Whispers in the Reading Room

by Shelley Shepard Gray

  He smiled. “Bridget has found a new place to live and has allowed me to call on her.”

  “Call on her? Are you going to court her, Mr. Hunt?”

  “I am.”

  “That is truly wonderful.”

  His cheeks flushed. “I think so too. I came to my senses when I realized I could have lost her. Thank goodness.”

  Lydia felt tears prick her eyes. “I wish you many blessings,” she said sincerely. Both Vincent and Bridget deserved the happiness they had found in each other.

  “Thank you. Mr. Marks is slowly recovering from all the excitement too.”

  “I’m glad he’s suffered no ill effects.”

  “Actually, the experience has caused him to rethink some things. He closed the Grotto.”

  She set down her spoon. “Truly?”

  “He’s not going to get out of the bar business for good. He’s going to open a new club but with no gambling. This one will be near the financial district and be far more upscale.”

  “And he is happy with this decision?”

  “I think he’s happy to be on the right side of the law.”

  “How do you feel about this?”

  “I’m happy too. I don’t want to work for anyone else. Now I’ll have more normal hours. I’ll get to spend more time with my daughter. And with Bridget too.”

  “That is a blessing. I am happy for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Please convey my felicitations to him. I am glad things are working out for him.”

  “He misses you terribly, Miss Bancroft.”

  “I haven’t heard a word since he told me good-bye. Therefore, the evidence proves different.”

  “He is a proud man. He is also very insecure.”

  “Are we speaking of the same man? I’ve never met anyone with more confidence.”

  “That is what he has in common with you, Miss Bancroft. He used the Silver Grotto as a cover for his worries.”

  “That is a bit much.”

  “It is true. There, in the dark, people went to escape their real-ties. But he used it as an escape too. As long as he played the part of Sebastian Marks, gambling club owner, he didn’t have to come to terms with who he is.”

  “You believe that to be the case?”

  “I do. Just like you also lived in your make-believe world of books in the library. There you could immerse yourself in other people’s hopes and dreams instead of dealing with real people, real places, and real emotions and problems.”

  “I fear you’ve forgotten yourself.”

  “And I fear you’ve forgotten how much you have been giving up. You need to go see Mr. Marks and assure him that you haven’t forgotten him.”

  “I fear you, too, have been living in your fantasy world, Mr. Hunt. I tried to be his friend. I was his fiancée. He pushed me out of both places.”

  “I think you are afraid.”

  “I am. I don’t want to get hurt again.”

  “But—”

  “If he wants to see me again, he will simply have to find me.”

  “Stay at the library then.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Make an exception. Stay another week. What’s one more week, Miss Bancroft?”

  It was a lot. She needed to move forward and put the past behind her. However, she knew walking away was going to be one of the hardest things she’d ever done. She loved the reading room.

  She loved the memories made there even more.

  She sighed. “All right.” Because after everything they’d gone through, one more week was really nothing at all.

  CHAPTER 35

  CHICAGO TIMES-COURIER

  February 1894

  Reported by K. J. Ryan

  So many changes have occurred in Camp Creek Alley, it is difficult to note them all. Perhaps it is best to dwell on the fact that things are changing in the area. And all of it is for the better.

  He’d come back.

  It was nearly five o’clock, and the library was empty. She’d sent Priscilla home over an hour ago and had spent the last hour happily reshelving a variety of religious texts and sermons. Every once in a while she would open one and read it, then read it again, using the time to think about God’s Word and ponder God’s grace. He made so many good things happen even when people didn’t deserve it.

  As she stared at the line of neatly aligned books, Lydia felt her throat tighten. She was truly going to miss her life here in the reading room.

  And then Sebastian Marks walked through the door.

  “What brings you here today?”

  His gaze flickered over her slowly before he raised his brows. “I’m in need of a book. Obviously.”

  “Of course.” She shook off her disappointment, at the same time chastising herself for even imagining that he would have another reason to return. “May I be of assistance? Or perhaps you would rather peruse at your leisure.”

  “I am most assuredly in need of your assistance.”

  She walked around the counter and stood in front of him. Then wished she had not. He smelled of the outdoors and his expensive cologne. Once again, she found it hard to ignore.

  In addition, he seemed taller. Or perhaps it was merely his aura? She found herself having difficulty looking away from his face to the rows of books.

  “What type of book are you seeking? Fiction or nonfiction?”

  “Nonfiction.”

  Too ill at ease to stand still, she started toward the stacks on the south wall. “What type of nonfiction book do you seek? Biographies? Medical? Geographical? Philosophical?”

  “Poetry.”

  She stopped. “I’m sorry, sir, but that is not possible.”

  “What is not?”

  “The poetry is found in fiction.”

  “You sure?”

  “Very sure. Poems are made up, you know.”

  “Ah.” He waggled his fingers. “Lead on then.”

  She did an about-face and walked him down one aisle, then up another. Until, at last, they stopped in front of a variety of poets, some well-known, others far less. “Any poet in particular?”

  He stood next to her, eyeing the titles in front of them. “Surely you jest?”

