It's a Wonderful Regency Christmas

by Edith Layton

  “I think you’d better stop discounting before you get into trouble,” Joy warned him. “Half is generous enough, thank you. And sorry, tea is not possible today.” Nor tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, she thought.

  “Bring them round back to my sister, Tom, and thank you,” Alfred said with a smile of content. Half was better than nothing off, and Joy’s continuing refusals ensured tomorrow’s discount, too.

  The store was quiet for a spell, the only sounds that of Alfred humming as he tallied receipts, and the hushed flutter of a customer leafing through a volume. Joy stood looking out the window, watching the day going on out there.

  Alfred Minch didn’t fret. More business of a different sort was coming. Joy would bring it in as surely as she’d drawn in the gentlemen.

  The idea had struck the week she’d come to him.

  Minch’s Books was located not far from the best residential neighborhoods, if nearer to those that had once been best. Alfred had learned that faded gentry had few coins to part with, and those still in the money didn’t like to part with pennies any more than he did. Still, he’d done well enough. Until Joy came along. Then he’d done better.

  She’d stood in his shop that first day, brightening his dim shop just by her presence, glowing like the gold leaf on the margins of pages in his most expensive volumes.

  “Do you like to read, child?” he’d asked.

  “Oh, yes, sir…cousin. I do.”

  “What sort of books?”

  “Histories, and plays, and poetry and…” she’d hesitated.

  “And?”

  Her face went rosy. “Mama enjoyed novels from the Minerva Press. I do, too. I doubt you’d think of them as literature,” she added quickly, seeing his dumbstruck expression, “which is why I don’t see them here, I suppose.”

  She hadn’t known his expression was that of awestruck inspiration. “You ladies do like them, don’t you?” he asked slowly, as a brilliant idea spun round in his head.

  “Oh, yes! Mama lent hers out to friends when she was done, because some of them couldn’t afford to buy them as she did.” Joy hung her head, realizing Mama couldn’t have afforded them, either.

  Alfred’s eyes widened. Charity was its own reward, sometimes it paid better than that. The girl was already showing him the way to a profit! Scholars bought weighty tomes, collectors searched for bargains. The ladies read popular fiction. If it was popular, it was lucrative, and as such, definitely his business.

  And so since that inspirational day, ladies books were the backbone of his establishment. Joy oversaw them, females being more comfortable with another female in matters romantical, at least in books. Let the gents seek out ancient Greek poets, literary arguments, natural history, and tomes that refought old wars. The ladies came for the wicked dukes, erotic earls, and vicious viscounts that constantly threatened virtuous girls.

  Alfred was soon in as much ecstasy as a Minerva Press heroine on the last page of her story. If an esteemed bookshop like Hatchard’s could do it, so could he. Because of Joy’s random comment, he’d discovered the best business invented since prostitution: a lending library. He could sell what he had and still keep it.

  When the sun was at its zenith and the time for morning calls was over, the ladies arrived at the shop. Joy saw the door open, heard various exclamations of mock surprise, and took a deep breath. They were a little overwhelming when they came en masse. They liked to do that, each pretending to have met the others unaware. Their various social stations precluded them actually arranging a meeting to discuss books together, though that was what they’d come to do. They crowded into the lending library alcove of the shop and delivered reviews of recent reads.

  “I was appalled at how Rudolpho tried to trick sweet Eugenie,” Lady Turnbull said, handing a volume to Joy. “No one warned me!” she said, shaking her head so the plumes on her bonnet waved wildly. “I vow my cook was almost in tears at having to put back dinner, wasn’t she Ella?” she asked her maid, standing behind her. Without waiting for an answer she went on, “But how could one eat when Eugenie’s honor was in such jeopardy?”

  Little Mrs. Crab, a chandler’s widow, nodded so hard her gray ringlets quavered. “Oh, yes! That was dreadful,” she said sympathetically, though she’d no one to put back her dinner but herself. “Almost made me miss my supper, too!”

  “And wasn’t our Horatio heroic when he sent that bounder about his business!” the Honorable Miss Cummings trumpeted, her long, unfashionably tanned face growing ruddy with pleasure at the memory. “It is quite my favorite book this month, I believe.”

