by Laura Briggs
“Would you like some hot tea?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts. “I can’t offer the cozy fireside, but there are plenty of books to choose from.” His mouth formed a crooked smile that doubled as an apology for misjudging her.
“Sounds good.” She summoned a smile in return, despite the raw ache of disappointment that burned inside her. How could she think her problem would be solved so easily? Obviously, this wasn’t the kind of book one found by the dozens on store shelves.
“Raspberry lemon, or orange spice?” Eliot asked, selecting two ceramic mugs from a shelf above the file cabinet. The only organized space in the room it seemed, with neat stacks of saucers, cups, and spoons.
“Orange, please.” She smoothed the crease along the torn knee of her jeans, thinking it seemed odd to share a beverage with a nice-looking guy, instead of serving it to customers at the bistro. A painful sign of how long it had been since her last date with a fellow artist, who was more friend than boyfriend material.
“It kind of startled me to see that’s the book you want,” he said, glancing over his shoulder as he soaked the tea bags in hot water. “Pride and Prejudice is the conventional choice for most collectors, after all.”
“This identical copy you saw…was it fairly valuable without the set?” she asked, biting her lip, as she pictured the figure in her head. Three thousand. No, maybe five.
“As much as fifteen hundred, thanks to its pristine condition.” He placed a steaming mug in front of her. “Sorry for the mediocre dishware. Not one of my better experiments in the art world.” This was said with a nod at the art studio across the hall.
“You made this?” She looped her fingers through the handle, her skin brushing against a smooth, glossy exterior. “It’s not bad. And I should know, as someone who flunked out of basic pottery sophomore year in college. Every project went to the wastebasket—or else got plastered on the wall.”
“Sounds like my attempts at cooking,” he joked, rummaging through a desk drawer.
She laughed. “Yeah, well, it all worked out in the end. I’m a painter, so I decided to abandon clay for plastering paint on canvas.”
He placed a bulging folder on the desk with a thud. “These are my book contacts, so to speak. Sellers and shops from Delaford and its surrounding communities.”
“That many?” She took a long sip from the mug, the flavor fizzing against her tongue.
“Used bookstores, collectors, independent sellers, pawn shops.” He flipped through the entries, which consisted of computer print-offs, flyers, and business cards. “These are all good starting points. Other possibilities include book fairs and estate sales.”
Julia nodded, impressed by the scope of the research, although she was still stinging at the thought of a fifteen hundred dollar price tag. All of her savings and a little more.
“This kind of thing takes time, of course,” he added, shutting the folder. “Do you have a deadline for this particular book hunt?”
As soon as humanly possible. She stroked the rim of her cup, trying to form an answer that sounded urgent without smacking of desperate. “Before the end of the month would be nice. I know that’s a small window of time.”
“So this is a Christmas gift?”
“Not exactly. But I need to have it by then.” Since Anne would be returning from holiday vacation the day after, only to discover she never should have trusted her friend with this treasured possession.
“Christmas, then.” He scratched a note on the pad next to the phone. “A challenge, but not impossible. Although you may want to drop a note to the North Pole just for backup.”
She laughed, surprised by his cheesy sense of humor. “OK, I’ll do that.” Her amusement turned to alarm as she caught sight of the wall clock above the door. “Gee, it’s later than I thought—I really have to get back to work. Tables don’t wait on themselves at the Starry Night Bistro.”
“No problem,” he said. “Is there some way I can get in touch with you? A phone number, maybe an email address?”
“Of course.” She reached for a pen, scribbling her work and cell numbers on the message pad by the phone. “The top one is my day number,” she said, sliding it across the desk. When was the last time you gave a guy your number, anyway?
Of course, this was different. No need to get that breathless feel whenever the phone rang—unless it concerned finding the book, that is. Which didn’t explain the strange fluttering in her chest as he tucked the piece of paper inside his shirt pocket.
“I’ll get in touch as soon as something comes up,” he promised.
A prospect she found herself looking forward to, and not just because it meant correcting her silly mistake, although her heart might refuse to admit it.
****
Was it possible to be haunted by a book?
The question ran through Eliot’s mind as he rinsed out the tea mugs and stowed them back on the shelf. He knew it must be a coincidence, but somehow it felt more important than that. As if God was trying to send him a message about his life, or maybe his career. Or romance, as he knew his family would inevitably conclude.
Maybe Bella was right about the whole thing after all.
It seemed odd that such a random object had led to encounters with two rather attractive women, both intriguing, yet vastly different from each other.
His mind drifted back to the girl who sat across from him moments before, her feisty charm as bold as her fashion statement. She wasn’t Jane Austen, of course...but there was something about her that drew him in a way he couldn’t explain.
It was her eyes, he decided. A dark shade of hazel that reminded him of the mysterious figure in the park. Instead of being wide with surprise, however, this latest pair were narrowed slightly, as if expecting to argue with him, or defend herself against something.
Clearly, his imagination was working overtime, finding excuses to see his “mystery Regency girl” in everyone he met.
He wondered if Julia Allen understand how much work and patience it took to track down a book as rare as the one she wanted. Collectors and individual sellers were most likely to have a copy, but they would charge full price, something he had a feeling this client couldn’t afford.
