Though the day was fine, weak sunlight even breaking through the general covering of clouds, Miss Amherst collected me in her carriage.
“I thought we would wander among all the shops; and so we might still, if there’s time,” she said. “But after our talk yesterday, there is a place we simply must visit before any other. Everything else can wait.”
“What is it?” I said, but she only laughed and refused to tell me.
She seemed undaunted by the throngs in the streets as we drove; when I mentioned this, and how clanging everything still seemed to me, she said her family had lived in London for many years.
“My mother, of course, wishes my father to buy an estate in the country,” she said, craning her neck to look at a woman pushing a flower cart. “But Papa says he would not know a single thing about being a country gentleman. He would probably ruin an estate and lose all our fortune. He knew his business, and now his money is safely in the funds, where he likes it. Mamma”—with a wry smile—“is not satisfied, however, and harangues him on the subject daily.”
I pressed my lips together to keep myself from asking what Mr. Amherst’s business was; here, I thought, my frankness would not be welcome. Mrs. Fitzwilliam was always sensitive to questions about her family’s links to manufacturing, and as she and the Amherst ladies were in school together, it stood to reason that their families might have been involved in similar pursuits.
But, yet again, Miss Amherst surprised me. “Papa had several cotton mills. If you need an opinion on the quality of fabric at the draper’s, you’ve only to ask—I have an eye, immodest though I might sound for admitting it.”
I thought of Mamma, who never hesitated to praise her own best qualities, and to my surprise, found myself smiling. “Modesty is sometimes valued overmuch, I think.”
Her answering smile was quick as a darting bluebird, and just as bright. “That is just what I think, too.”
“They call it the Temple of the Muses,” Miss Amherst said as the footman helped us down. “A little dramatic, perhaps, but an excellent place to start a lifelong love affair with books.”
The front of the shop bore the motto The Cheapest Bookstore in the World. I had never been inside a true bookshop, much less one with such a claim to make. Hunsford boasted a small circulating library, where I had gone a few times; but their selection was small, made smaller by Mamma’s prohibitions against frivolous reading, and I never particularly enjoyed venturing inside. But this place was nothing like the little library; it was nothing like my father’s book room. It was something else altogether.
Tall windows along one wall let in light from outside, and the other walls were covered with shelves bearing what looked like hundreds of volumes. The books began at ankle height and ascended far above the heads of the patrons, so that the tops of the highest books met the ceiling. Two crescent-moon counters commanded the center of the room, the clerks behind them busy with customers; above curved a glass dome, letting in still more light from the sky. There was a wide, intriguing staircase to one side, with what appeared to be still more books at the top.
“How does one even know where to begin?” I said.
Miss Amherst let out her delightful bellow of a laugh and clapped her hands. “I knew you would like it. How could you fail to?” She took my arm and tucked it through hers. “It is said to be the largest bookshop in the world,” she said, walking me toward the shelves. “And the cheapest.”
“So I saw,” I said faintly. I ran my fingers along the leather spines before me.
“Have you truly read nothing but sermons?” Miss Amherst said.
“I read The Seasons, once. Well, several times, really. But I had to return it to its owner.”
She made a face. “We can do better than that. Poetry then, do you think? Or a novel?” She studied me, as if the answer might be written on my countenance, then said, “Wait here,” and made her way to the enormous counter.
I watched her go. Her hair was so bright—not fashionable, perhaps, but it suited her well. Better than I thought, when we were first introduced. Her figure, too, was perhaps a touch stout for fashion, but there was an appealing energy in the way she moved, and her gowns were cut to flatter her fullness. I glanced down at myself and thought that my clothes did not flatter me nearly so well.
Turning back to the shelves, I collected courage enough to pluck a book from one of them at random. A history of some sort; I turned the pages carefully, scanning a few lines here and there. It should probably have interested me more than it did. I replaced it and took down another, for the pleasure of browsing with neither Mamma nor Mrs. Jenkinson—nor even Miss Hall—watching me.
A light touch on my elbow, and I looked up. Miss Amherst held a book out in front of her. Waverley, it read; or, ’Tis Sixty Years Since.
“It is a sensation,” she said. “There are so very many novels I could recommend, but I do not know your tastes yet so well as I hope to. Waverley is enjoyed by both the ladies and gentlemen of my acquaintance. The author is a fine poet as well—though he pretends to be anonymous, it is difficult to remain so when your work is already so well loved. I can lend you some of his poetry, too, if you like.”