  “I don’t know,” young Mrs. Holcombe said, tilting her pretty head to one side. “How can we forget Lord Wright, when he routed that dreadful Egyptian and saved young Arabella?”

  The other ladies agreed.

  “I’m so glad you like that author,” Joy said. “I thought you would, and specifically asked my cousin to order two of her new book. We might have them by next week,” she added happily, “so best put your bid in now. We’ll draw lots for who gets first look.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Holcombe said, “I’ll have to leave the honors to the others, as our entire family’s descending on us for Christmas. I won’t have a spare moment. I’ll read it after the new year.”

  “Count me out, too,” Miss Cummings said. “Off to the family seat for Christmas, don’t you know. Tradition.”

  “My boy and his wife and his family will be visiting,” Mrs. Crab put in. “They’ll take up all of my time during Christmas.”

  “We go home for the holiday,” Lady Turnbull announced. “It is expected. I doubt I’ll have a moment to read. My brother makes quite a to-do for the holiday. Dinners and dancing, pantomimes, carols, wassail, and the lighting of the Yule log, of course.”

  “Of course,” Joy said sadly, as she realized the only lighting she could look forward to was if Cousin Alfred threw an extra coal on the kitchen fire. “But they’ll be here when you get back.”

  “Fine,” Miss Cummings said, “because I must say I didn’t care for Mrs. Edgeworth’s latest, you know.”

  “Nor I!” Mrs. Crab agreed.

  The ladies began discussing their favorites again, trading opinions as they swapped volumes, one woman handing a book back to Joy only to have another lady snap it up again. Joy made careful notations of each transaction in the book provided for them. After a half hour, the women regretfully took their leave, going toward the door together, still chatting.

  “I say,” the Honorable Miss Cummings called to Joy, as she paused in the doorway. “Have you seen Lady Gray? I quite expected to see her here.”

  Lady Gray’s absence had been silently noted by all. There were other members of their reading circle who weren’t there this morning, but Lady Gray was a constant, showing up each week at the same time. It was a breach of conduct to ask about her, the glue that held these meetings together was the fiction that they happened by accident. But Miss Cummings was an Original, and rich enough to be one. The others paused to hear what Joy answered.

  “I don’t know,” Joy confessed. “I thought to see her, too.”

  “Well, I might drop ’round her house to inquire if she don’t show up next time,” Miss Cummings said. “No cause for alarm yet. Good day, and Happy Christmas if I don’t see you before then.”

  The others all chorused glad holiday wishes and left.

  Joy sighed when they’d gone. The only interesting part of her day had effectively ended. Well, she thought, if that new book titled Clara’s Bad Bargain was as good as she hoped, she might yet have some pleasure at the end of the day.

  And then the door flew open, and her world tilted and spun, and changed her viewpoint forever.

  They came in on a gust of wintry air, bringing with them the scent of the damp day: coal fires and wood smoke, horses and good shaving soap, and a faint fragrant hint of spice and fresh-cut fir.

  They were both men of a sort that Joy had never seen in the shop, indeed, had only ev
er seen passing by. She’d watched them driving by her window in open carriages or strolling along the street with exquisitely dressed ladies on their arms, riding in the mornings on their way to the equestrian paths in the park and back again at dusk with their horses blowing, though they still sat high and straight in their saddles. They were unmistakably gentlemen.

  Not gentlemen of the old school, who lived for their books, the kind that frequented the shop. Nor were they even like Lord Shawn, celebrity of her home district. He and his kind were rough-and-ready horsemen and hunters, dressed for sport and careless in their clothes and habits. No. These men were true bucks, blades, men of fashion, tulips of the ton. Joy blinked. They were even more impressive up close.

  Her eyes went to the first gentleman at once. What breathing female’s eyes wouldn’t? He was youthful, of middle height, slender, and had the face of a poet. For a moment Joy caught her breath, thinking she beheld the notorious Lord Byron himself. Then she remembered that the errant poet had left England for Italy months ago. And though this gentleman’s dark tousled curls fell over his alabaster brow, his light eyes held sheer merriment, not brooding majesty. His open greatcoat showed glimpses of a jay’s-wing blue waistcoat and canary inexpressibles, and his elaborate, snowy neck cloth held his head high as a visiting prince’s.

