by Laura Briggs
“Sure. I was pretty much done, anyway.” Harriet vacated the seat, pausing to toss a sticky napkin in the trash can.
Here we go. Biting her lip, Julia typed in the search terms. Northanger Abbey, first edition, buy. She scrolled through the results, clicking on the first reputable-looking book dealer’s name she saw. A picture of the exact 1818 book set popped up on the screen.
With a price of ten thousand dollars.
She searched page after page for an affordable copy that would still fit Anne’s collection. But the individual volumes weren’t available, not even on the numerous online auction sites. The cost of the set was a fortune—the only solo first edition of Northanger Abbey she could find was damaged beyond value but still priced beyond her wallet.
Either she’d have to purchase a complete set with borrowed funds or pray that somewhere she could find a single copy for a few thousand. As it was, she could kiss the last of her meager savings goodbye.
With a groan, she buried her head. If she sold a hundred paintings, it would never come close to the necessary amount for either purchase.
The problem haunted her as she wiped down tables and took orders for club sandwiches and exotic coffee flavors. Collecting the bits of trash from one booth, she paused over a discarded copy of The Daily Delaford.
Maybe she should place a Lost and Found ad. Or maybe there were some local book shops or dealers with information in the classifieds section.
“Please, please let there be something,” she murmured, as she thumbed through the pages, skimming the columns for anything remotely book related, and pausing as she spotted a notice in the local events section:
Hampshire Hall proudly presents a lecture on the Feminine Mystique in Regency-Era Gothic Literature by Dr. Eliot Weston, resident book historian and literary professor at Delaford University.
A book historian—that sounded promising, like an answer to her prayer. Maybe he could give her some names and numbers of sellers and collectors. Or maybe, just maybe, he owned a copy himself. One he would be willing to part with for a reasonable price.
“Julia! Grab some more creamer packets from the back room.” Her manager, Doug’s, voice pulled her back to the reality of the bustling dining area.
“I’m on it,” she said, tearing the ad from the paper and tucking it in her pocket with a mental note to find this Dr. Eliot Weston as soon as she got a chance.
****
The bell above the door at J. S. Pratts’s Antiquarian Shop jangled, as Eliot made his way inside. Sunlight filtered through the oversized windows, revealing row after row of wooden shelves, packed to the brim with books of all shapes and sizes. Faded hardbacks, peeling leather, and crumbling paperbacks peeked from every possible space, including the window sills and rolling ladders.
“Be with you in a minute,” a man’s voice called from somewhere among the stacks.
“No problem.” Eliot placed his shoulder bag on a counter that displayed antique maps and inkwell sets beneath the glass. Pulling the Austen book from the bag, he studied its impressive binding once more. Missing his lunch hour would be worth it to get a fair estimate and a little of the history behind the carefully preserved first edition.
Then maybe he could find a way to restore it to the rightful owner—if only to prove to himself she actually existed.
“Dr. Weston, isn’t it?” said the white-haired book dealer as he emerged from the maze of shelves, wiping his hands on a dust rag. “I’ve seen you lecture at Delaford University. Nice presentation on Greek Mythology in Fiction.”
“I didn’t think anyone stayed awake for those.” Eliot flashed a lopsided grin and slid the book across the counter. “Think you could take a look at this? I’ve tried the Internet but price estimates are all over the place.”
“Well, let’s see.” Mr. Pratt drew a pair of spectacles from his shirt pocket and peered through the lenses at the book’s cover. An approving smile curved his lips, as he fingered the bands of gilt. “Ah, yes, Riviere & Son. Some of the finest binding in the history of the business.”
“I’ve seen a few of their editions before,” Eliot said, leaning against the display case. “One particular John Keats volume from 1818 caught my eye at a book fair in Boston. I can’t remember the name, something like—”
“Endymion,” the dealer supplied with an approving smile. “A very beautiful poetry collection I’ve seen only once in my thirty-year career. Fetched eighteen thousand dollars at auction, it seems.”
Eliot let out a soft whistle. “Guess I’ll have to take it off my Christmas list then, along with that second home in Bermuda.”
