Wendy quickly closed the three steps between them and hit him hard on the shoulder.
“OW! Wendy!” Her troubled eyes met his narrow, cynical face.
“At least I have friends, John.”
His face collapsed. Wendy knew very well that John had no friends at St. Mary’s School, that he spent their recess reading adventure books in the library. She saw his mouth curl with betrayal before he spun the rocking chair around to face the wall.
“You should be very careful about those letters, Wendy. You wouldn’t want Mother to find them. You know what she would do. Booth is hardly the suitor she imagines for you.” He gave a loud sigh, as though giving her advice was exhausting him. “Liza’s likely to find them sooner or later, and she will surely give them to Mother. I would try a better hiding spot, perhaps tucked in a book.”
“John . . .”
He raised his hand to shush her and went back to reading The Time Machine. Michael watched them both with wide blue eyes as he sucked on the arm of his teddy bear.
“Michael, that is disgusting. Please stop.” He dropped the teddy bear out of his mouth and reached for Wendy’s hand. She sighed.
“Hold on.”
Taking the letter from under her bed, she walked carefully over to the bookshelf, an elaborate piece of wood carved to look like an enchanted forest. Wendy ran her fingers along the spines of the books, making sure to put the letter in between the right books so that it would be pressed between two things she loved. She glanced back at John, who was still sitting in the rocking chair, facing away from her, the creaks of the chair matching the bounces of his top hat as he rocked hard, no doubt lost in another world. She looked toward the door and then quickly tucked the letter between Alice in Wonderland and Jane Eyre. Michael raised his eyes to hers, and Wendy brought her finger to her lips, making the gesture that meant the same thing to all three of the Darling children: secrets of the Darling children were not to be shared. Michael made the motion as well. Wendy crawled into bed with him, and Michael buried his sleepy head in her neck, mumbling, “Sleep now.”
She tucked Giles in beside him. Michael’s eyes were already drooping; he had always fallen asleep quickly.
“Wendy?”
“Yes?”
“You have letters from Booth?”
“Yes.”
“You kiss Booth?” His tone was concerned.
She kissed Michael’s cheeks. “Only you, Michael,” she whispered. He gave her a sleepy grin and then closed his eyes, happily surrendering to his dreams, which she imagined consisted of puppies, play swords, and a towering pile of cakes. She pulled the wool blanket over the sheet and tucked it around his feet.
“Goodnight, Michael.”
She made her way over to her bed near the window. John continued to rock, and Wendy looked back at the bookshelf. Unfortunately, John had been correct; the bookshelf was a much safer place to store her letter.
The letter.
She settled into her sheets and closed her eyes, seeing Booth’s elegant scrawl climbing across the thin pages:
Wendy,
It is plain to me that because of our families’ respective social statuses — I am, as you may have noticed, somewhat poor — that we can never dream of being together, but if I am allowed to dream, then I see myself carrying you in a field of wildflowers . . . . Our great God above seems to have carved out my feelings for you, feelings that I can no more hold inside of me . . . Should I even dare to hope that one day it will only be us on all the earth, and that we will be able to love each other freely and with an abandon that will make the heavens shake? . . . If the stars above saw what I felt for you, they would pour out their wonders . . .
She heard the sound of the nursery door opening, and her parents appeared in the sliver of gaslight, followed by Liza, their waifish brunette servant, carrying a tray with two cups of tea, their nightly ritual. Michael, to his dismay, was still too young for tea.
“Miss Wendy?”
Wendy gently took her cup off the tray, taking in the delicate lines of pink that etched the outer rim. The tea was too warm to drink, but Wendy let the calming vapors of vanilla and chamomile waft over her face and warm her soul.
“Thank you, Liza.”
Liza gave a nod and bustled over to John, who simply reached out his hand from the rocking chair. Liza put the cup in his outstretched palm, and he went back to rocking and reading without a word. Wendy hated how John treated Liza.
“Now, John, don’t be rude. Into bed with you,” George Darling chided, pulling off his son’s top hat and placing it on the bedpost.
“Thank you, Liza,” John muttered in the deadest voice possible as he crawled into bed with his tea.
