He had a library full of books—his siblings did enjoy them—but hadn’t read a single novel. Contracts, mortgages, deeds of trust, bills of lading, memoranda of agreement—those were the tales that had fascinated him enough to inspire him to sit through Cousin Duncan’s reading lessons.
“If you aren’t looking for a means to keep Farris in our employ,” Joshua said, “and you know Barnstable is eager to foreclose on that bookshop property, then why involve yourself in that situation at all? Shop owners die, their estates are liquidated, and the family either establishes a business elsewhere or goes into service.”
Simon Thatcher’s demise was more complicated than Joshua knew, or let on that he knew.
“Smart banks hold with tradition while looking to the future,” Quinn said, sprinkling sand over the initials he’d written at the bottom of the page. “If we don’t establish a branch closer to the better shopping areas, then Barnstable will. Once he’s taken that step—and increased his profit as a result—other banks will flock to do the same and commercial rents will rise as a result of increased demand. Wentworth and Penrose will be behind the trend instead of leading it. I don’t care to fall behind, Joshua. Do you?”
Joshua tipped his head back, as if consulting the cherubs cavorting amid the clouds painted onto the ceiling. “Not fair, Quinn.”
Joshua was competitive, Quinn was calculating. The two qualities were often complementary, though in this case, they would not be, not if all went according to Quinn’s plan.
“I will continue to send Farris around to monitor the situation at Thatcher’s Bookshop,” Quinn said. “He thinks I’m simply keeping an eye on Barnstable’s activities.”
“Because you also send him around to monitor everything else our competitors get up to. What are you really up to?”
Not even Joshua could be trusted with that information. “Farris alerted me to Thatcher’s failing health several months ago. Farris knows we’re looking for a branch location.”
Joshua laced his hand behind his head. “You are looking for a branch location.”
“That I am.” The plain truth, but not the entire truth. “It makes sense for Farris to follow up on acquisition of the bookshop. If Barnstable’s greed renders that prospect unprofitable, I will simply look elsewhere. Barnstable is merely the mortgagor, though. He must make the building available at a public sale, and when he does, I intend to buy it.”
“You are forgetting one thing, Quinn.”
“So please enlighten me before the New Year. I’m expected home for dinner.”
“Every cit and merchant in the London will likely bid against our man Farris at a public sale. The corner of St. Jean’s and Willoughby sees more foot traffic than probably any other location in London, and that building is both handsome and well constructed.”
Quinn rose and rolled down his shirt sleeves. “Dear me, you mean there might be—one shudders to say the very word—competition? A few obstacles between me and my objective? Never say I shall have to work at establishing our first branch at the ideal location for that venture. Work is so common.”
He slipped gold sleeve buttons into his cuffs and maneuvered into a jacket that wrapped his frame like long-lost lover.
“You are up to something,” Joshua said. “I don’t know what, I don’t know why, but you are up to something.”
Quinn fastened the onyx buttons closing his jacket. “Haven’t you heard? I dine on the bones of orphans, and entertain myself by sending widows to the poor house. Christmas approaches, when my cold heart delights in tossing beggars into the Thames, though I usually call upon Lucifer first to use a little hellfire to melt the river ice for me.”
These and other stories were gleefully circulated by Quinn’s competitors, and—to his consternation—even repeated in gentlemen’s clubs.
“When will you remember to despoil a few virgins?” Joshua drawled. “You’re growing soft in your dotage.”
The virgins were safe around Quinn, as were the orphans, widows, and beggars. Thatcher’s bookshop was another matter entirely.
“Farris should have returned by now,” Quinn said. “I expect he’ll have news to relate in the morning. We can discuss this project in more detail then, if you’re so inclined.”
Quinn checked his appearance in the pier glass that hung between the bay windows. A tall, sober, dark-haired man stared back at him, one with cold blue eyes, wearing morning attire as stitch-perfect as Bond Street’s best could make it. Appearances mattered, and he’d never allow the employees or customers see in him any hint of the shivering, starving boy he’d once been.
“What is the point of argument?” Joshua said, coming to his feet. “You’ve made up your mind, and that bookshop is as good as ours. Happy Christmas, one and all.”
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 a
lso 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.
'Tis the Season: Regency Yuletide Short Stories Page 6