  Aware she’d been staring, Joy darted a glance at his companion. There was nothing to hold her attention long. The other gentleman was taller, more mature, dressed elegantly but soberly, and had a distinctly bored look on his lean face. Dark gold hair showed beneath his high beaver hat, his face was unfashionably tanned, his eyes gray and remote as the winter day. He tapped a walking stick impatiently against a long booted leg as his companion paused to examine Joy with obvious appreciation.

  “May I help you?” Joy said coolly, recovering herself. She knew that look. They might be gentry, but a man was a man, and she didn’t encourage familiarities from strangers. This fellow obviously had money and position, but she had a serious position here, and her tone of voice let them know it.

  “You certainly may help me,” the handsome young man said. “I’ve come on a commission from my aunt, Lady Gray. She’s a bit under the weather and sent us down to return a book to you and pick up another for her.”

  Joy nodded. His easy smile was so charming, she felt small for having been curt with him. Seeing her reaction, the young man smiled more widely and looked at her with even more interest.

  The other man spoke, his deep mellow voice amused, “She’d usually send a servant. But since she regards her nephews as such, here we are.” He handed Joy a slim volume, and said, “She specifically asked that you recommend a book to her.” He glanced at the books on top of the little table Joy kept her accounts on, books she hadn’t had a chance to return to the shelves yet. “Is Escape from the Harem or Emily’s Evil Suitor better reading?”

  There was more than amusement in his voice now. Joy distinctly heard condescension.

  “I’d opt for reading about the doings of a lecherous sultan, myself,” the younger man said merrily. “But perhaps she wants the seducer, that seems to be what you ladies prefer. What do you say?”

  Joy’s head went up, her shoulders rose, and her spine stiffened. Handsome gents or toads, it made no difference now. She knew how to deal with these two.

  “I’d say you take both and let her decide,” Joy said abruptly. “Though from your inference, I suspect you’d rather bring her a book of sermons or a treatise on mathematics. We have them, of course. I’d be pleased to help with your selection. Or perhaps you’d prefer to deal with my cousin Alfred? He is after all, another male.”

  The older man laughed. “Peace,” he said, flinging up one hand. “Forgive us. Popular men’s literature generally runs to sporting magazines, and we well know it. We didn’t mean to mock. It’s just that Aunt can be a terror if she’s thwarted, and we don’t have a clue as to her reading habits. So could you please forgive us and recommend a book? She ordered something with romance and adventure. We daren’t bring her the wrong book, or she’ll send us straight back again. She terrifies us, actually,” he confessed, with a smile that gentled his face so much that Joy was astonished at the transformation.

  The younger man was so appealing, she’d been afraid of making a fool of herself by goggling at him, but this was the more dangerous man, Joy decided. His smile warmed and encompassed her; she was nearly overwhelmed by its power. But not quite. She knew her place, after all. He was probably as charming to anyone he wanted help from.

  “Oh, well, yes, certainly,” she said, looking away from those bright and knowing eyes. She fumbled Emily’s Evil Suitor from the tabletop where Miss Cummings had left it. “Tell Lady Gray that this comes highly recommended.”

  “Thank you,” the older gentleman said, pocketing the book. He touched a finger to his hat. “Give you good day, ma’am. Come along, Arthur. If we keep Aunt waiting, we get no pudding for dessert.” He flashed another tilted smile at Joy, and taking his reluctant cousin by the elbow, shepherded him out the door.

  Joy stood still, watching their retreating backs as they sauntered out into the gray day.

  “A pair of aces, eh?” Cousin Minch remarked from her side. Joy startled, he’d come up that quietly. He wore soft shoes and moved around his shop as silently as dust.

  She could only nod.

  “Top of the trees, the pair of them,” Alfred said. “Visiting their aunt for the holidays, no doubt. Too bad they didn’t opt for buying her any books for Christmas. You might mention that if they come back, my dear,” he reminded her gently. “They don’t need to lend books, they could buy her a library if they chose.” His sigh was as good as a reprimand.

