Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  “That’s enough!” Cynthia yelled. “Gentleman, ladies, please be civilized. Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to block the aisle in this fashion, as it’s a fire hazard. I see some empty seats near the back. If you and your entourage would but take a seat and be silent, we can continue with the proceedings. You’ll have plenty of time to debate the questionable merits of Heathcliff outside of the plenary sessions.”

  Gerald cast his gaze between Hathaway and Cynthia, and to the blonde girl – Hathaway’s aforementioned daughter, I guessed – cowering in David’s arms. His shoulders sagged. “Very well. But I’m watching you and your wandering hands, old man.”

  As the group slid into the seats opposite us, I noticed Alice frantically scribbling. I leaned over her chair and tapped her on the shoulder. “Do you know what just happened?” I asked Alice.

  “I should think you’d recognize Gerald Bromley,” she replied. “He’s a bit of a local character. He’s president of the local Brontë Society. Those gothic beauties are his executive committee and they hang off every word he says. Apparently, he used to be one of Hathaway’s graduate students, before they had a falling out and Gerald was dismissed from his graduate program. He works locally as a consultant for English Heritage properties and grand estates, helping them run events and tours with historical accuracy. Cynthia offered him a handsome sum to be on the committee for this event, but when he heard Hathaway was the guest of honor, he threw a big stink and quit.”

  “Then why is he here?”

  She shrugged. “Janeites and Brontians have a famous rivalry, but I suspect it’s personal. Gerald’s probably here just to rattle Professor Hathaway.”

  If that was Gerald’s intention, he succeeded. Hathaway stumbled through the rest of his speech without his previous joy de vivre. On two occasions, David even had to point to his place in his notes.

  The audience remained subdued after Gerald’s outburst, no longer clapping and laughing at every Austen reference. Gerald and his three gothic maidens whispered amongst themselves throughout the lecture, passing around a hip flask between them.

  I didn’t speak to Alice for the rest of the lecture and lost her in the crowd when it was over. I hoped we’d see her again – she seemed like my kind of person.

  After the plenary, we had a choice of lectures on various aspects of Austen’s world or a fencing demonstration on the back lawn. I had no intention of going outside in the freezing weather, but Cynthia swept past us on the stairs and informed me that as VIPs we were welcome to watch from the covered balcony in her first-floor office. Eager to explore more of the house and watch men swing swords around, I dragged Heathcliff after her. Morrie and Lydia followed us, leading a trail of Lydia’s admirers.

  A roof over the balcony kept out the worst of the snow. I gravitated toward the large brazier at one end, where a man in period costume handed out small cups of hot chocolate. I collected two for myself and leaned over the side to view the fencers below while listening to the commentary on Regency fencing techniques. In the open courtyard below us, Lydia’s friend David parried with another gent in period attire. He deflected a thrust and lunged at his opponent, touching the point of his sword to the man’s heart. They bowed to each other and resumed another match.

  After several more rounds, it was clear the mousy graduate student was no amateur with a blade. Again and again he deprived his opponent of his weapon, and twice knocked him on his arse. He didn’t utter a word of mockery, and even apologized and disqualified himself from a win for an imagined infraction. What a gentleman. He’d be swoon-worthy if he didn’t study coins for a living.

  After twenty minutes of fighting, David removed his fencing mask to take a drink of water. Hathaway’s blonde daughter rushed over to him, offering him an embroidered handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his face.

  “What do you think of the fighting?” Heathcliff asked.

  “It’s exciting, but rather vicious,” I remarked.

  “Please,” Morrie quipped. “I could take them all down with my middle finger.”

  “You fence, do you?” I lifted an eyebrow.

  “Please. I was champion of my college at Oxford. Although, I did always prefer dueling with a cane. It makes a satisfying sound when it splits a man’s skull.”

  Beside him, Lydia shivered with delight. “Lord Moriarty, you say such wicked things!”

  “What about you?” I asked Heathcliff. “You’ve got a sword hanging off your belt. Do you know how to use it?”

