Amara Royce

by Never Too Late

  Chapter Six

  Evans Principle 6: There’s always more than one person to please. Consolidate your efforts but never compromise yourself.

  “So where were you last week, Honoria?” Predictably, that would be the first thing Marissa would ask. The tenacious Mrs. Marissa Clarke always dove headfirst into whatever question preoccupied her. Some might even say she resembled a bulldog, with her stout, solid body and her snub nose. One could never say Marissa gave them the wrong impression. People saw exactly who she was and what her intentions were; she saw no need for finesse or tact. Such subtlety was the job of the sisters, Mrs. Helena Martin and Mrs. Elizabeth Addison, the same Helena and Elizabeth who sat across the room by the picture window, ostensibly minding their knitting. They’d appear so even if they were eavesdropping; such was a skill they’d mastered as children in their father’s study.

  “A business opportunity arose,” Honoria explained, “a dinner hosted by Lady Rose Devin, and I thought it would be an excellent chance to make some new connections. The guests were among the country’s most touted intellectuals. I made sure to offer them my card in hopes of having them do public readings at the shop. I suspect one or two might even be open to disseminating our more controversial work.”

  “Speaking of which,” Marissa replied, “I think Helena has new information for us from a visit with some Bethnal Green children. But that can wait. How did you come to be acquainted with Lady Devin?”

  “By chance, really. Her son Lord Alexander Devin purchased a book from Evans as a birthday present for his mother. I suppose he must have mentioned the encounter and she must have thought it would be conducive to have a bookseller among the book authors.”

  “Sensible enough. Seems peculiar, though. How often does one make a purchase at a shop and think to make the seller’s personal acquaintance? Sure, we all know the shopkeepers along your row and at most establishments who can garner us access to information, but we’ve cultivated those acquaintances purposefully.”

  By now, Elizabeth had given up the pretense of talking needlework with Helena and piped up, “Marissa, you seem to be leading us to a particular conclusion. What is it?”

  “I was simply testing your hearing, dearie,” Marissa shot back with a sly grin. But then she added, “It seems unlikely the Devin family would take an interest in you, Honoria, so suddenly. I don’t know why, but my gut feels unsettled about the invitation and abrupt familiarity.”

  “What familiarity? I attended a dinner with thirty other guests.” She felt a need to keep silent about the events that transpired in the Devin library. Familiar, indeed. Marissa’s forwardness was due in no small part to her keen intuition; her instincts were nearly unnatural in their accuracy. Why should this time be any different?

  “It’s not like you to be secretive, Honoria.”

  “I’m not being secretive. There is very little to say about the event. I attended dinner; I conversed on a wide array of topics with several well-known writers, which was quite an honor. And I hope I made enough of an impression on them that I can call upon them in the future to help further the success of the shop. As I said, it was a rare business opportunity I felt I could not decline.”

  This time Helena inserted herself into the discussion with “Strange as it may seem, I agree with Marissa. I know what it is! The invitation was based on Lord Devin coming to your shop for a book. That in itself is rather unusual. Moreover, you’ve said nothing about your dealings with Lord Devin. Something must have happened to garner enough of his attention that he had his mother invite you.”

  This was too much.

  “Ladies, there is really very little to tell about dinner or about the Devins. They are lovely people, and I was uncommonly fortunate to be rather randomly invited. Let us not get caught up in trivialities. We have work to do.”

  True enough. Whether they were genuinely dissuaded or simply acceding to her obvious desire not to talk further about the subject, Marissa went to get some knitting out of a basket in the corner. Honoria inwardly breathed a large sigh of relief and made her way toward where the other two ladies were seated, stopping to pick up her satchel along the way. Each of the women placed their yarn projects on their laps, pieces large enough to hide the notepaper on which their reports to the group were based. If anyone happened to make an unscheduled visit, they could easily secret their work away in their needle projects between the butler’s announcement of the visitor and the actual presentation of said visitor in the drawing room. Even when they met at Honoria’s more humble abode, they maintained the pretense of knitting or needlepoint and occasionally even finished some of those projects as they worked through more important strategies. Helena’s interviews took precedence this evening, and they quickly moved far away from discussion of Lord Devin, his mother, and the peculiar dinner invitation, although Honoria’s thoughts didn’t stray far enough from them.

  Chapter Seven

  Evans Principle 7: All that glitters—well, you know the rest . . .

  The glass and metal structure, at once encasement and centerpiece of the Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations, gleamed as sunlight broke through the clouds. Awestruck by its effulgence, Honoria marveled, openmouthed, like a child. It was massive yet delicate, imposing yet ephemeral. The building suited the elaborate name of the showcase.

  “What do you think of it, Mrs. Duchamp?” She didn’t miss the note of amusement in Lord Devin’s voice. In fact, he seemed to be perpetually amused by her or perhaps by life in general, a sardonic amusement.

  “It is lovely,” she admitted. “Breathtaking, even. Quite a feat of architecture and engineering. I expect it to collapse like a house of cards or shatter if a stiff breeze arises. It’s amazing.”