“You’re welcome, Mr. John.” Liza bustled out of the room, leaving the parents alone to say goodnight to the Darling children. Wendy sat on the edge of her bed, kicking off her slippers and tucking her feet into the cold sheets. She held her warm cup of tea against her chest, trying to calm the flush on her face that crept up when she thought about tomorrow. Tomorrow with Booth.
“Goodnight, my darling girl.” Her father kissed her forehead and took a sip of her tea. “Oh, still hot. I would wait a bit on that, Wendy.”
“I will, Father.”
Her father leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Thanks for stargazing with me. We’ll see it together next year. Is it a date?”
“Yes, Papa.”
George Darling headed over to Michael’s bed to tuck some blankets around his slumbering form. Her mother sat down beside her, tracing Wendy’s cheek with her hand.
“How was your day, lovie?”
“Fine, Mother.”
“I’m glad.”
“Mother? Tomorrow after Mass, may I go to the bookseller’s for more books?”
“Of course. Tell Mr. Whitfield that the Darlings send their love.”
“I will.”
“But be home early. Your father and I have the Midsummer Night’s Ball tomorrow night.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Her mother kissed her forehead and tucked the sheets around Wendy’s legs. “That’s my good girl. I love you so.” Mrs. Darling glanced around and then gave a low whistle. Nana, their massive Newfoundland, trotted into the room, her plumy tail knocking against the dressers. Nana went to each bed, checking that each child was there. She licked Michael’s elbow before her huge paws clumped across the floor to Wendy’s bed. Nana rested her enormous head on the side of the bed, and Wendy buried her face in her soft black fur. Nana gave her a single lick on her cheek, and Wendy kissed her nose.
“Goodnight, Nana.” Nana gave a huff and made her way over to her bed—which was John’s bed. Of all the things that John did that drove Wendy mad, this fact made her feel the most small: Nana loved John best. She watched as the gigantic dog leapt onto John’s bed and snuggled against his side. How nice, to have that warmth, that comfort. As she shifted her head against her feathery pillow, her mind made its way back to Booth, and she fell asleep replaying his words in her head, her eyes ever watchful through the windowpanes for her father’s star.
If the stars above saw what I felt for you, they would pour out their wonders . . .
She slept.
CHAPTER TWO
AFTER A LONG MASS THAT MORNING, Wendy tucked her hands deeper into her dress pockets. It was summer, but when the bitter London winds snaked through her thin dress, Wendy was glad that she had listened to her mother and brought a shawl. Today was unseasonably cool for the summer months, with the gray skies and chilly rains that would mark autumn plunging all of London into dreary waiting. Her boots clicked on the cobblestones as she passed the butcher’s that Liza bought meat from every other day and the bakery that always smelled heavenly, their windows full of lovely treats in pinks and creams. Hordes of businessmen, their hats pulled hard over their ears, swarmed around her, all vying for a spot at the restaurant her parents frequented. Most of them worked at her father’s firm and treated Sunday like any
other workday once church was over. She passed the tailor, who regularly shook his head at Wendy’s quickly lengthening torso and Michael’s wiggly body, and the medicinal dispensary, which provided her mother with her many tonics, which John insisted didn’t actually cure anything.
Two horse-drawn carriages rumbled past Wendy, and she stepped aside to make sure that water didn’t splash over her pretty cream dress and maroon stockings. She tried to make sure that her gait was calm and normal and that any number of her parents’ friends milling around wouldn’t be able to tell that it was taking everything inside of her not to sprint toward the bookseller’s, the wind flush on her face, her hair ribbons blowing about behind her. Instead, she kept her walk steady and controlled, her hands clutching inside her white gloves.
Whitfield’s Bookshop appeared ahead, and Wendy quickened her pace. The gray brick building wrapped around the corner, its curled sides the cause of much speculation amongst the neighbors who wondered how the Whitfield family, so many years ago, had afforded such impressive architecture. The gold lettering above the bookseller’s was rusty and weatherworn, and the f in Whitfield was hanging cockeyed from its last nail. A worn rack of discounted books sat outside, each for sale for a shilling. The neighborhood boys regularly stole the books from the rack, but Mr. Whitfield would just smile whenever he was told about it.
