family is difficult any time of year, but to part with a beloved elder as the holidays approach would be particularly trying.”
How had he known of Grandfather’s passing? Mr. Farris was a gentleman, not of the merchant or working classes, and yet, he was also a frequent customer. The shop had been closed for a week in early October, all the time Chloe and Faith could spare for mourning. They’d not hung crepe or otherwise indulged in the rituals observed by their betters.
“The holidays are a comfort, actually,” Chloe said. “We keep busy, and customers in a merry mood are never a trial.” Then the customers left, the money in the drawer was never enough, and Mr. Phineas Barnstable made his daily inspection of the premises, peering through the shop window, swinging his cane at Grandfather’s sign.
“I cannot envision Mr. Nelson in a merry mood,” Mr. Farris said, “but I would not argue with a lady. As it happens, I am looking for a cookery book to gift my sister.”
He was… flirting? Teasing? No matter, he’d already purchased one book and inspired the sale of two others. Perhaps Mr. Farris was an angel in disguise, one who’d bring the shop enough custom to keep Mr. Barnstable from selling the place.
“We have many, many books for the kitchen,” Chloe said, coming out from behind the counter. “Does your sister prefer French or English?”
Chloe chattered on about various choices, and some of the other customers joined in the discussion. Mr. Farris subtly and politely inspired them to extolling the virtues of various volumes to one another, with the result that several ladies made purchases, while he remained undecided.
And positioned directly under the mistletoe, though only Chloe seemed to notice that detail.
“Have you any ambition to run a bookshop?” Chloe asked, as Faith collected payment at the counter. “You’ve sold more literature in the past hour than I’ve sold all afternoon.”
“Your grandfather did not leave you comfortable, did he?” Mr. Farris had lowered his voice on that question, though the women gabbling with Faith at the counter were paying him no mind now. Darkness would soon fall, and they were doubtless eager to hurry home with their purchases.
“We might have managed,” Chloe said. “Except that all of Grandpapa’s creditors demanded payment immediately after his passing, which means we had not the holiday revenue in hand at the time.”
“They refused to wait until the end of the year? I find that odd. Accepted practice is to pay up on accounts due at the end of each year.”
A light snow had begun to fall, turning the candlelit windows across the street magical in the later afternoon gloom. Perhaps Mr. Farris’s visit had been meant as a sign of hope, a reminder that good fortune could follow bad.
“You are a man of business. Would you extend credit to two young females trying to maintain a modest shop while carrying significant debts?”
“But the location of your establishment is excellent, your clientele loyal. I’ve had occasion to study on the matter, and you should be able to sell this place for—”
Chloe’s attention was caught by a dark shape outside the window. Mr. Barnstable, making his rounds earlier than usual.
“If we sell this business we have nothing, Mr. Farris. Grandfather took out a mortgage on the property, and as his health declined, he became lax about making payments. Penalties for late payment, interest on the penalties, fees, and interest on the unpaid fees has made the situation very difficult. The shop can support us, and we could easily have made the regular payments, but we do not own this establishment. It belongs to Grandfather’s estate, and our solicitor has advised us to plan accordingly.”
More honest than that, she could not be with a near stranger.
“I’m… sorry,” Mr. Farris said, reshelving the French dessert book he’d been examining. “I’m very sorry. Is there nothing to be done? No relatives who might step in?”
Barnstable made another pass, like a vulture circling a carcass. He carried his walking stick propped against his shoulder, and his hat sat at a jaunty angle.
“Grandfather was estranged from his only brother,” Chloe said. “Great-uncle lives in Northumbria and we wrote to him of Grandfather’s passing, but we rely on our great-uncle at our peril. The books will fetch something, and we’re permitted to keep the proceeds of the sales we’re making now as our wages. The solicitors were able to win that much of a concession from the mortgagor.”
The last of the other customers had filed out the door, and the bell had ceased its intermittent jingling.
