by Ruth Trippy
“I’d term that monumental pride.”
Mr. Chestley laughed. “You see, Lyons, what I’m up against?”
Celia glanced again at the customer, who gave no indication of whether he agreed or not.
“As I said—” Mr. Chestley cleared his throat, “—we had a most interesting discussion on the subject. Now, Mr. Lyons, you mentioned Plato. We have a new edition in our shop window.”
“Yes, I’d like to look it over.”
“Good. Miss Thatcher can assist you. I’m in the middle of examining my accounts. If you need any additional help, I’ll be in my office.”
Mr. Chestley turned to leave, and Celia quickly stepped from behind the counter and walked to the front window.
She leaned over the display and reached for the Plato. Turning around, she again noted the customer’s shaggy appearance. Yes, his resemblance to Tennyson was remarkable. She walked back and offered him the book.
“Thank you.” Mr. Lyons reached for the Tennyson, and taking the two volumes, disappeared behind a bookcase. The aisle held one of several chairs placed around the shop so customers could peruse materials at their leisure. Celia concluded Mr. Lyons felt quite at home.
After half an hour, he approached again. The Tennyson lay open in his large, finely shaped hand. That didn’t accord with the rest of his unkempt appearance. He laid the book on the scarred oak of the counter with the title “Oenone” printed at the top of the page.
“Before you say anything,” Celia began quietly, “I repeat, I will order a new book. And pay for it myself. I am so sorry about the ripped page.”
He looked at her pointedly. “No. You will not. And you will not tell your employer. We will let this go—as if it never happened.”
“But it did. I was looking at the book when I startled and ripped it. I loved the red leather binding and have been reading it since its arrival.”
“Have you read quite a bit of Tennyson?”
“I particularly enjoyed ‘The Lady of Shalott’ and ‘Idylls of the King.’ Also, ‘In Memoriam A.H.H.,’ I found comfort.”
His look was quizzical. He pointed to a particular line. “Perhaps you are aware this quote represents Tennyson’s philosophy of life.”
Celia bent her gaze to note the place his finger indicated. She read aloud:
Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,
These three alone lead life to sovereign power.
She looked up. “I came across those exact phrases this afternoon when I unwrapped the volume.”
“From what you said about Emerson, I take it you would not be in agreement with England’s poet laureate.”
“Self-reverence, self-knowledge, and self-control are important. But whether they alone lead life to sovereign power is another question.” She hesitated, then gently added, “No, I don’t agree. But I think Tennyson had more of God in his life than the quote suggests.”
Mr. Lyons stood in silence, yet when she glanced up at him, she caught a sharp, direct glint in his eyes. She decided not to press the discussion further.
“I’d be obliged if you’d wrap the books well,” he said, his tone clipped. “My house is some distance and I came on foot.”
“Of course.”
She felt him watching her in a brooding sort of way, and her fingers fumbled with the paper.
Without another word, the transaction was completed. When he opened the door to leave, a draft of cold air sent an involuntary shiver through her. The door shut with a thump. He was gone. After some moments, tears welled up in her eyes.
2
That evening Celia arranged the last plate on the table and glanced at Mrs. Chestley bustling about the stove, preparing to take the celebratory roast out of the oven. The kitchen’s pale yellow walls breathed light, an airy background for the display of sundry plates in shades of blue and gray. On the wall above the table, an oil painting of fresh peaches whetted the appetite. She inhaled deeply. The aroma of the roast, surrounded by tender garden carrots, pungent onions, and browned potatoes, wafted from the oven. Solid food, Mrs. Chestley had said. Comforting food, Mr. Chestley had replied.
Celia put the finishing fold to the napkins. The lady of the house insisted they use the soft linen reserved for company. “To celebrate your first full week at the bookshop, my dear.” She added that anyone who got along with her lion of a husband deserved a reward—a family joke, since Mr. Chestley was the most amiable and mild-mannered of men. Celia found him very similar to her father. In her estimation, though, her father spoke his mind more vigorously.