  “I’m not schooled in that fancy sort of fencing with flimsy foils,” he muttered. “But I’ve slit a man open with a blade, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  I shivered. Unlike Lydia, it wasn’t from delight. “When did you do that?”

  “There were blades enough lying around in the North, and I’m an angry man who picked a lot of fights,” he replied. “I’m not proud of it, but you must never forget that I am Heathcliff. What did that woman call me just before – a vicious, dog-murdering sociopath.”

  “I know that’s not who you are.”

  Heathcliff turned his head away. I placed my hand on his, and he shrugged it off. I hadn’t realized that this weekend might be difficult for him in this way – being confronted with the legacy of the actions he took inside the pages of a book.

  I wanted so badly for Heathcliff to see that man I saw in him – the one who took a stray cat in and cared for her, who locked his heart inside an iron chest and threw away the key because he’d been driven low and made into a beast by a brother who should have loved him, who may be a bit of a grump (okay, a lot of a grump) but would go to the ends of the earth to protect the people he cared about. Sometimes I caught a glimmer of hope in Heathcliff’s eyes, and the wild passion with which he kissed told me that maybe his edges were crumbling. But then…

  But then he looked dark and dangerous – like he did now – and I wasn’t sure what to believe.

  I needed to talk to him, but I couldn’t with Morrie and Lydia and all the Janeites around. So I changed the subject. “I wonder who that blonde woman is. I see a family resemblance, but Professor Carmichael did say he liked to date graduate students.”

  “While he would be exactly her type, it’s highly unlikely that they are dating.” A soft American accent broke in behind me. “That’s Christina Hathaway.”

  I glanced around to see Professor Carmichael clutching a hot chocolate in her hand. A fur-lined bonnet was tied around her salt-and-pepper hair.

  “Let me guess, relation to the eminent professor?” Morrie inquired.

  “His daughter.” Professor Carmichael sniffed. “He’s raised her to be his perfect Regency girl, based on his own studies of parenting and fatherhood in Jane Austen’s books. The poor girl probably believes she needs his permission in order to even have coffee alone with young David.”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Oh yes. Christina’s been utterly indoctrinated. She’s by Julius’ side at every event and book signing. She seems to have no life outside of him and his interests, and she defers to him always. In many ways, she’s more his wife than his daughter. Of course, he has seen to it that she has a thorough education in all pursuits deemed appropriate for young ladies, and is quite accomplished at the pianoforte, needlework, sewing, that sort of thing. She has that certain something in her air and manner of walking, in her address and expressions, that would have even Mr. Darcy award her with the title of ‘accomplished’. But I do not believe she’s ever once binge-watched Gilmore Girls or snogged someone entirely inappropriate after too much wine.”

  I laughed at her description. “That sounds like a lonely life.”

  “Indeed. Although to many here this weekend, it is the life to aspire to.”

  “But not you?”

  She waved a hand. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I am a Janeite through and through. For all my academic posturing about Austen’s popularity being a kind of moral nostalgia, I fell in love with her heroes as a little girl. If Mr. Darcy w
ere to ask for my hand, I would accept without hesitation. I just don’t go in for all this silly pageantry.” She pointed at the toe of my boot sticking out from the hem of my dress. “I see you and I share a similar disposition.”

  I laughed again, loving how all the rebellious Janeites seemed to be finding me.

  The bell sounded from within the house, alerting us that the hour had come to move to our next activity of choice. Lydia insisted on Regency dance lessons. “I shall show you all how we danced at Netherfield,” she declared. “But first, we should pay a quick visit to David’s lecture. I should wish to offer him my ribbon for winning all of his duels.”

  When we entered Mansfield Park, David’s eyes lit up. He stood at the front of the room, laying out trays of old coins nestled in velvet pouches. Even though he’d been soaked in sweat only minutes ago, he appeared fresh-faced, his hair perfectly tamed and his clothing immaculate, right down to his ruffled cravat. Apart from an old man peering at the coins with mild interest while his wife tugged on his arm, we were the only other people.

