A Sprig of Mistletoe, page 5
“Horsley’s illustrations are perfect for the mantel, ’tis true, and the message is sure to cure a dry eye,” Bart said, his voice catching. “Even the poor delight in beautiful things.”
“Yes. Just so.” Mr. Hatchard closed the card, then reopened it as if that calculated act guaranteed a sale. “Further, you’ll notice there are two scenes of charity flanking the central portion, in which food and comfort are bestowed on the poor.” His smile broadened. “Brilliant addition, if I say so myself. It’s as if Sir Henry and Mr. Dickens were of the same mind!” He paused to take an audible breath. “Of course, I am sure that is not the case, but these are the coincidences of a bookseller’s dreams.”
Mr. Hatchard handed her the card expectantly. She bit her bottom lip, not at all certain the idea would catch on. What about the added expense of sending the cards? Not everyone could afford the Penny Post.
“I am all amazement,” she said. “Though there is one thing that strikes me . . . I do wish the idea of charity lasted the year long.”
“It’s a noble idea few take time to ponder.” Bart stared at her with exceeding care. “I am puzzled that it occupies your mind.”
Bart’s appreciative gaze penetrated her being, eliciting a warmth deep inside her she couldn’t quite tame. Was he complimenting her?
Unwilling to dissect that thought, she handed the card back to Mr. Hatchard. “This is a fascinating innovation, but I am more interested in Mr. Dickens’s book today.”
The bookseller placed the card on the counter. “Which one?
“A Christmas Carol,” she said happily. “I have come all the way from Hertfordshire to purchase three copies.”
“Oh dear.” Mr. Hatchard glanced at Bart, then began worrying his hands. “My lady, I am distressed to tell you that we have sold out of A Christmas Carol. I just sent couriers this morning to Bradbury and Evans in Whitefriars for more copies.”
“I see.” But she didn’t. She inhaled deeply, trying to hide her bewilderment. Oh, how she’d looked forward to a richly rewarding Christmas, and Dickens’s new book would surely have set the mood for the children. Her chin quivered as a riptide of emotion swept over her. Why did the best-laid plans always have a way of falling apart? Discouraged, she tried to straighten her shoulders. The burden was heavy, however. “This is all so disappointing. As I said, I have come all the way from—”
“Do accept my humblest apologies,” Mr. Hatchard interrupted. “It isn’t that I don’t want to sell you Mr. Dickens’s book. I would if I could. That’s why I’m here. But I simply do not have the stock.”
Bart waved toward the storefront. “There are three books in the window.”
“Yes.” Mr. Hatchard peered at the display and released an empathetic sigh. “Regrettably, I cannot sell those copies. They are visual inducements to publicize Mr. Dickens’s latest work, you see. And the strategy is working: in the last three days people have come from all over England to purchase A Christmas Carol.” He gave her an understanding nod, backing it up with soothing explanations meant to ease her upset. “Simply put, we’ve been overrun and are failing to meet demand. Mr. Dickens is aware of the situation, and I am happy to report that Bradbury and Evans have guaranteed they are doing everything in their power to resupply quickly.” He took a breath, breaking from his long-winded explanation. “If you are looking for Christmas books, however, we do have a first edition of Washington Irving’s The Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.”
“We already have that book in our home library.” Her chest expanded, and her knees weakened. The man obviously didn’t want her to leave empty-handed. “I appreciate your kind suggestion, Mr. Hatchard, but I was seeking something new from Mr. Dickens, in particular.”
The bookseller nodded slowly.
“This is a regrettable happenstance,” Bart said. He bowed his head, then turned to Kitty. “You shall get your books, Lady Catherine. I shall make sure of it.”
“But that’s impossible. You heard the gentleman.” She glanced up at Bart, suppressing a sigh. Stunned with bewilderment that she was relying on a practical stranger to solve her dilemma, dread and a tiny bead of hope burned through her. “How can anyone promise such a thing?”