  “Pardon?”

  “No one goes looking for poetry by the author, do they?”

  She blinked. “How else would one seek what they are looking for?”

  “By need, of course.”

  She was off-kilter. “Need?”

  “Are you able to help me? Do you know your poetry?”

  “I will try. What, uh, subject are you interested in?”

  He looked her way. “Love.”

  “Love?” It was a wonder she didn’t choke, her utterance spoken around a gasp.

  “Are you familiar with the topic?”

  She couldn’t lie. “Yes.” His expression warmed, making her skin flushed. She stepped away. “Well, now. Um, there is Longfellow. Shelley.”

  “Tennyson?”

  “Not usually. Homer is not usually one known for poems of love and beauty either.”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “To be sure, he writes beautiful works about love.”

  “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

  “Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

  He looked delighted. “You know it.”

  “You do too.”

  “It is a favorite of mine, though even the best poems have never done justice to what I’ve felt in my heart.”

  “Words are mere words.”

  “You know, I came here thinking that I needed to find the perfect way to tell you what is in my heart. But perhaps I should simply say the words. Even though, to be sure, words are mere words.”

  She swallowed. “Sebastian?”

  “You see, something happened to me when I saw you the first time. I walked in here, saw you at that counter right there, nose in your book. You were oblivious to everyone.”

  She remembered the first time she�
�d seen him. “Not quite oblivious to everyone and everything.”

  “You were reading Little Women as if Miss Alcott told a hundred stories you were unfamiliar with.”

  “That is a fair assumption,” she said with a smile. “I was an only child, you see.”

  “I was charmed.”

  “That, I never knew.”

  “I didn’t want to know you. Because I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be able to forget what I felt like in your presence. Therefore, I tried to ignore you.”

  “You did a good job. I wasn’t aware that you knew I existed.”

  “And then at last we talked.”

  “And we became friends.”

  He reached out, took her hand. “And then became engaged.”

  “Until you broke things off.”

  “I was frightened. I feared I was hurting you. Instead, I discovered that you had made me better. You lifted me. And now, I find myself adrift. I need you back in my life, Lydia. I need you to be mine once again.”

  “Sebastian. I know you are responsible for saving my townhouse and securing my pay raise here.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “It was everything.”

  “If you had left your home or this library, how could I have found you? Chicago is a big city after all.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  “To stumble and prevaricate and tell you that I have fallen in love with you. That I want you to be my wife. I want you near me for every reason I said before. And none of those things.”

  Her pulse was racing. “Why, then?” she asked, hoping that he wouldn’t realize just how much what he was saying affected her.

  “Simply, because. It seems that you were right, Lydia. Words are only words. Sometimes they are not enough.”

  She was starting to realize that she had been very wrong. His words were enough. Everything he said had claimed her heart. Encouraged her to believe.

  “Oh. Before you give me your answer, I brought you something to try to sway you.”

  “You didn’t need to do that. I have my answer.”

  “Wait.” He unbuttoned his jacket, fished in the pockets, then at last brought out a felt bag. “Here. I decided that nothing will prove my love to you like this.”

  She took the bag with shaking fingers, carefully slid out the contents, and gasped. And laughed.

  For inside was the most beautiful, exquisite pair of eyeglasses she’d ever seen in her life. Gold, embedded with jewels.

  “You see, now, when you look through these, everything will be beautiful.”

  “How could it not be?” Carefully, she pushed the lever, and the lenses popped open. She removed her regular glasses and set them on a shelf, lifted the jeweled pair to her eyes, and saw exactly what he’d said she would. Through those, everything was beautiful. Perfect.

  Because all she saw was him. “Sebastian, my answer is yes.”

  He smiled, then carefully pulled the glasses from her face and set them on the shelf next to her other pair. “What did you do that for?”

  “You won’t need glasses for this, love. For my kiss, you won’t need to see anything at all.”

  As he pulled her into his arms and at last kissed her, she knew he spoke the truth.

  There were no words to describe it.

  She only felt loved. And needed.

  Everything.

  DISCUSSION QUESTIONS

  1. Is Sebastian Marks a hero? Why or why not?

  2. What were some of Lydia’s strengths? How did she prove to be a capable heroine for a novel set at the turn of the century?

  3. All four main characters have spent most of their lives trying to find the right place to fit in. Do you think this is a common occurrence? Does everyone have to search at one time in his or her life?

  4. The theme of friendship runs throughout the novel, even with Sergio Vlas. How did the need for friendship drive the characters’ actions?

  5. In what ways are Lydia and Sebastian alike? How are they a good match?

  6. What did you think about Vincent Hunt?

  7. One of my favorite things about the writing of this novel was the characters’ love of literature and libraries. How have books enriched your life?

  8. What do you think the future holds in store for Bridget and Vincent? What obstacles, if any, do you feel they will have to overcome?

  9. Each character in the novel eventually comes to terms with the fact that they have been attempting to solve all their problems by themselves. How has prayer and faith helped you over the years?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to write the Chicago World’s Fair trilogy. Writing each book in the series was truly an adventure in itself! I loved having an excuse to learn more about Chicago’s history as well as discover all kinds of information about the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair.