  “Lydia, I’m so pleased you came.” David gave a deep bow. “I was beginning to think they’d placed my lecture alongside the dancing as they were certain no one was interested enough to show up, but I knew the world of numismatics was too exciting to keep you away—”

  “We’re not staying,” Lydia said. “My friends are in desperate need of dancing instruction, and I wish to be there to laugh at their foils. But we did want to visit with you beforehand and congratulate you on your fencing prowess.”

  “Yes, that was an impressive performance,” Morrie put in. “Tell me, how do you fare with a gentleman’s cane? Or the bare knuckles?”

  “Bare-knuckle boxing is illegal in this country,” David said. He offered his arm to Lydia, who took it with a smile and a tilt of her head. “Come, Lydia. Let me quickly show you this fascinating world of numismatics. Coins really do bring the Regency era to life…”

  We crowded around and tried to look interested as David held up different coins and explained their denomination and mineral composition, and the significance of their designs. Heathcliff pretended to hang himself behind David’s back. Ignoring him, I bent down to examine the tiny coins.

  “Um, Mina? You shouldn’t get so close,” David said. “Your breath contains droplets of water, which can damage the delicate metal.”

  “Oh.” I stood up so fast I crashed into the old man, who stumbled into his wife. They both glared at me and hurried off.

  “Now you’ve scared away my only other attendees,” David said sadly. “That man was going to buy a copy of my book.”

  I noticed a table in the corner with a massive stack of books on it. My cheeks blazed with heat. I hadn’t realized I’d been looking so closely. Instinctively, my hand flew to my chest, where my father’s letter still rested between my breasts, reminding me that this was his fault.

  “While it’s very fascinating watching Mina sniff the coins,” Lydia said. “I use these coins every day and I don’t need them explained to me when I could be dancing. I expect to see you this evening, David. I look forward to dancing the quadrille with you.”

  The four of us raced out of the drawing room. As I turned I caught a glimpse of David, staring after us with wide, sad eyes. But after he’d drawn attention to my eyesight, I didn’t feel any sympathy for him.

  “Oh, what a dreadful bore.” Lydia laughed. “If she were here, I think I might offer him my sister Mary. She seems quite his type. Why, he keeps his money in little pouches and doesn’t even spend it. What a fool.”

  “Why do modern people find coins so fascinating?” Morrie mused. “The only time currency interests me is when I’m attempting to launder it.”

  “You wash your money?” Lydia gasped. “But why?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not that kind of laundering, Lydia.”

  “Well, what kind of laundering?”

  Isis save us.

  “Oh look, we’ve reached the ballroom.” Morrie offered Lydia an elbow, and she immediately shut up. “Shall we?”

  “Are you sure you want to go in there?” The pensive look on Heathcliff’s face during the fencing, and the way he slunk away from me, played on my mind. “We could go somewhere quiet and talk—”

  Heathcliff sighed. “If you’re insisting on attending this godawful ball, I guess we’d best not make fools of ourselves.”

  Given the ball was tomorrow evening, and the only dancing I knew how to do involved throwing myself around a circle pit at a punk show, I agreed it was a good idea. As we passed through the entrance hall, I noticed Christina Hathaway standing with her father while he signed autographs for a gaggle of giggling Janeites. “Wait here,” I told Heathcliff, curious about the professor.

  I pushed myself through the crowd and extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor Hathaway,” I said. “I enjoyed your lecture. The first part, at least.”

  He held my hand several moments longer than was polite, his finger sliding over my knuckles in a way that made my skin crawl. “Thank you, my dear. Tell me, do you consider yourself a scholar of Regency society, or are you here for the fun and frivolity?”

  “Oh, no. I just came because I like books. ‘I declare after all that there is no enjoyment like reading’.” Proud of slipping in an Austen quote, I patted Heathcliff’s shoulder. “We’re from Nevermore Bookshop in the village.”

