CHAPTER 1
Massachusetts, 1876
Celia glanced at the dim light in Mr. Chestley's back office.Surely, her employer wouldn't mind if she examined theTennyson a few moments longer. The hand-tooled leather volumehad arrived at the bookstore by post that morning, all theway from London. Who would order such an expensive item?She opened it at random.
And the soul of the rose went into my blood—
The Tennyson line touched a chord in her. How musical—richand true. She supposed every woman's heart longed to belike that rose whose soul got into a man's blood.
Stretching, she turned up the gas lamp overhead, then setherself in front of the counter and paged to the poem's notes.
—an over-wrought youth in love with a girl whom he is preventedfrom marrying by difference in social position.
A sudden thought stabbed her. Her beloved friend wouldnever read words like these—never be that rose ...
She pushed the sorrow aside. She must. Why else had herparents sent her to work in this new environment? Her eyesscanned the shelves of books. The week she'd spent here hadafforded her a reader's paradise. A well-stocked bookstore thisfar west of Boston was a delight. The place with its paradox ofstimulation and soothing quiet ministered to the deep partsof her soul. How glad she was to spend her working hourshere among these books rather than in the kitchen or at thesewing box.
She looked down and turned to the Tennyson's Table ofContents. The scent of its dark red leather mingled like fineperfume with its newly cut sheets. Carefully fingering the pagesof beautiful print, she scanned the contents then glanced tothe end of the column, "In Memoriam A.H.H." Next, a pictureof Tennyson greeted her, a brooding sort of fellow, hair andbeard bushing around his face, yet she knew his contemporariesadored him, calling him the bard.
Footsteps echoed from Mr. Chestley's office. Celia quicklyclosed the book, placed it on the counter, and began openingthe other packages. Maybe she could examine it later.
Her portly employer appeared beside her. "Ah, the Tennyson.I hoped it would come before this evening."
"Is it for someone special?"
"Oh, yes. I think it best you know about Mr. Lyons before hearrives. A man of decided learning, he comes every fortnight—eitherto purchase or order something new." He pursed his lips."And as unapproachable as Mr. Lyons makes himself, he stillgets the community tongues wagging. But I don't pay mind tothe gossip, and don't you either. He's one of our best customers.He usually comes Friday nights when we stay open late. IfI'm unavailable, treat him with utmost respect." Mr. Chestleybestowed a grandfatherly smile on her. "Of course, you will.You're an exceptional girl."
Celia felt herself glow at the unexpected praise.
"Now, as for the rest of these books, you can arrange themin the display window. I'll be busy in the office."
Of course, she would do what he said, but after he walkedaway, she couldn't help opening the Tennyson again.
Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,These three alone lead life to sovereign power.
Mr. Chestley and she had discussed such a thought thisweek, had disagreed about its view of man and life. She hadn'texpected a differing opinion from an old family friend.
She allowed herself another few minutes with the Tennyson,then gathering the books, headed for the display window,glimpsing the cavernous aisles of bookshelves. Here she woulddiscover new worlds. The bookstore would afford her not onlya new environment, but a little adventure as well.
Maybe a wonderful, hearthside adventure. How she lovedto read. She looked at the books she carried and clasped themhard against her. Would she ever again find another soul matein this, considering what had happened last year? However, shedid have her father and mother. She couldn't have faced thepast few months without them.
Before stepping up to the window, she glanced back. Eachbookcase had a polished mahogany end, the one nearest thedoor carved with representations of music, art, and writing.Over the years, Mr. Chestley had lovingly added a touch hereand there of Old World beauty. He not only viewed literature asfine art, but believed the place his books resided should evincean artistic spirit as well.
Edward Lyons paused in the shadow of a tree near a lamppost.Not until a lone horse and buggy passed and turned thecorner did he cross the deserted, gas-lit street. The brisk airforecast a soon-to-arrive autumn. He halted in front of theglowing bookstore window.
A shipment must have arrived recently because all the titleswere new. The display had an artistic touch he'd not seen previously.That edition of Plato looked interesting. He'd examineits footnotes; it might be a possible purchase.
A glint of pale yellow inside the store caught his eye. Awoman's flaxen hair, or was it a girl's, shone in the lamplight,artfully coiled in a braid at the nape of her neck. He wonderedwhat manner of face—
She turned to examine something on the counter, her ovalcountenance displaying classic features. Ah ...
But what about her mental acumen? Working in a bookstore,she would be bound to have some, unless hers was aclerk's mentality.
However, for him to deal with a stranger? His first spark ofinterest died a quick death. Accustomed to Mr. Chestley as hewas, he didn't want his ordered bookstore world upset. Besides,he was done with pretty women. The last one had nearly beenhis undoing.
Still, he would ask to see the Plato.
* * *
The door's brass bell jangled. Celia looked up.