“I’ll lock the drawer upstairs,” Faith said. “Take your time, Mr. Farris. We’ll need at least another hour to tidy the shelves for tomorrow and add up the day’s sales.”
Chloe and Faith usually lingered down in the shop as long as possible rather than face the chill upstairs. Chloe also did not trust Barnstable to merely patrol the walkway. As mortgagor, he likely had a key, and what he might do with it was the stuff of her nightmares.
“Is there nobody else who can aid you?” Mr. Farris asked, gaze very serious. “No friends, no suitors, nobody?”
The whole matter was none of his business, and yet, Chloe was tired of keeping the worry to herself, tired of reassuring Faith, tired of exuding good cheer in the face of unrelenting dread.
“We will have some funds by the time the holiday season concludes. We are willing to work hard. I’ve applied at the agencies, and Faith has done likewise. We’ll manage.” The agencies had not contacted either sister for so much as a single interview, for their only references were from the vicar, whose praise had been more vague than profuse.
Mr. Farris looked around the shop, which was well lit, because customers could not read what they could not see.
“Who said that those who can afford to buy books do not read them, and those who read them do not buy them?”
“You’re paraphrasing Mr. Southey,” Chloe said, as Mr. Barnstable came to a halt outside the window. She moved away from the cookery books and the mistletoe the better to keep Barnstable in view. “Mr. Barnstable could afford to give us a few months grace, but it’s as you say: The property is worth a great deal, and Grandfather’s mortgage-holder knows that.”
“What’s he doing here?” Mr. Farris posed the question with obvious distaste.
“You know Mr. Barnstable?”
“I am employed by a bank, and Barnstable owns a bank. I’d rather say I know of him, but our paths occasionally cross.”
Barnstable removed some sort of document from within his greatcoat and unrolled it against the outside wall between the large front window and the shop’s door.
“This cannot bode well,” Chloe muttered, for Barnstable could be up to no good.
A rhythmic pounding followed as he rapped against the side of the building, affixing his document to the wood framing beside the front door.
“I don’t like this,” Mr. Farris said. “I don’t care for this at all.”
The pounding put Chloe in mind of the sound made when Grandfather had been laid in his coffin, and the lid secured for the last time. Slow, heavy blows like the beat of a sorrowing heart.
“Come along,” Mr. Farris said, taking Chloe by the hand. “This is still your place of business, and he has no right—”
Chloe twisted free. “He has every right. We are in default of our mortgage, and he need not allow us any opportunity to catch up. We must pay the whole sum owing or face—”
Mr. Farris had wrenched open the door as Barnstable stepped back to admire a document affixed to the building.
“Miss Thatcher, good evening.” Barnstable tipped his hat and nodded. He was balding, paunchy, and wearing enough expensive wool to keep Chloe and Faith warm until spring. “Mr. Farris, how fortuitous that you’re here just as I’m posting the notice of sale. I’m sure Mr. Wentworth will be interested in the news. Happy Christmas to you both.”
Chloe whirled to read the notice, which advertised a sale by auction of the entire building one week hence.
“One week! You aren’t even giving us until Christmas?”
“Business is business,” Barnstable replied. “I am in business to make a profit, in fact, I am duty-bound to do no less. Mr. Farris can explain it to you. Have a pleasant week until next we meet.”
He strolled off into the deepening gloom, while Chloe’s heart broke—broke right in half, the pain even greater than grief.
“I can’t believe he’d do this,” she said. “We thought we’d at least have until the New Year. So many people make last-minute holiday purchases…” She wiped a tear from her cheek and drew her shawl more tightly around her.
“You knew this was likely to happen?” Mr. Farris asked, peering at the notice.
“We feared it, but Barnstable led us to believe he’d not pounce until the holidays were concluded. One week… we’ll be without a home days before Christmas.”
Mr. Farris stared after Barnstable as he disappeared around the corner in the direction of the bakeshop.