  Joy gave herself a mental shake. “Of course, I’m sorry I didn’t think of it. They just took me off guard, be sure it won’t happen again.” Because they’ll never come in here again, she thought with chagrin and sorrow. Their appearance was as rare and unexpected as seeing a pair of exotic parrots suddenly fly in and out the window. At the very least, it had been a brief visitation from another world. It would make it impossible to look at city sparrows the same way again. But she too was a sparrow, she thought, turning to her notebook to mark the transaction.

  Her hand shook. Suddenly Clara’s Bad Bargain didn’t look like such a good way to pass a long dark evening, after all. She’d had a glimpse into another world, just for a moment that would never return. And it made all her wildest dreams seem meager by comparison.

  *

  That night Joy had trouble sleeping. It wasn’t because of the thin winter wind that found all the chinks in her window and pinched at her nose where it poked up from her bedcovers as the fire in her hearth died. That only added to her discontent. She was trying to stop thinking about the two gentlemen who had blown into the shop on a similarly chill wind. Men as free and vital and of the world as she was not. She mostly tried to banish the image of the gentleman with the surprising, disturbing smile. The one she’d likely never see again, or if she happened to, only as he passed by her window, along with the rest of the world. She turned her face into her pillow and wept a few silent tears because of that and because of the cold that never seemed to leave her now, and likely never would.

  *

  But the next morning, moments after the shop was open, against all Joy’s expectations, he came into the shop again.

  Today he wore a greatcoat with many capes. It made him seem taller and more important. Joy stopped what she was doing, including breathing.

  He looked at her, eyes alight.

  “We meet again,” he said.

  She bit her lip. They’d never really met. She throttled an urge to tell him so. But she saw Cousin Minch from the corner of her eye, and knew his ears, if not eyes, were also upon her, and she worked for her living. “Good morning,” she said civilly. “How may I help you?”

  He handed Emily’s Evil Suitor back to her. “Aunt said that she read it last week, and asks that you please pick another.”<
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  Joy looked down at the notebook on the counter and flipped open to the book’s title. Every book and each lender’s name was there. Of course. Lady Gray had been the first to read it.

  “How remiss of me,” Joy murmured, her face growing hot. “Please extend my apologies to her, I ought to have remembered. Well, then,” she said briskly, “I’ll be happy to pick another.”

  She marched over to the shelf, plucked out a book, and keeping her eyes firmly on the cover, said, “This just arrived, no one’s read it yet, she ought to enjoy it, she’s liked the other books this author has written.”

  A large hand in a tan kid glove plucked the volume from her. “Mmm,” the deep voice rumbled, “The Disappointed Damsel. Interesting.”

  That did it. Her eyes snapped up, blue fire in them. “I daresay you wouldn’t think so. But it is well written. The author is literate, the prose lyrical, and best of all, it ends happily as life does not.”

  His smile slipped. “I never said otherwise. Nor was I mocking you or the book.”

  “Forgive me,” she said, “I presumed.”

  “With cause, I suspect,” he murmured, watching her closely. “At any rate, I’ll take this, and thank you. Aunt doesn’t get out as much as she used to, your books are a great comfort to her.”

  Joy couldn’t think of a word to say.

  Cousin Minch could. “My dear sir,” he said, easing between Joy and this prosperous-looking customer, who was gazing down at her with such intensity. “Perhaps, then, you’d care to purchase some books for your aunt? Perhaps as a gift for Christmas? Then she wouldn’t have to return them, or go out when the weather’s foul. Nor would she have to commission you to, either.”

  “Yes,” the gentleman said ruefully. “An excellent idea. I already suggested it. But she won’t hear of it. She says returning books is the only way she gets her exercise. She didn’t even want to send me this time, and was, in fact, trying to get up and dressed to come here herself this morning. But the doctor insists she stay in until all signs of illness are gone, and then for another week after that. She is sulking mightily about it, I can tell you. I think the truth is she enjoys discussing the books when she does come here. She finds it enlivening, and says your other patrons have some splendid ideas. She also says you’re a ‘clever puss,’” he told Joy.