  “Really?” His eyes lit up in a predatory way. “Mr. Simson’s old establishment? I swear that place is so ancient it was probably around when dear Jane visited the village. It’s nice to see it in such delightful young hands. You should speak to David about having me do a signing. I’d be pleased to support the local arts in any way I can.” His words were accompanied by a super unsubtle wink.

  Gross. I deflected the professor’s attention by curtseying to Christina. “Pardon me, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Christina Hathaway.” She curtseyed back. I caught a peek at her dainty feet inside a pair of pristine silk slippers. No Docs for Christina Hathaway.

  I scrambled for something to say to her, so I wouldn’t have to speak to Hathaway again. “I’ve heard you’re a talented musician. Will you be gracing us with a song over the weekend?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly.” Christina looked to her father.

  “Nonsense. You must give us a song or two. Christina is accomplished in all that she does,” the professor beamed. “She has a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and several languages. Her embroidery wins national awards, her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite, and she makes all her own clothes, as well as my own humble wardrobe.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to quote Mr. Darcy that the word accomplished ‘is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen’, but then I took in the professor’s elaborate embroidered waistcoat and lace cravat. The work that must’ve gone into that outfit was astounding. Christina must indeed be very accomplished.

  “Mina, there you are.” Cynthia grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. “I was just telling Michaela here all about your skill at solving murders.”

  Professor Carmichael’s harangued expression changed to sympathy as she recognized me.

  “I just got lucky,” I said, searching the room for Heathcliff or Morrie, someone who might be able to save me. Gerald stood in the corner, a glass of wine paused at his lips. When he noticed our merry group, he slid closer.

  What’s his game? Why would anyone pay hundreds of pounds for tickets to an event they didn’t even want to attend just to psych out their old professor? Does Gerald have something else planned?

  I was drawn back to the present by Cynthia’s gushing about me. “…no, no, Mina’s being modest. Those incompetent detectives were going to have Grey and I charged with the murder of my dear friend, Gladys Scarlett. Can you imagine such a thing! While we were at the station, fighting for justice to be done, Mina single-han
dedly chased down not one, but two murderers. And just five weeks ago she figured out that the local market bag-boy killed a girl in the bookshop. Why, I say that Argleton Jewel Thief better watch out if Mina ever decides to get on his case. Wouldn’t you say so, Michaela?”

  Cynthia stopped talking long enough to suck in a breath. Professor Carmichael seemed unaware that she had been left to pick up the conversation. Her body stood rigid with anger as she stared at Professor Hathaway.

  “Michaela,” he nodded in a businesslike way, smiling that creepy smile of his.

  “Julius,” she shot back, her voice frosty.

  The conversation stalled with the two academics staring daggers at each other. Cynthia opened her mouth, likely to continue her gushing praise for my mystery-solving prowess. To cut her off, I turned to Christina. “You’re very talented. I know a little about fashion. I studied at New York Fashion School, and worked with the designer Marcus Ribald for a year. I know how much skill must’ve gone into these outfits.”

  “Thank you,” she beamed. “Did you live in New York City all by yourself?”

  “Of course! Well, I lived with my friend Ashley. We had this tiny place off Greenwich Avenue, so we were close to the West Village and all the great shopping and bars. I got to work Fashion Week, and it was amazing.”

  “But weren’t you afraid? I’ve read that New York City is dangerous for a young woman on her own. Did you not have an escort?”

  “It can be dangerous. You’ve just got to be sensible and prepared. Ashley and I took a self-defense class. I learned how to kick a man in the balls. I’m a little bit disappointed I never got to use it.”

  “I took fencing classes!” Christina blurted out. She seemed shocked. Beside her, Hathaway stiffened. “But Father prefers I stick to ladylike pursuits.”

  Um, okay.

  “Well, if you want to sit down over lunch or dinner, I could tell you all about fashion school. I could even give you some application tips if you wanted to get in.” I turned to Cynthia. “Are Christina and her father seated near us at the ball tomorrow?”

  “Of course. You are both at the VIP table for our most honored guests,” Cynthia beamed.