The dealer chuckled, turning his attention to the copy of Northanger Abbey. “Well, this appears to be in excellent shape.” He turned it over, inspecting the spine, and then flipped open the cover. “Hardly any fading on the leather, no loose pages. It’s part of a set, as I’m sure you must have noted.”
Eliot nodded. “An expensive one. Ten to twelve thousand dollars judging from the online auctions.”
“The set as a whole is certainly very valuable.” Mr. Pratt drummed his fingers against the desk, an inquisitive look on his face. “You only have this one volume, I take it?”
“Correct.” He fell silent, praying there wouldn’t be any questions about how it came into his possession. Especially since he wasn’t a hundred-percent certain what transpired that brief, startling moment in the park.
“Well, of course, not having the rest of the set diminishes the value somewhat.” The dealer paused to ruffle the pages, none of which bore any marks or stains. “Still, given the nearly pristine quality, I would say this copy should easily fetch somewhere between one thousand and fifteen hundred dollars.”
Wow. The girl who dropped it must be frantic, if she had an inkling of its worth. His mind traveled back to the striking hazel eyes and brown ringlets of hair; the graceful Empire style gown. An image so vivid, yet so improbable.
Mr. Pratt seemed to interpret his silence as disappointment. “I could make an offer of eleven hundred, if you’re interested.”
“No, sorry. But thanks for the estimate.” He slipped the book back in his pack, making sure it was cushioned by the folders. “But if you ever run across a phenomenal deal on that Keats volume, give me a call.”
“Will do.” The dealer shook his hand, then turned to greet a new customer.
Before returning to work, Eliot stopped at the local police station, where he turned over the book, as well as an appraisal slip from the antiquarian shop. The best possible way to find the owner, or at least, the only one he could think of at the moment. Holding onto a lost book of this value made him feel strangely guilty.
“I’m sure someone will claim it,” he said, feeling a twinge of sadness as it disappeared into the safe. As if it somehow connected him to the mysterious young woman with the warm hazel eyes.
“Well, if they don’t, it’s yours to claim in thirty days,” the officer said, locking the safe.
****
“So you’re saying you bumped into Jane Austen at midnight in the city park?”
“Well, not exactly.” Eliot squirmed beneath the burst of good-natured laughter his father’s question drew. Maybe the weekly Wednesday dinner at his parents’ home wasn’t the best place to share his late-night ‘Austen encounter’, as he now thought of it.
At least he had a sympathetic ear in one of the dinner table’s occupants. Fourteen-year-old Isabella, or “Bella”, the romantic at heart, was already leaning across the table to fire off questions about the fabric of the woman’s dress, whether she wore her hair wound up in a chignon, or trailing her shoulders in long, elegant curls.
“Try to remember,” she urged. “Did she wear a lace cap or maybe a bandeau? Because that could tell us something about her age, if she were married or single, even—”
“Slow down,” Eliot said, coughing on a swallow of water from his glass. “Sorry, Bella, but not being an Austen addict like yourself, I didn’t memorize all the t
echnical details. All I know is, a girl in a Regency gown was there on the path.”
Bella sighed. “I’m not that fanatical, Eliot.” A lofty claim, since she owned a closet full of Austen themed T-shirts and kept her bedroom walls and ceiling plastered with posters of the numerous film adaptations. “All I want to know is what she looked like.”
“I still say your eyes were playing tricks on you,” his mother insisted, collecting the empty dessert plates. A science professor retired from the University of Massachusetts after twenty-four years, Charlotte Weston gravitated to the logical explanation for almost everything, including matters of romantic attraction. “Poor light distorts our vision and deceives our imaginations,” she added.
“Well, maybe.” He toyed with his fork, not satisfied with the explanation. The book itself still seemed too much of a coincidence, shadows and poor lighting aside.
“Here’s a theory,” his father, Henry, a freelance writer, chimed in, with a humorous gleam in his eye. “Pretty much the only women you spend time with are the long dead, historical types, right? Well, maybe this is a symptom of your obsession. You know—a sort of dream girlfriend.”