“At least they are reading,” he would mutter, before getting back to work. It made Wendy adore the old man even more. As she approached the shop, her mouth became very dry, her palms now sweaty when they had been cold before. This familiar place, as comfortable and comforting as her own house, now seemed to loom large overhead, much larger than she remembered. Her heart pressed against the inside of her chest, and she had to stop for a moment to take a deep breath and remind herself that Booth was her best friend. He knew her. Today would be no different. So she had gotten a letter, so what? It didn’t change anything. She pulled open the door to Whitfield’s, the brass bells on the door giving a familiar clink. She stepped inside, hanging her shawl on a coatrack by the door. The bookstore was almost as chilly as it was outside. Wendy decided to keep her gloves on.
“Hello? Mr. Whitfield?”
“WENDY!” There was a loud clatter of books falling to the floor, and the smiling bookseller emerged from behind a shelf. His white eyebrows leapt crazily, like two wiggling caterpillars. A neatly trimmed beard etched out the corners of his weathered face. Vivid blue eyes—the same exact shade as Booth’s, something she had never noticed before—looked out from behind gold-rimmed glasses. Wendy found herself gazing at his eyes for a second too long and turned away with a blush.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Mr. Whitfield knocked over a pile of books with his leg as he reached out to pat her head. “I’m so glad to see you today! How was Mass? You’re the only Catholics on the whole street!”
Wendy shrugged. It had been the same as always, the rhythm and the music service awakening the deep peace inside of her, while at the same time she was terribly bored. John had fallen asleep, twice, only to be shaken awake by her father, and Michael had yelled out once in the service, “But I don’t want to be quiet!” which drew the judgmental eyes of the priest and the faithful gathered in the pew in front of them. Wendy had been quiet, though she felt ashamed that through almost the entire service, her mind had been lingering on Booth.
“Mass was fine.”
“Glad to hear it. Tell your parents I said hello when you head home.” His eyes fell to the bundle in her hand. “What have you brought with you today?”
Wendy reached into her bag and pulled out two books in perfect condition that she had snatched from her father’s expansive library. He would never miss them. Mr. Whitfield took them from her, turning the books over in his wrinkled hands. He opened the books and let the pages fall, inspected the spines, and finally, smelled the books. “Yes, yes . . . these would be perfect for our window shelf. I’ll give you eight pounds for both of them.”
Wendy gave him a smile. “Can we do a trade instead?”
“Well, I suppose. Let me guess, you want a new book.”
She grinned in spite of her nervousness.
“I have just the book.” He disappeared into the folds of the shop, a whimsical warehouse of books and papers, all overshadowed by the giant printing press in the middle of the store. It wasn’t used, of course, but Mr. Whitfield had turned it into a desk of sorts. Wendy closed her eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of worn, musty pages, the knowledge and adventure that lay between them, the fresh ink, and the old baguette that lay uneaten on a typewriter nearby.
It triggered her first memory of Booth.
She had first discovered the bookstore when she was ten years old, when her mother sent her down the street to get a school-book for John. Wendy had been nervous on her first solo errand outside of the home, and so her mother had sent Nana with her, then much smaller and wilder than the gentle dog she was today. Wendy remembered pushing open the door and letting her mouth drop open. Books! More books than she had ever seen in her life, all waiting to be read! These weren’t the books from school, with their endless pages and lessons; these were adventures! Mr. Whitfield, who unlike Wendy and Nana looked exactly the same as he did then, had insisted that Nana come inside with Wendy and had given her a tour of the store.
“Usually it’s your mother who comes; is she well?”
“Yes, but she is very busy preparing for her Valentine’s Day party,” Wendy had answered with a shy smile.
“Well, I am glad, for even though I’ve been sending your mother home with textbooks for you and your brother for years, I’ve never met the famous Wendy until now.”
When she had first seen Booth, he was in the foreign-language section, a small, dusty corner of the store, sitting on a pile of books, which Wendy remembered thinking was so disobedient and wild. His very long legs had stretched out from the pile, his wheat-colored pants held tight by brown suspenders that stretched over a clean white shirt. Still, he wore no jacket, no undershirt, and Wendy remembered thinking, This boy must be poor. He slammed The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn shut and jumped to his feet, looking at her from underneath his pageboy hat, his bright blue eyes widening when he took in this well-dressed girl, her hair falling in short brown ringlets.
“Can I help you find something, miss?”