Mrs. Chestley stepped up to Celia and put her arm around her shoulder. “You know, we’re glad to have you live with us. Are you feeling better after these last months?”
Mrs. Chestley’s motherly gesture warmed Celia’s heart. “Yes, I am.”
“Good. Then I’ll dish out the roast and vegetables onto our blue willowware. Won’t that look lovely?” As Mrs. Chestley reached for the large fork, she added, “Let’s call my husband. And turn up that lamp as well.”
Mr. Chestley took his seat. “A feast for the eyes as well as the palate.” After savoring a few hearty mouthfuls, he caught his wife’s eye. “Celia did very well her first week. The front window display she arranged showed superior artistic talent, in my opinion. Then she adroitly handled a difficult customer. Now I can go back into my office and hole up whenever one darkens the shop door.”
“Celia, that’s wonderful.” Mrs. Chestley beamed.
“And, Mary, with such an able assistant, you and I should be able to take that day outing you’ve been longing for. In fact, I think before winter sets in, we should hire a buggy and see the colors. A little honeymoon, if you will.”
Mrs. Chestley put down her fork, rose, and hugged Celia. “See, dear, you’ve already brought blessing into our home.”
“Madam! You are supposed to embrace me. I am the person who arranged for this child to come and the one who proposed the fall outing.”
“Of course, dear.” Mrs. Chestley dutifully slipped to his side of the table.
What good fun, Celia thought, and sweet. She was glad, too, their attention was diverted from herself. After she’d damaged Mr. Lyons’s book, she felt she hardly deserved such goodwill.
“Oh, Mary, I forgot to tell you, Mr. Lyons picked up his Tennyson tonight. He seemed rather pleased with it.”
“I’m sure he was, the way you described its lovely red leather cover.”
“I was also glad Celia could assist him. Didn’t you think he was pleased with the book, Celia?”
At the mention of the Tennyson, Celia’s guilty thoughts rose in a flood.
“I—I,” she floundered. Mr. Lyons had told her not to say anything. But she couldn’t—she just couldn’t. One hand tightly grasped the other in her lap. “I have something to tell you . . . I accidentally ripped a page of the Tennyson.”
Mr. Chestley started from his chair. “What?”
“Mr. Lyons said not to say anything, but I had to tell you.”
Mr. Chestley sat very still. “How did it happen?”
“I was reading the book underneath the counter. When he appeared suddenly, I startled and jerked, ripping the page.” Celia looked at him apprehensively.
Mr. Chestley stared at her, as if he didn’t want to believe it.
“I offered to send for a new book and pay for it myself, but he wouldn’t hear of it.”
Finally, he said, “I’ve heard he has an extensive library. And beautiful. He’s very particular what he includes in it. Are you sure he wasn’t upset?”
“Well, he was at first, very much so. But when you came up and asked if anything was wrong, he suddenly changed.” Mr. Chestley’s eyebrow cocked. Celia could see he was puzzled and surprised. “What should I do? The book is damaged. And I don’t see how the page can be repaired.”
Mr. Chestley sat some moments longer. “I still can’t see him suddenly dropping the subject. As I said before, he is so particular.”
&nb
sp; Celia looked at him apprehensively. “I’m very sorry I ripped the book. I should have left it alone.”
“Yes! I’m glad you realize that.” He pressed his lips together. “I’m trying to think what should be done.”
After some moments, he said, “If Mr. Lyons did say to forget it, I think that is what we must do, whatever his reasons. He is a man of decision, and we need to comply with his stated wish.” Mr. Chestley shook his head. “Knowing how much his books mean to him, this shows him to be more of a gentleman than I thought—considering the rumors that have circulated about him.”
Celia looked a question at Mrs. Chestley.
“You see, Celia, since his wife’s death, he’s become the town hermit and rather unapproachable.” Mrs. Chestley paused, her forefinger drawing a circle on the table cloth, as if she was trying to decide whether to say more.
“Mary—”
Celia glanced at Mr. Chestley and saw his warning look to his wife. Would anyone say anything, explain a little more? She ventured, “A Miss Waul was in the bookstore. She warned me away from him.”
