She Hates Me Not: A Richer in Love Romance (20 page)

Victoria lifted her cup in salute.  “And you still make the best mug of tea.”

Chapter Three

T
he world was
not flat.  Its circumference had been validated many times over.  Yet the title of the book Charles clasped in his hands appeared to disagree.

Briefly he flipped through its crisp pages.  It contained no maps, and the words he skimmed referenced finance, not geography.  Relieved, he returned it to the shelf.

Bored of waiting, he had drifted downstairs – first to re-examine the storeroom door and then the bookshop beneath it.  Quickly his survey became overwhelming due to the breadth and depth of printed materials.  The national book market continued to flourish, and the daguerreotype had given way to images so real, Charles felt transfixed by their richness.

Like Miss Smith.

He pushed aside the capricious thought and wandered behind the shop’s counter.  Its glass top sheltered books that appeared to be from his era, and only the padlock on its rim kept him from reaching inside.

Much of what Charles expected to find in a shop was not there.  No register.  No ledgers or ink pots.  In their customary place sat a black rectangle that was roughly the size and shape of his old writing slate. 

He touched the rectangle with his thumb.  The contraption awoke, and an image seized its screen – Victoria’s transcendent smile tucked among five others.  With painted faces and matching frocks, they held glasses of champagne and mugged like they shared one uproarious joke.  The picture was too intimate for Charles to deduce where they stood, but all six women were jubilant and perhaps a touch in their cups.  Two, he observed, were of African lineage.  Another looked to be from the subcontinent of India.  A fourth likely hailed from the Far East. 

Intrigued by their diversity, and clear affection for one another, Charles smiled to himself.  Perhaps the world was flat after all.  The idea pleased him more than a little.

Straightening, Charles set his hands on the edge of the counter.  He imagined what it must be like to operate a business, to spend each day kowtowing to the whims of others, fetching and wrapping and chatting with strangers whose custom put food on the table.  It would not be unpleasant, he determined.  Wearying, yes – but no more so than the career he had chosen.

A shopkeeper’s lot was out of the question.  His profession was the nethermost he could sink in society without discrediting his family more than he already did.  Perhaps that was why he had pursued journalism.  He was worth too much for clerking, yet somehow worthless to his brothers.

Or perhaps he found the lives of others more interesting than his own.

Turning, he inspected the wall behind the counter.  More books, some priced outrageously high, sat in glass cases.  More padlocks kept his hands at bay.

One book was splayed open on a woven gold stand, and Charles read the poem on its page.

And yet these days of dreariness are sent us from above;

They do not come in anger, but in faithfulness and love;

They come to teach us lessons which bright ones could not yield,

And to leave us blest and thankful when their purpose is fulfilled.

He recognized the stanza – a translation from German, if he was not mistaken.  Perhaps it was a hymn.  Certainly it was lyrical.  Then Charles took a step back.

Were Victoria’s days dreary?

There were few accidents, he’d learned, in the arrangement of spaces.  Houses often spoke louder than their owners.  A one-room flat might reveal more than its tenant.  And appearances could be read like a book.

To his right, a key rattled in the front door’s lock.  The window shade was still drawn, but Charles presumed it was Victoria, and he darted around the counter to stand in a posture of courteous expectation ingrained in him since childhood.

As the bronze bell rang overhead, one of the women of African lineage entered the shop.  She crossed its threshold, wrestling to retrieve the key, and froze in shock when she noticed Charles.

The boy in her arms was less flummoxed.  “Where’s Auntie Tor?” he demanded.

Charles recovered before the woman did.  “Auntie Tor will return shortly.  She is out on an errand.  I am Charles Stratford, her…”  A dozen possibilities, all inaccurate, popped into his mind.  He was unprepared to explain his presence in Victoria’s bookshop, much less her life.

The woman’s befuddlement transformed to delight, and she finished the thought with an enthusiastic grin.  “Boyfriend?  Ah, Tori.  That’s my girl!”  Jerking the key loose, she passed it to her son and extended her hand.  “I’m Claire.  Pleased to meet you.”

Informal, Charles reminded himself.  Informal.  Informal.  Informal.

He took the woman’s hand and returned her squeeze of greeting.  Habitually he tipped a nod.

Letting go, Claire looked him up and down.  “Oooh, Tor’s found a gentleman.  House of Lords, is it?”

Hoping the comment was rhetorical, Charles just smiled.  Claire – who had offered no surname amidst her salutations – seemed hoydenish yet more than common.  She was petite, as her skin-tight trousers revealed, and the substantial diamond ring on her left hand bespoke both of marriage and wealth.  Her watch, too, glittered with a multitude of jewels.  Her blouse bore the pattern of a leopard’s pelt, and in place of a pelerine or cloak, she wore a sack coat of red leather.  She did not wear a hat.

When he caught himself staring, Charles gestured toward the stairs.  “Please, do be comfortable.”

“I can see you already are.”  Winking, she brushed by him.  “Let’s head to the lounge.  I’ll put the kettle on, and you can tell me all about yourself.”

Dutifully Charles followed her up the pair of steep staircases.  Claire managed them admirably in boots with heels of at least three inches.  She moved through Victoria’s bedroom and into the kitchen – a necessary path which Charles now forced himself to ignore.

“This is Lucan.”  When Claire set him down, the boy promptly grabbed Charles’ hand.  “He’s four and good as gold.  Keep him entertained while I fix the tea?”

Charles felt as though he’d plunged over a cliff into a river of rapids.  With six brothers of his own, he had several nephews and one niece for a time.  Nannies shepherded his younger relations from room to room, but he’d stolen a few sportive moments through the years.  None had been from 2014, of course.