“I fear I am to blame for this, Miss Thatcher. I very much fear I am the author of your difficulties.”
He sprinted off into the darkness, leaving Chloe shivering in the cold.
“Barnstable is holding a public auction,” Aidan said. “A bedamned public auction days before Christmas. How can he do such a thing to two young women who have nowhere to go and are still grieving the death of their grandfather?”
Aidan paced his employer’s office, grateful for its deep carpets and thick walls. No sound escaped from Mr. Wentworth’s private chamber, not to the conference room next door, not to the bank lobby one floor below. Mr. Wentworth was nothing, if not fanatical regarding privacy.
Like everything else about Aidan’s employer, that emphasis on confidentiality was expressed most often in disapproving silence or the occasional raised eyebrow. Quinn Wentworth did not engage in overt displays of sentiment, and Aidan usually admired him for that. The bank, as Mr. Wentworth often remarked, was not a theater.
“Barnstable is in business to make a profit,” Mr. Wentworth replied turning a page of the document he studied. “As are we. When you alerted me to Thatcher’s passing, I assumed you did so in order that the bank might acquire his property. Was I in error, Farris?”
Nothing rattled Quinn Wentworth. He sat at his massive desk, as calm as an undertaker and dressed with nearly the same lack of ostentation. Aidan felt a rare frisson of resentment toward the person who’d plucked him from the street, given him a safe place to sleep, a job, and then an education.
“You have encouraged me to keep an eye on the merchant community, Mr. Wentworth, and I do that. I chat up the butcher’s boy when he makes his deliveries, I inquire into the dairymaid’s health when she brings the milk around of a morning. I drop into this or that shop, and report to you what I find. I had no idea Thatcher’s granddaughters were nearly destitute.”
“Why should you? Their situation is no concern of ours.” Wentworth penciled a note into the margin of the document. “Thatcher was getting on in years, and ought to have made better provision for his dependents. You knew the bank was looking for a property to house a branch office and that Thatcher’s location was ideal for that purpose. What did you think I’d do with the information that the bookshop owner had gone to his reward?”
Aidan had passed along news of Thatcher’s death two months ago, amid the usual gossip: A prominent mercer had sued a newspaper for libel. A theater troupe had been laid low on opening night by bad eel pie. The vicar at St. Euphonia’s had been posted to a village outside Leeds amid rumors of mishandled funds.
“I quite honestly forgot I’d told you, sir, and now that we know the young ladies will be rendered homeless by the sale, we can look elsewhere for a better branch location.”
Another note scribbled onto the margin. “Can the young ladies bid on the property themselves?” He didn’t even look up to pose that question.
“My understanding is that they have very limited means. What coin they can earn from holiday shoppers might be all they have to show for years of minding that shop.”
Look at me. At least have the decency to look me in the eye when you decide to ruin two innocent lives.
Silence stretched, one of Quinn Wentworth’s favorite negotiating tools. Aidan had worked for the banker too long to be drawn out by that tactic though. For once, Quinn Wentworth would explain himself.
He turned another page. Aidan waited until Mr. Wentworth sat back and removed his spectacles.
“Here’s where we are, Farris. The community of merchants, mindful that one of their own has died leaving two dependents destitute, will bid vigorously on that property because that is their version of charity. The season of the year works to the advantage of the seller, meaning Barnstable. He will at the very least collect all of his trumped up fees, penalties, and interest in addition to the principle owed.”
“You’re saying the merchants will bid generously, knowing that the young ladies face penury?”
This theory, like all of Mr. Wentworth’s theories, had merit. If mercantile London was ever generous and decent, it was at Yuletide and to one of their own.
“Wait until January, though,” Wentworth continued, “and the merchants quickly resume business as usual. Your young ladies will see more coin from the sale if it’s held before Christmas. They will present a pathetic spectacle, orphans turned out into the frigid night, and their performance will be rewarded.”