“She would.” Mrs. Chestley took her napkin from her lap and very decidedly folded it and placed it next to her plate. “No wonder he goes out and about—at night.”
Celia wasn’t sure where Mrs. Chestley was going with her comment. Mr. Lyons did look a veritable curmudgeon with that bush of hair and scraggly beard. But he had overlooked her accident, forgiven it so quickly. The thought struck her forcibly.
“What we could say,” Mrs. Chestley began, “is that Mr. Lyons’s wife died in unhappy circumstances. Quite young, and Mr. Lyons has never been the same.”
He has a broken heart then, Celia thought. After some moments, she asked, “Was his wife in ill health?”
“Some might say that,” Mrs. Chestley said. “Of course, no one is sure, although the mother-in-law intimated her daughter had suffered tremendously. And the rumors—one didn’t know whether to believe them or not.”
“Well, as noted earlier,” Mr. Chestley said, “I have chosen not to believe them.”
“That is the Christian thing to do,” his wife said. “Still, where there’s smoke, one wonders if there’s fire, as the saying goes.”
“It’s none of our business, my dear, and ’tis now in the past. Marguerite died—has it been two years?”
“Two at the turn of the year. I remember leaving the Christmas wreath on the door longer than usual. To give added cheer. The cold winter seemed especially chill after news of her death.”
For some moments, the three of them sat quietly.
“I’m sorry, dear.” Mrs. Chestley leaned forward, her hand grasping Celia’s arm. “I wanted this to be a celebratory meal and instead we’ve turned it into—well—our dessert ought to change all that.” She rose. “Stay seated, Celia. You are the guest of honor tonight. From here on, we’ll forget Mr. Lyons, the ripped page, and anything else connected with him.”
Returning to the table, Mrs. Chestley held aloft a white cake. A large candle glowed in its center, and she started singing, “We’re glad you are here,” over and over to a tune of her own making. Her husband joined in as best he could. She set the cake on the tablecloth with a flourish. “I chose a white one with cream frosting to symbolize your youth and freshness. And, of course, the candle represents your light in our lives. Now, to cut it.” She handed the first piece to Celia.
Celia looked up at Mrs. Chestley, grateful she was turning the meal into the celebration all of them had looked forward to. She began to feel more lighthearted.
Celia closed her eyes, savoring her first bite of the cake. It was thoroughly moist, the creamy frosting the perfect complement. “If the saying is true the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, this would be just the right finishing touch to any wife’s meal.”
Mrs. Chestley laughed. “I’ll be glad to give away any culinary secrets.” She looked over the top of her glasses. “By the way, what is this about a man’s heart? Is there a young man in your life?”
A mischievous urge bubbled up in Celia. “Well, Jack from home is an old friend. We’ve been pals since childhood.”
“Any sign of more than pals?”
“He was the love of my life in second grade. Of course, he was more interested in tadpoles and fishing.”
“Any signs of interest lately?”
“At the last church social, he did come and sit beside me. And he was rather sad to see me leave.” Celia contemplated Mrs. Chestley’s question. She suddenly wondered if she could possibly be the rose that would get into Jack’s blood.
“Sounds as if things might be warming up a bit.” Mrs. Chestley’s eyes twinkled. “We’ll keep our eye on him. Nothing like the possibility of romance to get the blood racing in these old veins.”
“Don’t start planning the wedding yet, my dear,” Mr. Chestley said. “Celia just arrived. I don’t want some young man carrying her off when she just began work. Besides, now that she’s come to live with us, I must approve the young man. Only exceptional men need apply. We will have no dealings with mediocrity.”
Mr. Chestley savored another mouthful of cake before continuing. “You know, Celia, something’s been on my mind for a while. What would you say to starting a book discussion group? Perhaps once a month?”
“Oh! Next to reading, discussing what I’ve read is one of my favorite pastimes.”
“Good. We have that area near the stove where room could be made for a discussion group.”
Celia sat straighter. “To get people thinking, on the door we could post the title of the book with a few key questions. And then I could do a presentation about the author. My father always said a book in some way reflects an author’s life and thinking.”