Wendy had been confused. Was he teasing her? Then Mr. Whitfield had come around the corner.
“Oh! Wendy Darling, this is Booth, my son. He’s twelve going on thirty.” Booth stuck out his hand, and Wendy shook it with a blush, feeling suddenly so insecure.
Booth looked down at the books stacked in Wendy’s arms and said, “So. What are you reading?” He circled around her, asking rapid-fire questions, his tone polite but insistent as he looked at the books, his fingers brushing one spine and then the next. “Les Miserables. Very sad, but very good. That’s one for the ages. Are you going to read it in the original French? Black Beauty, very good. You’re a girl, so you will enjoy it. Lots of hair blowing in the wind. The Crossing—good. But Churchill can write better, don’t you believe? The Golden Bowl—didn’t like it. The Call of the Wild, excellent choice. Have you read The Wizard of Oz yet?”
Wendy nodded, her tongue tied in her mouth, realizing that this boy was possibly, besides John, the smartest person she had ever met.
Finally she stuttered, “Yes. Yes. It was quite good.”
Booth laughed, a reassuring deep sound, as he clasped her kindly on the back. “Quite good. That’s one way to describe it. I like you, Wendy. Would you like to see the rest of the store?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
Booth carefully took the books from her arms and set them on a shelf behind him. “Don’t worry; no one will steal them here. No one ever comes back to this corner of the store.” Then he took her hand, curling his fingers around her small palm. “C’mon!”
Looking around the store now, almost a woman, Wendy remembered that long-ago
moment when Booth had taken her hand. Maybe she was just imagining it, but even then, she had felt her senses shudder, as if someone had turned a key inside of her.
Mr. Whitfield returned to her now, dragging one leg behind him slightly. Wendy frowned. “Is your leg bothering you again?”
“Ah. It’s nothing. It’s just the autumn coming nearer; it always gets stiff this time of year.”
Wendy knew from Booth that Mr. Whitfield’s leg was prone to infection and spasms. “I’ll have Mama send you over some ointment.”
“Nonsense, child! I’m fine. Here, take this book.” He put the novel into Wendy’s palms. “Well, knowing you, you will need to have a long conversation with Booth about what book he recommends, although may I remind you that your parents are probably missing you.” Wendy heard the slightest bit of reprimand in his voice.
“I’d like to see Booth if that’s all right, sir.”
Mr. Whitfield shook his head. “You two spend too much time together. I tell you, that boy. He insists on taking over the accounting for the store, even though I’m perfectly capable, and just this week he reorganized the travel atlases without asking me. I’ve had it, I tell you!”
Wendy couldn’t hide her smile. Mr. Whitfield had probably never been cross with Booth in his life. Both father and son were loving and bighearted, and their arguments tended to last seconds, unlike the time Wendy had pulled out a clump of John’s hair, or John had bit Wendy on her upper arm. Wendy longed to belong to both Whitfields, but in very different ways.
“I’ll see myself up. Is he in his room?”
The bookseller stared at her for a long moment before nodding and heading over to greet another customer. Wendy squinted toward the door, making sure it wasn’t her parents, or any of her parents’ many friends, before making her way to the steep staircase in the middle of the store. Gripping the wood railings on both sides, she climbed the precipitous ladder that vaulted her up into the storage area of the bookstore, a dusty attic that housed crates of books, journals, and the bookkeeping records. Wendy ducked her way past the cobwebs, their location so familiar to her now, past the cutouts of Father Christmas and his woodland creatures that decorated the store every Christmas, past bins of unused journals and fountain pens, their ostrich feathers caked in dust. She stopped when she came to his door, willing herself to breathe, the words of his letter echoing in her head. She knew that once she crossed this threshold, everything would be different. Beyond that door was something so unfamiliar to her, a desire, something that she had always wanted but never dared to express, for how could she? Booth looking at her with those knowing eyes made her heart race. When had he turned from a boy who chased her through stacks of books into this, a man who seemed to peer right through her? Who was this boy to make her feel such desperation to be near him? Wendy was sure she knew who she was—she was a Darling, proud and privileged, a good girl and a good Catholic, Michael’s older sister, her father’s second-favorite child, a lover of the stars. She raised her gloved palms and laid them against the door, centering herself for just a second more . . .
Wendy Darling Page 2