A man with an imposing frame entered, wrapped in a largeovercoat. His hat brim pulled low, a wealth of brown haircascaded around his neck, covering most of his visage. Heremoved his hat. Celia startled with recognition. The man wasTennyson come to life—with the same bushy hair and beard.
Just then, another customer appeared from one of the bookaisles, an older woman enveloped in a tented gray coat, holdinghigh a volume. "I knew this was somewhere. Last week I sawit on the shelf above." The woman plunked the book on thecounter. Her large knit hat framed plump, rosy cheeks. "I toldMrs. Divers about this; she'll be glad I found it."
Celia saw the gentleman pivot and quickly enter one of theaisles, but not before the voluble customer noticed him. Shestared at his retreating figure, then bent close to Celia andmurmured, "Be careful of that one, Miss. He's a bad sort. Thewoman I'm companion to—she was his mother-in-law." Thenin a louder tone, "Let me introduce myself. I'm Miss Waul, dearie."The woman opened her purse and offered a gold dollar."Here. This ought to take care of it."
"More than enough. I have your change right here." Celialifted a box from underneath the counter.
While Celia wrapped the purchase in brown paper, thewoman flapped her coat lapels around her neck. "I should havetaken my long scarf to tie up my collar. Didn't realize it wouldturn so cold tonight." She leaned in again and asked in a whisper,"Is Mr. Chestley around somewhere? I wouldn't want toleave you alone with ..." Her head tilted in the direction of thebookshelves where the other customer had disappeared.
"Mr. Chestley is in his office in back." Celia kept her voicelow.
"Good. Well, good night then."
The door rattled when the woman slammed it shut.
Celia's eyes swept the bookcases where she'd last seen thestranger. He was nowhere to be seen, so she bent down toreplace the cash box.
The Tennyson was underneath the counter. The poet hadlost a close friend unexpectedly. Like herself. Somewhere in oneof his poems he'd expressed that. She hesitated, then decided toopen the hand-tooled volume once more.
Was it the poem "In Memoriam A.H.H"? Yes, here it was.
As she read, the immortal words brought comfort. She feltherself still inside, the self-recrimination, the guilt, eased. Shewould read a bit further. She grasped the page to turn it—
"Huh-hum!" A throaty growl pierced the silence.
Celia started violently, her hand jerked and she heard thepaper tear. She looked down in horror. Her stomach sickened.For a moment she couldn't move, then glanced up at the largeman looming in front of her.
She let the book stay underneath the counter, then slowlyrose to face the customer.
"I thought I heard—" He stopped, looked at her more closely,then asked instead, "Has my order arrived? It's a special editionof Tennyson poetry."
The Tennyson was his book? A terrible dread took hold ofher. How could she tell him? But she nodded, sank down toretrieve the volume.
What could she say? What would she say? She closed thebook, unable to bear his first sight to be a ripped page. Thenrose.
Silently, she handed him the Tennyson.
"Good. I've been waiting some time for this edition."
"It is a beautiful book," she said, her eyes downcast. Shecleared her throat. "But something happened a moment ago. Iaccidentally ripped one of its pages." The last words were almosta whisper. Her gaze rose reluctantly to his, bracing herself forhis reaction. "It was an accident. I am so sorry."
He looked at her, then looked down at the book, comprehensiondawning on him. "That was the tearing sound I heard?"
She nodded, mute.
"Which page?" Anger punctuated his voice.
"I'm not sure. I was looking at "In Memoriam A.H.H."
He found the Table of Contents, located the page number ofthe poem, then opened to it.
The rip streaked down a third of the page.
His dark eyes looked up, piercing her like an arrow. "Whatwere you doing, reading this? It's a special edition. I only orderthe best and expect mint condition."
"Sir, I didn't mean to. Truly! I would never dream—"
"But you did. Does your employer allow you to tamper withspecial orders?" His mouth set hard. "What are you going to doabout this?"
Celia stared up at him. "I don't blame you for being angry."Her voice had sunk again. How could she assuage him? "I'msure Mr. Chestley will have me order another one for you. Iwill, of course, pay for it out of my wages. I would never allowMr. Chestley to cover the cost of my mistake." As she said thewords, she was wondering how many weeks or months, it wouldtake her to pay for the expensive volume. The Chestleys gaveher room and board with only a small stipend for necessities,maybe a little left for nonessentials. She took a deep breath.Somehow, she would do it.
"Is something wrong here?" Mr. Chestley rounded the cornerof the bookcase. "I thought I heard your voice from myback office." He addressed Mr. Lyons.
Neither Celia nor Mr. Lyons said anything.
Mr. Chestley turned to Celia and looked at her questioningly.
Dread filled her. She would have to tell him. She started toopen her mouth—
"No," Mr. Lyons said. "Nothing is the matter. Your assistantjust gave me the Tennyson I ordered."