“Excellent! You see, Mary, I told you she was exceptional.” Mr. Chestley put down his fork. “And speaking of exceptional, Mary my girl, we will have to give you a blue ribbon for this dessert.”
“Would you like another piece?” Mrs. Chestley reached for the knife.
“I would love it, but I’m portly enough.”
“The more to squeeze, my dear. You’re so very comfortable to put one’s arms around.”
Mr. Chestley’s mouth twisted into a deprecatory smile. “Ha! I don’t believe my new assistant is accustomed to such talk. You must forgive us, Celia. My wife and I are alone so much, we get rather free with one another.” His smile widened. “But I think it’s also a tribute to how comfortable we are around you.”
He stretched his arms over his head. “This feels good after that big meal.”
“Well!” Mrs. Chestley rose suddenly. “Celia, would you please help me clear the dessert dishes? And then you may dry while I wash. You and I need a little time together after my husband retires to the sitting room.”
She picked up the dinnerware. “I want to hear more about this young man back home. My mother always said doing dishes provided one of the best times to talk with her children.” She smiled. “Now, I have an opportunity to put to use all that good wisdom from Mother.”
3
Mrs. Divers heard her front door open and with difficulty rose from her easy chair. This arthritis was such a bother. She shuffled out of the sitting room.
“Miss Waul! I’m glad you’re back.” A shiver coursed through her. The outside air had chilled the entry with Miss Waul’s entrance. Mrs. Divers tightened the shawl around her as Miss Waul took off her heavy coat and placed it on the coat tree. “Did you get my book?”
“Oh, yes.” Miss Waul leaned over to get it from her carryall.
“Then let’s go right to the sitting room where it’s warm. I’m beholden to you for going to the bookstore tonight.”
Mrs. Divers lowered herself slowly into the stuffed chair by the fire, and then thumbed through the volume. How tempted she was to begin reading right now, but since her companion had gone to all that trouble, she would wait to start it after she retired for the night.
“Here, let me stoke up the fire a bit.” Mis
s Waul took up the poker. “Would you believe I found the book in quite a different spot? Completely out of alphabetical order.”
“Well, Mr. Chestley is getting older. I guess he can’t be expected to get everything right.” Mrs. Divers reached up and repositioned a loose hairpin in her bun.
“But he has help now. A young lady.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Looks the quiet type.” Miss Waul put the poker back and plumped down into the horsehair chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. “She appears bright enough, though.”
“Goodness knows, not a bluestocking, I hope. A woman like that can be downright irritating.”
“She doesn’t look at all bookish. In fact, she’s very pretty.”
“Pretty?” Mrs. Divers’s interest picked up.
“Yes, her hair strikes you right away, wheat-colored and braided fancy-like. Wound at the back of her head in a sort of chignon.” Miss Waul put her hand up to her hair. “I might try wearing my braid back like hers. Make my face appear less round, you know, instead of circling my head.”
“Don’t be silly. Your arrangement is nice and sensible. I don’t want you changing on me.”
“You don’t think I should try something new?” Miss Waul eyed Mrs. Divers with a pleading look, then after a moment shrugged her broad shoulders. “Well, whatever you say—but I fancy the girl’s hair would be like a sheaf of wheat when down, real pretty like. And you should see her lips. Red as a rose.” Her lips suppressed a smirk. “Didn’t know I could be poetic, did you?—but I wonder if she doesn’t color them.” Miss Waul smoothed her skirt. “That one won’t have trouble getting a man. Finding a good one around here is the problem. If she wasn’t dressed so properly in that dark brown, I’d say she looked a bit of a hussy.”
“Miss Waul!”
Miss Waul tittered. “The old maid coming out in me, I guess.”
“You’re not old yet.”
“But past my prime, I’m sure. Why, see how my hair has begun to gray these last years.” She paused, then cast a pointed look at Mrs. Divers. “Worrying over Marguerite.”
“Marguerite?” Sorrow or anger rose up in Mrs. Divers—she wasn’t sure which. Perhaps it was both.