This was what Quinn Wentworth did. He applied logic with unflinching disregard for emotion, as a director of a stage play considered how gestures or lines of dialogue would affect the audience. Usually, Aidan was impressed with the workings of such an orderly, sensible mind.
Not this time. “You are wrong, sir.” It won’t be a performance.
One dark brow lifted to a merely curious height. “I am in error? How novel. Do enlighten me, Mr. Farris.”
“The holidays are when most commercial establishments are busiest, and the week between Boxing Day and New Year’s is typically when a bookshop sees the most sales. People return one book and buy two to replace it. Boxing Day social calls mean all of London is out and about, and yet, the longest weeks of winter are still ahead. If ever we buy books, we do it as the holidays are passing, and January looms before us in all its dreary interminability.”
Aidan knew the habits of book purchasers both from discussions with old Mr. Thatcher and from years of being a devoted reader.
“Not all of us, Farris, have the leisure time to waste with Sir Walter’s maunderings.”
That comment bordered on unfair, and Quinn Wentworth was never unfair. He did, on rare occasion, benefit from hearing another’s viewpoint.
“Not all of us, sir, are so lacking in imagination that we can think of aught else to do the livelong day besides work, cipher, and think about work and ciphering.”
The eyebrow of eternal damnation lofted a tad higher, into the did-I-hear-you-correctly range, though Aidan would not take back his words. Mr. Penrose had once indicated that Mr. Wentworth had come to reading later than most, but so had Aidan, and he’d loved books ever since.
“Are you discontent with your post at the bank, Mr. Farris?”
The question was polite, the threat clear, but again, Aidan knew his employer, and knew better than to show how this discussion upset him.
“I owe my employer my loyalty, Mr. Wentworth, therefore, I must be discontent when the bank proposes an action that will unnecessarily redound to its discredit. If you purchase that shop at auction and turn the young ladies out as the holidays approach, Barnstable will be made whole.
“We both know,” Aidan went on, “Barnstable will twist and misrepresent the sums owed by the estate so that he makes much profit on the sale while leaving nothing for the young ladies to inherit. You and this bank, however, will have paid an inflated price for the property in your eagerness to gain possession of that building. Worse yet, the bank’s reputation—turning helpless women out into the cold at Yuletide—will suffer as well.”
Mr. Wentworth rose, and though he was only two inches taller than Aidan, he carried the height in a manner that made other men feel lesser. Perhaps the problem was that Mr. Wentworth moved as quietly as he spoke, or perhaps the stretch of fine tailoring across broad shoulders hinted at the bully boy Wentworth had once been.
“Redounding, are we?” he asked with mock dismay. “Polishing my image as Bad Fortune’s personal errand boy? I treasure that image, Farris. Knowing that I mean what I say and never go back on a contract once signed saves all and sundry a great deal of heartache and drama.”
He strolled around the massive desk, hands linked behind his back. He might have been a tutor preparing to wax eloquent about the Shakespearean tragedies, except that the tragedy for the Thatcher sisters would be all too real.
“You do raise an interesting point,” Wentworth said. “Putting unearned profit into Barnstable’s greedy hands is a logical outcome of an expeditious sale. Suppose we can’t have that. Not when Phineas has been such a naughty fellow the live-long year. I’ll have a word with him, and suggest the sale be moved back until after Christmas.”
He collected the document on the desk and passed it to Aidan. “Direct the clerks to make three copies of this contract as annotated, please, and keep an eye on that bookshop. I want daily reports, Mr. Farris. How much custom, of what variety, purchasing which titles.”
“Yes, sir.” Aidan accepted the thick sheaf of pages and left his employer to his ciphering.
Something about the interview didn’t sit well, as if Aidan had arrived at a conclusion Mr. Wentworth had intended for him to arrive at, but no matter. Aidan had earned the Thatcher sisters another week at least in which to collect revenue from brisk sales, and himself another week to pray they’d find a miracle, before Quinn Wentworth saw them cast out into the cold.