Laughter erupted from the two female listeners over this remark.
Eliot’s love life, or rather, nonexistent one, was a subject he tried to avoid at all costs, since his work at the university left scant time for even casual flirtations. At best, he managed a date every two months, usually to something like a movie or the symphony. Or one of his own lectures, where the date spent the evening stifling yawns and checking her wrist watch.
“So our son’s ideal woman is from another century?” An amused smile twitched the corners of his mother’s mouth. “I suppose it could be possible, given the fact his last steady relationship was back in graduate school.”
If our Heavenly Father created a girl to be your second half, He would have to put her in a book to get your attention. A direct quote from Eliot’s father in the past, concerning his son’s solitude.
“OK, I get it—you think I’m the real life version of the movie, Somewhere in Time.” Eliot crumpled his napkin with a sheepish grin. “Let’s just forget I ever mentioned it and move on to more pressing matters. Like when that fir tree in the living room is going to have something besides lights on its branches.”
His sister grinned and gave his foot a playful shove beneath the table. “I already got the ornament boxes down from the attic. Wanna help me decorate?”
“Absolutely. How else would you get the tree topper in place?”
Bella rolled her eyes. “In case you haven’t noticed, you no longer tower over me like a California Redwood. I’ve grown three inches this year—enough to handle a six-foot Christmas tree.” With that, she rose and bounded to the living room, where the colored strands of bulbs cast a warm glow across the Oriental rug.
Eliot trailed behind her, his fingers loosening his tie. Meanwhile, his mind struggled to recreate the image of the woman from the park. Deep hazel eyes filled with surprise; rosy cheeks and shining auburn curls. Details that seemed more and more like a dream under the scrutiny of his parent’s skeptical gazes.
Just let it go, he told himself, settling on the rug next to Bella, who had already popped open the first cardboard box to remove a tray of vintage Christmas balls.
Scuffed from years of use, they still bore the original stencil designs. Candy canes, snowflakes, stars; children sledding and building snowmen.
Despite his mother’s elegant taste in furnishings, these worn-out ornaments had a soft place in her heart, even as other mothers they knew had moved on to expensive designer decorations for their trees.
“Maybe you should place a Lost and Found ad,” Bella said, interrupting his silent train of thought as she lifted a second tray of ornaments. “Then this woman will come looking for you instead of the other way around.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You believe me, then? Or do you think maybe Dad’s right about my ‘romantic imagination’?” He plucked a snow globe from the cardboard box and turned it over. The motion created a blizzard for the tiny, idyllic village inside.
“It’s not the weirdest thing anyone’s ever claimed to see. Not like a ghost, or an Elvis sighting,” she joked, fishing a strand of cranberry beads from the box’s depths. “Besides, maybe you were supposed to meet this girl. Like a sign from God that you’re ready for a relationship,” she teased, elbowing him playfully as she rose with the garland string.
“Right,” he answered, sarcastically. Although he had to admit, Bella had a point—at least when it came to the strangeness of the scene in the park. There could be a reasonable explanation for what he experienced that night. But to prove it, he would have to find the elusive girl in the cloak and gown.
****
Thursday’s lunch hour found Julia scrambling up the staircase to the Delaford University Fine Arts building, her fingers wrapped tightly around the strap to her sling backpack, which contained its usual sketch pads and bundles of colored pencils. She also carried a picture and detailed description of the first edition Northanger Abbey.
According to the floor directory, Dr. Weston’s office was in room 303, right across from the pottery and sculpting studio. The familiar scent of wet clay and art supplies told her she was getting close as she crossed the third floor landing, her path blocked here and there by students who were pinning boughs of holly above the classroom doors.
He’s probably not even here, she thought, checking her watch. She raised a fist to knock on the open doorway to 303, and then froze, her heart dipping a little at the sight of the tall, lean masculine figure stationed in front of the filing cabinet.
Head bent in concentration over an open folder, he looked close to her own age, with rumpled dark brown hair and boyish features, his jaw sporting just a hint of stubble. Definitely not the gray-haired scholarly type she pictured from reading the newspaper ad.