"I was sure I heard your voice raised. I want to make surenothing is wrong."
"No. Just excited, that's all."
"Well, then." Mr. Chestley's countenance cleared and helooked from one to the other. "Let me introduce you. Mr. Lyons,this is my new assistant, Miss Celia Thatcher. Her father and Iare longtime friends."
"Celia," he nodded to the big man, "this is Mr. EdwardLyons, a valued patron of our bookstore."
The man bowed slightly, stood silently for some moments,then finally asked, "So you just arrived?"
Celia felt the forced interest of his question. "Yes, the beginningof the week, but I've been coming here for years."
Should she explain? She thought she should. "My parents'home is nearly forty miles away, but our family visits every year.Time spent in the bookshop has always been a highlight."
"Yes, Celia is quite the reader," Mr. Chestley interjected. "Infact, we've had one good discussion already—about Emerson'sSelf-Reliance."
Mr. Lyons expelled a long, deep breath then said, "Selfrelianceover conformity, the individual over society. I believehis thinking on individualism reaches as far back as Plato."
"Yes. Much to admire in the man's writing," Mr. Chestleysaid. "A great deal of truth. However, my assistant takes issuewith him. What did you say a few nights ago?" The proprietorturned, his smile encouraging Celia to speak.
She hesitated. "Well, sir ... as much as Emerson is respectedin certain circles, I question his repeated idea of 'trust thyself.'I believe he has too heartfelt, too wholesale a trust in himself."She glanced at Mr. Lyons before continuing. "On the onehand, I believe each of us is created uniquely, given a particularmessage which is ours alone, and should not be smothered bysociety's dictates. On the other, we can be deceived about ourselves.Pride can cloud our vision. Emerson relies too heavily onhis own ability to discover truth."
"Emerson challenges us to 'live in truth,'" Mr. Chestley said,"to speak and act in a truthful way with our family and friends.Where is the fault in that?"
"On the surface none, but can one trust oneself to alwaysknow the truth? Do the right thing toward God and man?"
"I grant you Emerson would think so."
"I'd term that monumental pride."
Mr. Chestley laughed. "You see, Lyons, what I'm up against?"
Celia glanced again at the customer, who gave no indicationof whether he agreed or not.
"As I said—" Mr. Chestley cleared his throat, "—we had amost interesting discussion on the subject. Now, Mr. Lyons, youmentioned Plato. We have a new edition in our shop window."
"Yes, I'd like to look it over."
"Good. Miss Thatcher can assist you. I'm in the middle ofexamining my accounts. If you need any additional help, I'll bein my office."
Mr. Chestley turned to leave, and Celia quickly steppedfrom behind the counter and walked to the front window.
She leaned over the display and reached for the Plato.Turning around, she again noted the customer's shaggy appearance.Yes, his resemblance to Tennyson was remarkable. Shewalked back and offered him the book.
"Thank you." Mr. Lyons reached for the Tennyson, and takingthe two volumes, disappeared behind a bookcase. The aisleheld one of several chairs placed around the shop so customerscould peruse materials at their leisure. Celia concluded Mr.Lyons felt quite at home.
After half an hour, he approached again. The Tennyson layopen in his large, finely shaped hand. That didn't accord withthe rest of his unkempt appearance. He laid the book on thescarred oak of the counter with the title "Oenone" printed atthe top of the page.
"Before you say anything," Celia began quietly, "I repeat, Iwill order a new book. And pay for it myself. I am so sorry aboutthe ripped page."
He looked at her pointedly. "No. You will not. And youwill not tell your employer. We will let this go—as if it neverhappened."
"But it did. I was looking at the book when I startled andripped it. I loved the red leather binding and have been readingit since its arrival."
"Have you read quite a bit of Tennyson?"
"I particularly enjoyed 'The Lady of Shalott' and 'Idylls ofthe King.' Also, 'In Memoriam A.H.H.,' I found comfort."
His look was quizzical. He pointed to a particular line."Perhaps you are aware this quote represents Tennyson's philosophyof life."
Celia bent her gaze to note the place his finger indicated.She read aloud:
Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,These three alone lead life to sovereign power.
She looked up. "I came across those exact phrases this afternoonwhen I unwrapped the volume."
"From what you said about Emerson, I take it you would notbe in agreement with England's poet laureate."
"Self-reverence, self-knowledge, and self-control are important.But whether they alone lead life to sovereign power isanother question." She hesitated, then gently added, "No, Idon't agree. But I think Tennyson had more of God in his lifethan the quote suggests."
Mr. Lyons stood in silence, yet when she glanced up at him,she caught a sharp, direct glint in his eyes. She decided not topress the discussion further.
"I'd be obliged if you'd wrap the books well," he said, his toneclipped. "My house is some distance and I came on foot."