“Sometimes it’s not where you go for what you ultimately desire, but who you know.” He gently grasped her by the elbow, her suspicions escalating. Who did Bart know that could possibly alter her circumstances? Even Ambrose did not have that authority. “Allow me to escort you to your brother.” His voice, deep and melodic, soothed her disquieted spirit as he patted her hand. “I implore you to have faith. Miracles have been known to happen.”
She managed a quivering smile as Bart started to lead her to Ambrose and Meg, who stood happily discussing several leather-bound books. “You are a strange one to speak of miracles, Mr. Fernsby.”
“Am I?” He quirked his brow, his penetrating stare serious. “How so?”
“One moment you confess indifference to all things miraculous, and the next, you counsel me to believe in something I can neither see nor imagine. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you know more about the underlying beliefs of Christmas than you let on.”
“I base my beliefs on facts, my lady.” He glanced around the bookstore as if worried they’d be overheard. “For instance, I don’t know how education will be brought to the poor.” His face altered visibly. “But I vow it will. Because ‘If you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, “Move from here to there,” and it will move; and nothing will be impossible to you.’”
She stared at him, befuddled at his casual reciting of Scripture. She hadn’t known him but a few hours and already the layers of his personality were peeling back to reveal a deeper, more meaningful man. He was full of surprises, and she found him fascinating. What more would she discover as the day wore on?
Bart had never felt so tall and noble as he did when escorting Kitty, her delicate hand tucked in his arm. Even more astounding was how something unusual inside him awakened at the contact, a yearning to be more than adequate in her eyes. What was it about Egerton’s sister that infringed on Bart’s peace of mind, pooling him beneath her feet? And who was he to think he could advise her on any matter? She didn’t know his real credentials, not that his baronetcy mattered. A man’s title didn’t possess the man.
Still, there was a definite wall between them. He didn’t want to read this particular Dickens book. In fact, he hated Christmas. But he also had it within his power to fulfill her greatest desire. The thought baptized him with renewed energy, and he felt like a cad for not speaking up and saying so from the start. But he’d had his reasons.
Hatchard’s assistant, Alfred, exited the stock room, juggling twenty books, each wrapped separately in brown paper and tied with ribbon. “Here is your order, Mr.—”
“One moment please,” Bart cut in. “I have something of importance to do first.”
“I beg you, Mr. Fernsby,” Kitty said. “You mustn’t fuss over me. I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”
He had no doubt of it. But nothing she said could sway him. He was leading Kitty to Egerton and her friend simply because it allowed him a moment to get close to her without anyone accusing him of impropriety.
“Truly, I can walk on my own,” she insisted.
“Of course you can.” But he didn’t want her to, and he couldn’t chance that she’d eavesdrop on his conversation with Alfred while Bart instructed Hatchard’s assistant to unwrap three of the books he’d purchased, then produce them to her. He had no idea why it was so important for him to keep his role in this a secret, but if all went according to plan, Kitty would have her books and he’d get another glimpse at the lovely dimples that adorned her face when she smiled. That in and of itself would be payment enough.
“Allow me to pamper you anon, eh?” he said with a wink, quoting her brother.
“Oh!” Her cheeks flushed. She tilted her head and glared at him. “What you suggest is scandalous. Need I remind you we have only just met?”
Through no fault but his own.
“No,” Egerton said simply as he and Miss Castleton turned to greet them as they approached. “Technically, you’ve known of each other for years.” He regarded Bart with skepticism. “And if you had accepted our invitations . . .”
“Allow a man his idiosyncrasies, old chap.” Bart had plenty of them, too. He worked long hours, forgot to eat, slept little, visited cemeteries, grumbled and complained about politics, and spent his days in the poorer sections of the city. No woman found those things noble.
Kitty squeezed his arm. “Eccentricity has its merits.”
“To some.” He shifted from foot to foot, tempering his irritation at how Egerton had put him on the spot. His old friend knew why he’d never visited Berkhamstead Place at Christmas. The subject was never to be breached between them, and yet the man continued issuing invitations at his own peril. “Yet it can be distasteful to others.”