  I am sincerely grateful for all the folks at Zondervan and HarperCollins Christian Publishers for their belief in me and in these books. They guided my writing, pushed me when I needed to be pushed, and helped me craft three novels of which to be proud.

  I am especially thankful for the careful eyes of Natalie Hanemann and Jean Bloom in the crafting of Whispers in the Reading Room. I had a vision and a goal for this novel. However, this book definitely needed quite a bit of fine tuning, and I’m indebted to them for their guidance. My editor Becky Philpott also patiently encouraged me as well. Becky, I’m so grateful for you.

  I also am grateful to my critique partners, especially Heather Webber Blake, for their help, to Lynne Stroup for reading this book as quickly as I could email her chapters, and to my Buggy Bunch street team for reading the series and in turn telling everyone and anyone about it. Thank you, too (and a big hug) to my friend Julie Stone-who toured Chicago not once but three times so I could do all the research I needed. Discovering Chicago’s past wouldn’t be the same without you, Julie!

  I should note that I made several allowances in this novel. First of all, there was no actual Camp Creek Alley. I based this area on some of the research I did on Chicago’s more dangerous areas. And, while there were many bars and illegal gambling clubs, I also made up the Silver Grotto, as well as the other establishments. Perhaps the greatest change I did was to have Sebastian and Lydia visit the Wild West Show after the Fair had closed. While some entertainments were still available after the closing of the fair, Wild Bill’s Show had actually closed and moved on by the time my novel took place. As an author, however, I couldn’t help but feel particularly fascinated by the show and the vast amount of entertainment that was available on the Midway. I simply couldn’t end the series without a scene taking place there.

  In closing, I wanted to share that I am always so grateful to God for giving me the gift of writing. I am blessed to spend my days making up stories, and I know the words are possible through Him.

  Thank you for picking up the book! I hope you enjoyed the novel.

  Blessings,

  Shelley Shepard Gray

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo by The New Studio

  Shelley Gray is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, a finalist for the American Christian Fiction Writers’ prestigious Carol Award, and a two-time HOLT Medallion winner. She lives in southern Ohio, where she writes full-time, bakes too much, and can often be found walking her dachshunds on her town’s bike trail.

  She also spends a lot of time online. Please visit her website: www.shelleyshepardgray.com.

  Find her on Facebook at Facebook.com/ShelleyShepardGray.

  Enjoy an excerpt from Robin Lee Hatcher’s upcoming novel,

  The Loyal Heart

  CHAPTER 1

  GALVESTON, TEXAS

  JANUARY, 1868

  At times, the pain was so intense, she wanted to die.

  With a new sense of resolve, Miranda Markham skimmed a finger along the second-floor window pane just outside her bedroom door. As she did so, frigid drops of condensation slid across her f
ingers, moistening them . . . transmitting tiny bursts of pain along her skin. The glass wasn’t thick, surely no more than a quarter inch. It seemed, to her eyes at least, that the frame was rather rickety as well.

  It would be so easy to break.

  Miranda wondered what it would feel like to perch on the edge of the windowsill like one of the gulls that rested on the weathered wood from time to time. She wondered what it would feel like to open her arms. To finally let herself go, to lean forward into nothingness.

  To be free.

  Perhaps she would feel nothing beyond a cold numbness, accompanied by an exhilarating rush of fear . . . followed by the blessed relief from pain.

  Did pain even matter anymore?

  The iron latch was icy cold as she worked it open. Condensation sprayed her cheeks as the pane slowly edged upward. Tendrils of hair whipped against her neck as the winter wind seemed to beckon.

  She breathed deep.

  If she could just garner what was left of her courage, why, it could all be over. Within minutes, in seconds, even, she’d no longer be awake. No longer be reminded. No longer be sad.

  She’d no longer be afraid to rise each morning.

  And wasn’t the absence of fear, that intangible notion of confidence that children enjoyed and the elderly remembered, worth everything?

  Reaching out, she clasped the metal lining the frame. Felt the iron bite into her palm as she edged closer. At last, it was time.

  “Mrs. Markham? Mrs. Markham, ma’am? Where should I put the new boarder?” Winifred called up from the base of the stairs.

  Slowly—too slowly perhaps—one corner of Miranda’s dark cloak of depression lifted. She realized she was still standing on the landing at the top of stairs, the window open.

  Winifred’s voice turned shrill. “Mrs. Markham, do ye hear me?”

  Miranda dropped her hands. Turned. “Yes. Yes, of course.” Peering through the maze of mahogany spindles, she looked down. Blinked as her elderly maid came into focus. “A new boarder, did you say?”

  Winifred stared back. “Yes, ma’am. E is here a wee bit early. A Mr. Truax, his name is. Mr. Robert Truax.” Her voice held the slightest tinge of impatience now. She was a reluctant transplant from England, and seemed to always stare at her surroundings with varying degrees of shock and dismay.