“Maybe it’s time for an old-fashioned approach,” he murmured, turning to the computer. A few keystrokes later and the information he sought popped onto the screen. A colorful banner with a pen and inkwell motif, its message proclaiming in bold font, “Come to the Cape Barton Festival of Books! Browse merchandise from fifty different sellers and collectors, with rare manuscripts, first editions, autographs, maps, atlases, and literary ephemera of all kinds. Saturday December 8th and Sunday the 9th at Pemberley Park. Admittance is free!”
“Perfect,” he murmured, his pen inking the details onto his desk calendar.
A forty-mile drive to Cape Barton would be no trouble at all for the variety offered by a book fair. This was the best chance he stood for locating such an obscure first edition in so short a time span. A task his heart warmed to as he recalled the disappointment in Julia’s face when she learned of the unattainable copy.
Was his sympathy merely the product of a fellow book lover? Or because her rich hazel eyes reminded him of another pair he glimpsed in the snowy park? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to that question.
A faint tapping against the door pulled him back to reality. “Dr. Eliot?” Lydia, one of the interns from the college secretarial pool, peered inside the doorway. “The art gallery phoned about the Jackson Pollock Gothic print you ordered. They said it’s ready to pick up anytime you like.”
“Thanks Lydia.” He gave the book fair announcement one last look, and then reached for his blazer and car keys. The Gothic print would make a perfect visual aid for his upcoming lecture at Hampshire Hall. The one he was supposed to be working on instead of chasing after books and their phantom owners. But then Julia needed his help—and he needed to find the identity of the Regency heroine come to life.
****
Crawford’s Art Gallery was mere blocks away, on the outskirts of Delaford’s newer business district. As Eliot pushed inside the entrance door, the gallery’s assistant manager, Miss Price, greeted him with a friendly smile.
“Mr. Crawford left the Pollack print in his office,” she said, fishing a ring of keys from beneath the cash register. “I’ll just go fetch it. Feel free to look around, in the meantime.”
He strolled the aisles, admiring watercolor depictions of lily ponds, and lonely landscape scenes with barren winter settings. Pausing by the section for the newest displays, he studied three oil paintings which smacked of Picasso imitations at first glance.
But a closer inspection revealed something unique and unexpected in the style. All three were done in stained-glass hues, with bold, sketch-like patterns, blocky figures and distorted features. The images depicted were strangely old-fashioned, with people dressed in Regency period attire.
The middle painting struck him as the most original, with its split screen effect that showed a man and a woman in different settings, their backs facing each other. The woman sat before a dressing table, gazing into the mirror with eyes that conveyed far-away thoughts. By contrast, the man lounged on a settee in an elegant drawing room, his brooding gaze cast in the direction of the blazing hearth.
Eliot glanced at the information card, which contained the caption: A cubist interpretation of Jane Austen’s classic novel, Pride and Prejudice. Not his usual taste, but something about its boldness caught his attention. Or maybe it was just his newfound and somewhat unorthodox connection with the author’s work.
Bella would love it, the melding of Romantic literature with modern artwork.
Checking his watch, he glanced towards the back hallway, where Miss Price had disappeared moments before. The movement of shadows told him she was busy moving things around in the office space. He turned down the next aisle, and came face to face with a portrait centered on the wall.
Painted in pastel shades of oil, it showed a woman’s delicate profile. Her dark brown curls swept into an elegant chignon beneath a velvet bonnet, an empire waist gown in soft yellow. Her gloved hands clutched a small, leather-bound book to her chest as her hazel eyes gazed half-smilingly from the canvas.
It’s her. His breath caught as he recognized the face from the park. Her eyes, her hair, the same bonnet, even. A prickling sensation crawled over his skin as he scanned the information card, its uncanny caption declaring it to be none other than, A Vision of Jane Austen.
“Is this real?” he murmured, touching the frame. Part of him was afraid it would disappear the same way the girl did. Am I crazy or is this some kind of sign, Lord? No answer came from above, just the click of high heels as Miss Price returned from the office space, her arms cradling a large frame wrapped in brown paper.
“Anything else?” she asked, handing over the package.
He hesitated for a second, then gestured to the painting. “Can you tell me anything about this portrait?”
“Ah, yes. That’s from one of our local artists, a Mrs. Norris. This is one of her newest works.”
“Do you know if someone posed for it?” He held his breath as he waited for the answer, hoping to find some shred of evidence to support his story, although he didn’t know how it would quite explain his brush with the figure in the park.
Miss Price shook her head. “I’m afraid the artist is a little secretive about her work. She’s never mentioned using a model before, to my knowledge. Most of her paintings are inspired by Impressionist subjects. A little nature, and history, and so forth.”
Great. So maybe he was imagining things after all. “Do you have a phone number or maybe an address where I could reach her?” he asked, trying not to sound too desperate. “I’m…interested in the history behind this particular piece of work.”
“No, sorry. Any contact information is kept on Mr. Crawford’s personal computer, and he’s on vacation until next Wednesday.”