“Your tomfoolery is over. I now have witnesses to your existence,” Egerton went on. He gestured to Kitty. “Yes, there is no greater eccentric in Town than my friend, a man who’s left me in the lurch ten years running.” Egerton pursed his lips, deep in thought. “Ah! But I am greatly pleased you have met my sister at last.”
Kitty smiled that sweet smile that animated her features. “As am I.”
What was going through her mind? He didn’t have time to find out. Alfred waved to Bart from behind the counter. Fearing the man would seek him out if he didn’t respond quickly enough, he begged off. “Please excuse me.”
The ladies curtsied, and Egerton bowed his head. Bart could not help but notice the draft of cold air that settled over him as Kitty withdrew her hand from his arm. Missing her warmth, he left her side and returned to the counter.
“What can I do for you, sir?” Hatchard’s assistant asked.
“I have a favor to ask,” he said, “one that might astound you.”
Alfred squinted. “Few things have that power over me anymore, Mr. Fernsby.”
Bart related to the man’s revelation. Determined to finish his business efficiently and quickly, he pointed to the bundle of books, craning his neck to ensure they weren’t being observed. “I am in a bit of a pickle, Alfred.”
The older man’s brown furrowed. “What kind of pickle?”
“Do you see those two women?”
Alfred peered over the counter. “Yes.”
“Well,” Bart went on, “they have come to purchase Dickens’s latest book.”
“Unfortunately, we—”
“Yes. Yes,” Bart said, cutting him off. “Hatchard told us you do not have any more copies.”
Alfred blinked, confused. “Then I fail to understand what I can do for you, sir.”
“I want you to subtract three books from my order and present them to the lady in blue, just over there.”
Alfred leaned forward and whispered, “But sir, what will you tell your investors?”
The man was right. Contributors to the Ragged Schools might be puzzled that he ran short of the twenty books he’d ordered for their purposes, but that was a chance he was willing to take. After all, he did live in Town. He could return tomorrow or the next day, whenever Bradbury and Evans delivered the new print run. “I will handle my partners if you can replenish the three books. I’ll return tomorrow to settle my account.”
Alfred thinned his lips. “I shall have to adjust the ledgers.”
“By all means.” A business wasn’t run without sufficient inventory. “Do what you must as long as Lady Catherine gets the three books she’s come for. Just do not tell her how you got them.”
“But will she accept them?” Alfred flashed a worrisome smile. They both knew the rules. It was improper for a woman to receive gifts from a stranger without being accused of impropriety.
Bart cut another quick glance at Kitty. Would she refuse the books? It might be easier to offer them to Egerton instead. Neither would accept if they discovered Bart had intended them for the Ragged Schools, however. No. The only way Kitty would accept the books was if they had no connection to him.
“Somehow I sense she will,” he answered, smiling. From what Egerton had told him, Kitty wanted to be an advocate for change when the ton viewed women as chattel, suffocating voices before they were heard. At least, that was what he’d gleaned from his dear friend Miss Angela Burdett-Coutts, one of the richest women in England and a tenacious philanthropist. “Tell her . . .” He rummaged for an excuse to give the man. What could Alfred say without causing a stir? “Tell her that you were mistaken, that you happened upon three books in the stockroom that had been set aside by a well-meaning customer for someone in the spirit of Christmas.”
“I’m not as confident as you are, but—” Alfred nodded hesitantly “—as you wish, sir.” Hatchard’s faithful assistant had averted countless awkward situations in as many years. Far more accomplished than he let on, Alfred turned to do his bidding.
Realizing he hadn’t received the rest of his books, Bart called him back. “Alfred.”
Eyes wide, he turned. “Yes, sir?”
Bart held out his hands. “The books.”
Alfred glanced down at his arms comically. “Ah. You need these, I suppose.”
“Yes. And wait until I have rejoined my friends before approaching Lady Catherine with the books.” The bookstore assistant nodded. Inhaling a gratified sigh, Bart added, “Remember, the lady must never suspect where they came from.”
“Very well, sir.” Alfred winked, then departed, bypassing several customers lingering before the massive dark-wood shelves.