  “I agree,” he replied. “It is a jewel. The exhibits within are equally spectacular. I would be honored to serve as your guide.”

  “Oh, Alex, you must make sure she sees the textiles from Turkey and Greece,” Lady Devin added.

  “But what do you wish to see, Lady Devin?” she asked. “Since you have both seen many of the exhibits before and everything is equally new to me, I would be happy to explore sections new to you.”

  “That is too kind of you, dear.” Lady Devin moved in front of her son to link arms with Honoria, reinforcing the sense of little girls at play. What an odd pair they must make, a regal lady and a nobody. “Let us seek out a newer world!”

  Exactly as he said, the interior of the Crystal Palace was as astounding as the exterior. Colors and smells she’d never experienced before, a mishmash of sensations, bombarded her. Everything bathed in golden sunlight. The wave of humanity entering with them directed their path, rushing them through the entryway and ultimately depositing them in the West Hall.

  A photography demonstration drew their attention immediately.

  “I have heard about this,” said Lord Devin. “It is a remarkable new process for making multiple copies of an image—rather quickly too.”

  In fact, the photographer showed off images he had taken and developed there at the Exhibition. A few of the more interesting ones, such as a view from the exterior, were available for purchase. When the photographer offered to take their portrait, however, she immediately shook her head and deflected the question. “Perhaps you would like to have a portrait of yourself and your son, Lady Devin?”

  Lady Devin murmured to her son, who spoke in professional tones with the man and handed him a calling card. The two men shook hands, and Lady Devin led them farther into the hall.

  A massive panel display of art competed with a Far Eastern porcelain display for their attention, both of them in the shade of a tree, around which the building must have been erected. As they rounded a corner, they found themselves again in a crush of people, this time waiting to glimpse what was assumed to be the most highly prized gem in the world: the Koh-i-Noor diamond. When would she get another opportunity like this?

  The diamond turned out to be disappointingly unremarkable.
Large, certainly, but not especially attractive. For all she could see, it looked like a large chunk of dirty glass.

  Lady Devin stopped to speak with a tall couple but urged her son to take Honoria farther into the international displays.

  Near the overblown hunk of rock, bright color and delicate movement from the Chinese alcove caught her eye. A lovely girl who she could only guess must be Chinese stood in front of a display of porcelain vases, her voice carrying over a small group of tourists obviously charmed by her. The child’s long braids stood out against her pale robes, embroidered with exotic flowers and birds. As Honoria moved closer, she was struck by the girl’s articulate erudition. She wanted to ask about the bronze statues at the end of the neighboring display because they shared motifs with some of the vases, but before she could get the child’s attention, she felt Lord Devin’s hand at her elbow.

  “Have you found something of interest here?”

  “These displays from the East are lovely. That child, though, is even more fascinating. I do not see her parents, though they must be close by.”

  “I shall have to point her out to my mother. She lent a few items to the collections here and has more at home that she wants to be appraised for authenticity. Perhaps the child’s parents can be of some guidance.”

  Though the sight of the exotic child nagged at her without clear cause, she was equally struck by an undertone in his comment.

  “Was your father often in the Orient?”

  “My father was everywhere. I have no doubt he was often fleeced when he traveled, particularly in Asian countries where he did not speak the language. He was overconfident and easily impressed.”

  “Excuse me for stating the obvious, but you seem to talk rather flippantly and disdainfully about your father.”

  He dipped his head, and she watched the tips of his ears turn pink before he responded.

  “You have noticed that as well? I can assure you I do not normally talk about my father at all, much less so derisively. Certainly not to someone outside the family. And yet with you, it simply slips out. I find myself saying the words before I have had proper time to censor myself. It is unaccountable. Suffice it to say that I disapproved of some of his choices. And now it seems only fair then that you reciprocate—you have said little about your family, but it has always been with a tone of wistful happiness. Tell me about them and why you adored them so.”

  He’d unknowingly found the right key. She didn’t have much opportunity to speak of her parents, less and less opportunity as time passed. And adoration was such a mild word for what she felt toward them.

  “My father’s family was landed gentry,” she began. “My grandfather held a baronet but wasn’t much of a land manager. As the second son of an estate in decline, my father didn’t have much to live on. Between the modest income supplied by his brother and the modest dowry from their marriage, my parents made do. But when it became clear my uncle was not only inept at management but actively gambling away what little he had left of the family legacy, my father decided he wanted to set out on his own. I understand they had quite a row over it—a baron’s son turned merchant. Apparently, not for the first time, they came to blows just before my parents married. My uncle was furious about the shop, even though he couldn’t really afford to interfere. My father loved books, and so he got it in his head that he wanted to open a bookshop and make it his legacy. My mother was supportive, in her own way. And, in truth, I think he fastened on to the bookshop precisely because he was so in love with her. She was an aspiring poetess, you see. She spent much of her time at her escritoire, and I think deep down he dreamed he would one day be able to feature her poetry in the shop. He would have so enjoyed showing off her work.”