He could interpret it as a sign to give up—or a sign to be patient. His curiosity would never rest until he found out if the elusive Mrs. Norris had an answer for him.
“I’ll come back next week,” he promised, pushing through the exit door.
****
Julia wiped the display counter, relieved her shift was almost over. A day of serving Christmas cookies and hot chocolate to hungry customers hadn’t been enough to keep her mind off her great book dilemma. Maybe her half-finished canvas would be a good distraction. She swept her rag across the counter, pretending it was the motion of a swirling paint brush.
“Earth to Julia.” Harriet leaned across the counter and smiled. “You’ve got a phone call in the break room.”
“Who is it?” she asked, mentally sorting the reasons for family to call her at work. Her grandparents’ holiday travel plans gone awry; her mom’s inevitable last-minute panic about the post-Christmas family get-together.
“It’s some guy,” Harriet said, popping a stick of gum in her mouth. “He sounds young and kind of rugged.” Harriet prided herself on being able to describe people physically just by the sound of their voice—although the real-life subjects of her talent were usually far from her predictions.
Whew. Definitely not a family emergency. Her brother never handled any family crisis if he could avoid it. Rolling her eyes, Julia stowed the cleaning solution and rag beneath the register. “Harriet, there’s no way someone can sound rugged,” she answered. “And if it’s my brother, he’s definitely not rugged.”
But she reconsidered her friend’s intuitive powers when she heard the voice on the other end of the line.
“Hey, it’s Eliot. You remember, the professor from Delaford University?”
“Yeah, I do,” she answered, trying to suppress the warm tingle spreading through her veins at the sound of his voice.
“Anyway, I found an announcement for a book festival taking place this Saturday at Pemberley Park in Cape Barton. If you’re free, do you want to hunt for a chance copy of Austen’s book in its stacks? I’ll drive.” This last line was dangled like a piece of bait, tempting her into agreeing.
“What time?” she asked, praying it wouldn’t conflict with her obligation to don opera gloves and a pale blue dress for Miss Austen’s second appearance at an Olde English Christmas. This time, she would read aloud excerpts from a paperback copy of Northanger Abbey she’d purchased from the local outlet mall.
The sound of papers rustling echoed across the line, along with the faint clink of ceramic. “It’s up to you. My schedule’s free all day.”
“How does nine a.m. sound?” she asked, thinking it would give her more than enough time to rush back to Delaford and transform herself before the evening’s performance began. That process involved washing the strawberry-red dye from her hair and curling its straight locks into delicate ringlets.
“Nine a.m. sounds fine,” he said. “I’ll pick you up—”
“Actually, I’ll meet you there,” she answered. “I have another appointment on Saturday and...well, I wouldn’t want to rush you, or make you drive out of your way, or anything.” Words that sparked a sense of panic as she struggled to find an explanation and avoid mentioning she had to get home in time to dress up with a frilly bonnet and gloves.
“OK, I understand,” Eliot said. “I’ll see you Saturday morning, then.”
“Good. And Eliot…” she paused, awkward about using his name in such a familiar manner. As if they were friends, rather than two strangers conducting an emergency book search. “Thanks again for doing this. You’re really going to save my Christmas.”
“I’ll do my best,” he promised.
She hung up the phone, aware that the strange fluttering sensation had returned to her chest, connected to an emotion she couldn’t quite explain—a sort of girlish excitement. Silly, considering their arrangement was one-hundred percent business. Maybe she was just excited by the prospect of finding the book and escaping her problem before t
he holidays.
She didn’t want to consider the only alternative—that the handsome book historian had gotten under her skin.
When she clocked out that evening, Harriet sidled up to her with a knowing grin on her face.
“Was I right?” her co-worker asked. “Is he tall, dark, and handsome, with a fatal sense of charm?”
“You realize you’re describing Prince Charming, right?” She avoided letting Harriet see the blush on her face as she collected her scarf and gloves from the cubby space, along with the paperback copy of Northanger Abbey. Her feigned nonchalance was wasted due to the slight tremor in her voice.
“I knew it,” Harriet gloated. “It’s about time. You could use a little romance in your life that doesn’t come from another century,” she said, with a sly glance at the paperback in Julia’s hand.
“For your information, this guy makes a career off past centuries. In fact, it’s the whole reason he’s spending any time with me at all,” answered Julia.
“Don’t tell me—he dresses up as that guy—what’s his name, from the Austen books,” Harriet said, with a laugh.
Julia shook her head. “Compared to me, he’s normal. No costumes or paint-splattered clothes to be seen.” She punched her timecard and ducked out the back door.
Hugging herself against the cold, she paused to drop part of her day’s tips into the bell ringer’s charity tin. The downtown square was already aglow with the twinkle of Christmas lights from the different shops. Across the street, she could see the Steventon House, its heavy oak door festooned with a jingle-bell wreath.
She took the shortcut through the park again, her gaze scanning the landscape in hopes the book would somehow be there. But of course, it must be long gone. Picked up by someone who most likely didn’t recognize its value, maybe even tossed it in the garbage, a possibility that made her wince with fresh guilt for letting it disappear from her care.