Bart left the counter, feeling energized. He couldn’t wait to see Kitty’s face when Alfred approached her. Eager to discover if his plan would work, he joined Egerton and the two young women, carrying his bounty.
“Fernsby, how taxed you appear.” Mirth flickered in Egerton’s eyes as his gaze focused on the bundle in Bart’s arms. “I say, do you intend to lock yourself away with those books while the rest of the world celebrates Christmas?”
Bart grumbled. “Humbug.”
“I believe that is the most bothersome word in the English language,” Kitty said.
Miss Castleton fanned her face, her eyes alive with amusement. “And Kitty would be the one to know, shouldn’t she, my lord?”
“Quite so.” Egerton regarded Bart, a muscle flicking in his jaw. “She can speak ten languages, but I daresay she desires to learn them all.”
“Lady Catherine.” At the sound of Alfred’s nasally voice, they turned, and not a moment too soon. “You are in luck. Mr. Hatchard felt terrible that he didn’t have the books you desired, so he had me check the stockroom again. And wouldn’t you know it? I found three volumes of A Christmas Carol tucked away on a back shelf.”
Kitty’s smile overtook her features. She pressed a hand against her throat. “Three?”
“Yes. And they shall be yours, if you’re still interested.” Alfred sprang up on the balls of his feet with effort, his paunch bouncing over the books. “You are still interested in Mr. Dickens’s book, aren’t you?”
“Three, you say?” Hatchard suddenly appeared beside them. “I was positive we’d gone through all our stock. How odd and simply—”
“Fortuitous!” Kitty exclaimed. “Of course, I want to purchase them.”
“No,” Alfred said, albeit too-hastily. He cleared his throat. “That is, I forgot to add that these books are not for sale.”
“Not for sale?” Hatchard’s lips drew downward in a frown. “Are they on hold for another customer? I thought the only person we had books on hold for—”
“A gift!” Alfred cut in. “Actually—” he straightened the wrapped books in his arms with obvious unease “—I did not mean to imply that Lady Catherine could not have them. I said they were not for sale. Which is true. They are not for sale.”
“I am confused.” Kitty looked from Hatchard to Alfred and back.
“These books were set aside for an occasion such as this, which is why we weren’t including them in our tally.” Alfred smiled, then ever-so-carefully stepped forward and handed Kitty the books. She accepted them, reluctantly. “They are a gift, purchased anonymously for someone in need, like yourself.”
Bravo, Alfred!
“A gift?” A smile found its way through her mask of uncertainty and back to her face as she looked down at the books. “But I am not in need. I could not entertain the idea without—”
“Do not take offense, my lady.” Alfred looked at her in earnest. “But you did say you needed the books.”
She glanced around the shop. “While it is true I wanted them . . .” She placed her hands around the books with infinite care. Her gloved fingers traced the ribbon binding, longing burning in her eyes.
“Kitty, it isn’t proper,” Miss Castleton said.
“I will accept.” Kitty inhaled swiftly. “But only if I am given liberty to purchase three books that can be gifted to someone else when you are resupplied. In the spirit of Christmas, of course.”
“That’s the sister I love,” Egerton teased.
Bart’s chest constricted. Were it not for propriety or the books balanced in his arms, he would stride across the floor, lift Kitty into his arms, and spin her around until she was dizzy with delight. Her generous heart was a force as big and powerful as the tide. A rare quality in one so young, but it was a quality he’d been searching for since his mother’s generous light dimmed.
Hatchard, completely oblivious to the plan Bart and Alfred had concocted, replied exuberantly, “Follow me, my lady.” He bowed, then escorted the ladies to the counter where Sir Henry’s cards were displayed to every advantage. Bart and Egerton kept pace, following behind. There, the bookstore owner beamed, making quick work of producing a receipt while Kitty reached into her reticule and produced three crowns. “I do hope your spirits are revived.”
“I am absolutely thrilled,” Kitty said, closing her reticule. “In fact, I’ve decided I shall also purchase three of Sir Henry’s Christmas cards.” She shot a look at her brother. “Mama and Aunt Lenora will love them.”