Unabashedly Lucan tugged him into the drawing room and onto the sofa.  Its cushions were still disheveled from the nap Charles had taken after breakfast, when he awoke to find Victoria gone, her note of explanation clipped to one of his boots.

Grabbing two pillows, Lucan flopped backward.  His black eyes never left Charles’ face, and his expression was indecisive.

Charles realized he wasn’t passing muster.  Claire might be easily charmed, but her son wasn’t so trusting.  Conversation was a great equalizer, however, even if children should be seen and not heard.

“Tell me, Lucan, what are some of your favorite toys?”

“My LeapTab3, my JBox Trainer, and my Wreck Bug Nanos.”

“I see.”  Charles rubbed his cheeks with his hands, a nervous gesture he normally managed to quell.  “And do you play any games of make-believe?”

“At school we play astronauts and submarines.  Teacher lets us play transformers when we don’t misbehave.”

“Right.”  As he sat on his hands, Charles prayed for Miss Smith’s swift return.  “And do you play any lawn games?”

“You mean outdoors?  Yeah, my favorites are cricket and skittles and conkers.”

Thanks be to God, Charles thought.  “I enjoy all of those, too.”

“Want to play now?”

“He’s not here to play,” Claire called from the kitchen.  “Milk and sugar?”

Charles realized she was speaking to him.  “A splash of milk only, thank you.”

“You an actor?”

Unaccustomed to conversing with persons unseen, Charles couldn’t discern what Claire asked.  “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, you’re in fancy dress.  Are you in a show on the West End?”

Claire emerged from the kitchen holding two of the cylindrical coffee cups.  Mugs, Victoria called them, which must in some way reference their voluminous size.  Charles freed his hands to accept one as he replied.

“No, I’m a journalist.  I write for
The Daily News
.”

Sitting down beside Lucan, Claire looked confused.  “Haven’t heard of that.  You don’t mean the
Daily Mail
?”

“Yes, of course.”  Charles stifled a wince at his blunder.  “I’m still…waking up.”

With a catlike smile Claire sipped her tea.  “You two had a late night, then?  Steampunk party at one of the clubs?  Or did Tori go as the Queen and you’re her Albert?”

“Mummy, who’s Albert?”

“He’s the prince we’re going to see.”  She put an arm around Lucan.  “We’re off to the National Portrait Gallery.  That’s why I thought I’d pop over since Tor lives up the street.”

“What a fine idea.”  Without daring to address her bombardment of questions, Charles volleyed one of his own.  “Do you have an occupation?”

“I’m a solicitor.  Taking a break to raise this one and his sister.  But I’m going back when Lucan starts Year 2.”

Charles latched onto the part he understood.  “A solicitor?  That is an impressive profession.”

She seemed flattered.  “Thank you.  Following my father’s footsteps.  I thought Tor might also, but then – well, I guess she told you about her parents?”  When Charles shook his head, she wavered.  “Maybe I shouldn’t be the one to say anything.  We’re old family friends.  Our dads go way back.  But I’ll leave that for her to tell you.”

“I admire your discretion,” Charles replied.

“And I admire your manners.”  Claire set her mug on the floor.  “I need to bring Lucan over for lessons so he can learn to be a little gentleman.”

“No thank you!” Lucan said.

“Case in point!”  She tickled her son who squealed with glee.  “So how did you and Tor meet?  I saw her just last week, and she didn’t mention you.”

“Hello?”  Victoria’s voice careened up the stairs.  “Is that Claire?”

Exhaling with relief, Charles thanked his Maker again.

“’Tis!” Claire hollered back.  “With a bundle of trouble in tow.”

Lucan jumped off the sofa and ran to meet Miss Smith at the top of the stairs.  “Hello, Auntie!  Have you been shopping?  What did you buy me?”

Dropping several large bags, she scooped Lucan up to hug him.  “Nothing, you greedy goose.  Unless you want a new toothbrush.”

When she entered the drawing room, Charles stood.  So did Claire, but only to rescue her son and claim a hug for herself.  Saucily she grinned at Victoria.  “Toothbrush?”

Miss Smith froze, opened mouthed, and glanced at Charles.  “How long have you two been here?  I’m sorry I was out.”

“Don’t be silly.  I should have rung.”  Claire pried Lucan from Victoria’s arms.  “And we should be going.  Let’s have lunch soon – just the two of us.  Text me when you’re free.”

Agreeing, Victoria showed them to the door.

In their absence Charles sank back onto the sofa.  He wiped his damp palms on his trouser legs and tried to process everything Claire had shared.  Something had happened to Miss Smith’s parents.  Her father was a solicitor, and she could have been one also.  The changes wrought between his century and hers, particularly for women, were almost incomprehensible.  Even Nightingale would surely be satisfied.

When Victoria returned, lugging the bags into the drawing room, Charles stood again.  Her presence consoled him more than he could express.  She had changed into a frock the color of peonies which resembled something his aunt might have donned in her youth, with a high waist and layered sleeves, although Priddy’s hemline would have touched the floor, not her knees.  When it came to attire in Miss Smith’s London, less was apparently more.

“You are as lovely as the flowers whose colors you bear,” he told her.

Tiny blooms of pink appeared on her cheeks.  “I bought you some clothes, probably more than you need.  I had to guess at the sizes.  Even after nine years, I have a hard enough time shopping for me over here.  Thank heaven for Hugo Boss.”

Nervous banter, Charles determined.  Not worth an immediate inquiry.  “You have my thanks,” he answered simply.