  Lady Devin had rejoined them during her recounting and studied her face for a moment. “Were your parents Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Evans?”

  “Yes.” She knew from the tone what was coming next.

  “Your father was a grandson of the Earl of Eastwick?”

  “Yes,” she responded quietly.

  When Lord Devin finally found his voice, he said “You are a great-granddaughter of the Earl of Eastwick?”

  “I am.” While such logic should go without saying, he seemed to have particular difficulty incorporating this information into his view of her.

  “How is that possible?”

  Lady Devin answered for her. “Your grandfather would have been the earl’s third son, correct? He had quite a colorful reputation, if I may say. And your father was his second son.”

  “Yes, Lady Devin. A second son of a rather profligate third son. My uncle inherited a lesser title and little else. Fortunately, my father already had a vocation in mind, even if it was deemed beneath him.”

  Yet another alcove housed a fascinating dance troupe made up of women costumed in scarves and tiny silver baubles that jingled as they swayed. Her initial shock at the amount of exposed skin she saw was subsumed by the graceful frenzy of the dancers. Translucent colors swirled in circles and snakelike arcs as their bodies undulated.

  “They dance with such abandon. What must it be like to move so free of inhibitions?” she said, without thinking.

  At her ear, Lord Devin whispered, “I do believe, Mrs. Duchamp, that you would be quite something if you dropped your inhibitions. I, for one, would pay to see your emotions run wild.”

  She looked around askance but saw Lady Devin in another conversation out of earshot. “What if your mother heard you speak so?”

  “Absent of context, she would most assuredly agree.” He grinned. The upstart had the nerve to grin, as if he’d won a game.

  She continued watching the dancers and whispered back, “Don’t bet on it.”

  When his mother rejoined them, Lord Devin asked about how Honoria came to run the bookshop.

  “It wasn’t until after my mother’s death that my father and I moved to the quarters above the shop. My uncle had washed his hands of us, and there didn’t seem to be any point to keeping our country house. It was too expensive . . . and too painful.” She scanned the crowd, needing a moment to regain her composure. “In any case, through my father’s diligence and industriousness, the shop slowly became a solid enterprise. It has never grossed more than six thousand pounds per year, and those were years of feast. These days, it runs . . . somewhat . . . lower than that. But it’s stable and currently self-sustaining.”

  “Why have you not hired staff to help you run the place?” Lord Devin asked. “Surely your messenger Erich is of an age when he could start to be of more use?”

  “It is my responsibility,” she said simply.

  He looked at her sharply but then nodded.

  “You would not trust anyone else to protect it. And you would feel as if you were shirking your proper duties if you handed it off to someone else.” His eyes said he knew exactly what that felt like. She stared at him.

  “Exactly. My father entrusted me with his legacy. He passed on everything he knew to me, and I cannot betray that trust.” After a pause, she added, “Erich and Minnie are my responsibility too. Their parents predeceased mine. My parents made a promise they would be taken care of. He is free to pursue whatever career he chooses. I would not yoke him to the shop.”

  Despite young Lord Devin’s consistent attention to his companions, it was difficult to ignore the parade of fine young ladies who brightly acknowledged him. Young ladies in elegant silks and finely wrought lace, intricate brocades, and expensively modest jewelry. Young ladies who seemed more interested in Lord Devin than in the wonders of the world displayed around them. Some young ladies who went so far as to flout convention by greeting him themselves, even though they were escorted by their fathers, brothers, or some other male who was responsible for conveying acknowledgments. Goodness, even she knew that the male companion responds to greetings on behalf of the accompanying female. Only someone insensible, veritably blind and deaf, would miss the tacit message being conveyed—Lord Devin was highly prized marriage ma
terial, and the women he escorted were not part of that picture. Yet he acted immune to their fans and coy smiles and pretty curtsies, responding to each greeting with equal solicitude.

  “What do you think your father would have thought of the Exhibition, Mrs. Duchamp?” he asked kindly.

  “He would have adored it. I’m sure he would have seen this as walking through worlds of books come alive. He was always so curious. My mother too would have loved all this; I’m sure she would have written whole journals full of observations about the contraptions, the styles, the artwork, the cultures. She would have wanted to capture sight and sound. She would have been particularly fascinated by the photographic equipment, although I hear it can be as much a curse as a blessing. What of your father, the world traveler? I can only assume he would have felt quite at home here in the midst of all this multinational chaos.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Would you care to expand on that?”

  “My father most certainly would have had an active hand in planning and executing this extravaganza.” He didn’t say it admiringly. His tone said, in no uncertain terms, that this was not an avenue open to travelers.

  “Well, as astounding as this whole extravaganza seems to be,” Lady Devin interjected, “I would greatly appreciate a bit of fresh air.”

  “Are you well, Lady Devin?” She took the other woman’s hand, noting her taut posture.

  “It is nothing to speak of, Mrs. Duchamp.” Lady Devin lowered her voice. “This building. It gives me the sense of a birdcage. It may be a giant cage, but it is still a kind of prison.”