Maybe this was an assistant. Or a graduate student assigned to work in the university offices.
“Excuse me, but…” she trailed off as he swept a pair of intelligent gray-green eyes over her. “Is Dr. Weston here?”
“Depends. Are you here to drop a class, or protest a grade?”
“Neither.” She flushed under his warm, teasing gaze. “I’m not a student.”
He broke into a grin. “Sorry. The backpack made me jump to conclusions. I’m Eliot Weston, by the way,” he added, striding forward to extend a hand, the grip of his fingers firm, but pleasant. “What can I do for you, miss…”
“Allen,” she said. “Julia Allen. And I’m not sure—that is, it’s kind of a weird request. Probably you’re too busy, anyway.” Her gaze returned to the file he’d been perusing when she arrived. “I could come back some other time—”
“No, please, come in. Have a seat.” He swept a stack of books from a burgundy-colored wingback chair. “Sorry about the clutter. I keep meaning to get Martha Stewart in to redecorate the place.” This was said with a lopsided grin, as he moved aside fast food wrappers and a bobble-head Shakespeare doll to make room for her backpack on the desk.
“Thanks,” she said. Her gaze took in the rest of the office as she settled in. Tattered, leather-bound books lined the shelf space, while sprawling ferns and framed Renoir and Monet prints lent a sense of color and style.
And definite high art taste, she couldn’t help thinking, her eyes scanning the collection of award plaques and honorary degrees that hung above the water cooler. No Picassos or Dalis for this professor. Definitely no spray-painted canvas, or mixed-medium arts, either.
“So are you a big literature fan, Miss Allen?” The book historian asked as he slipped between the desk and an impressive antique floor globe, and then taking a seat in the swivel chair to survey her with raised brows.
“Not as much as you, apparently,” she said. “But I usually carry a novel in my backpack. And Julia’s fine,” she added, blushing a little at her own boldness.
“Good. That means you have to
call me Eliot. Which pretty much no one ever does—the downside of having a professional title.” He reached over to adjust a jar of fountain pens, giving her time to notice his empty ring finger.
Like it even matters, she chided herself mentally. You’re not exactly a highbrow literature professor’s type—and he’s definitely not yours.
“I’m sure you’ve guessed that it’s a book that brought me to your office,” she said, focusing her thoughts on the goal. “I saw your name in the paper and hoped…well, you could help me locate a rare copy.” Unzipping the backpack, she drew out the information and slid it across the desk.
Eliot caught the papers and spread them in front of him. As he scanned the contents, his curiosity melted into a look of astonishment. “I’m familiar with this edition—in fact, I’ve seen one recently.”
“You have?” Julia’s fingers gripped the edge of the desk. Maybe this was an answer to her prayers, the miracle solution she needed so desperately. “Was it for sale, by any chance?”
“I’m afraid not. The owner isn’t in a position to sell right now, and they seemed particularly sentimental about it.” His eyes swept over her distressed jeans and grunge T-shirt; the wavy, strawberry-red hair pulled back with a tie-dye scarf. “You’re, um, an Austen admirer, I take it?” He raised one eyebrow.
Not again. She could almost hear the laugh in his voice; the same as her family and a few of the snottier modern artists she knew from local galleries. “What’s wrong?” she asked, meeting his skeptical gaze. “Can’t picture me with a good book and a cup of tea by the fireside?”
“I didn’t mean—that is…” he paused, a sheepish grin crawling into place. “OK, you got me. The bohemian look may have clouded my judgment a little.”
“Thanks for the honesty,” she said. “Most people assume that literature is an alien world to an offbeat artist. But you’re partly right—the book’s not for me. I’m locating it for a friend.”
She dropped her gaze, hoping he wouldn’t ask why. The last thing she needed was to spill her guts about this situation. Probably he’d laugh if he knew the true story, picturing her stumbling around in a Regency gown and paint-splattered sneakers. Or worse, think she was careless for letting such a valuable text out of her sight.