“And you liked this novel as well?” I said.
“Of course!” She held it out, and then added two more volumes on top of it, the second and third parts of the story. I tucked them under one arm and opened Volume One, though I was too conscious of her regard to take in a single word. It was too warm in the shop; I wished I could take off my outer garments, which hung from me, heavy and smothering.
“Are you all invited to Lady Clive’s ball?” she said as I pretended to read. “Mamma managed to winkle an invitation, though heaven knows how.”
“I’ve no idea,” I said. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam knows all our engagements; she merely tells me where we are to go each day.” This outing, I realized, was in fact the first since I arrived in London that I had chosen entirely for myself.
“Ah.” Miss Amherst turned to the shelves, running one hand along them, her eyes roving over the titles. She wore white kid gloves embroidered with red flowers and improbable purple birds; they were as fine as everything else she wore, but their whimsy made me smile.
“Well, if you are going to be there,” she went on, “I would be glad of it. I shan’t know a soul other than Mamma and Julia—and I am sure no one will ask me to dance. Which is a pity; I am an excellent dancer.” She looked at me over her shoulder, her grin disarming.
I could not fathom why words I could easily imagine coming from my mother’s lips sounded so different from hers. “Mrs. Fitzwilliam has not mentioned it. I do not like to attend balls in any case; but if I ever change my mind, I shall keep you company as a wallflower. I never dance.”
“What—not at all?”
“I never learned,” I said, and now my face was so hot it must rival her hair for color. What must she think of me—I’d read nothing interesting, I could not dance. “I was . . . sickly. As a child. And . . . well, for most of my life, really. Dancing was considered too vigorous an activity, so I never had a dancing master.”
“And are you still too—unwell—for such vigorous activity?” she said, her voice rich with curiosity.
“No—I think not. If I were, I could never have walked half so much before as I have since coming to London.” I dropped my eyes to the novel I held. “I have always wanted to learn to dance.”
“Then I shall teach you,” she said, and my eyes leaped to her face. “Not everything,” she added. “But I could teach you one or two simple dances, at least. Perhaps not enough to ensure your full enjoyment of a ball, but it would be a start.”
I realized I was staring, and pulled my eyes away; they careened wildly from wall to ceiling, from ceiling higher still to the great cupola at the top, and down again. No one ever—save Mr. Watters, but his motives, I feared, were becoming clear enough—chose to spend so much time with me before, nor seemed to find so much genuine enjoyment in my company. Not even kind, dutiful John. I could not understand why Miss Amherst was being so generous with her time and attention.
“Well?” she said, after a moment. When I looked at her again, she was smiling, but uncertainly, as if the smile might slip from her lips at any moment.
“I would be—much obliged,” I said. I raised the book a little. “I will buy it. It looks—very interesting.”
“Oh, I’m so glad. As I said, if you like it, I have purchased some of his poetry, and I will happily share.” She linked our arms again and led me toward the counter. “Mamma quite despairs of me; my inclination to spend most of my pocket money on books cannot possibly make me more attractive to eligible men. Though if she and Papa were not generous in furnishing our wardrobes, I daresay I would be torn between books and bonnets, for I have a weakness for both.”
A sudden thought made me tug on Miss Amherst’s arm to halt our forward momentum. “So I . . . just ask to open an account?” And then, before she could answer, “I feel so stupid; I know this must be a simple matter. But I have never—”
“This is a great season for first experiences, Miss de Bourgh,” she said, quite gently. But she dropped my arm entirely a moment later, her hands covering her mouth. “Heavens,” she said, a little muffled. “I did not think—I would call myself stupid, if I ever let anyone speak of me so meanly.” The light reproach registered as she dropped her hands. “I am terribly sorry, but I should have taken you to another establishment. It is only—this shop is very impressive, is it not? I suppose I rather wanted to impress you.”
“It is impressive, yes—”
“But the writing outside, the proclamation about their prices. It is only possible because they never take credit—only coin. The thought simply went out of my head.”
“Oh.” I looked down at the volumes in my hands; moments ago I could not concentrate well enough to read a coherent line, but now I found my fingers did not want to let them go. How foolish; it was only a book. There were—demonstrably, even just within this shop—hundreds, thousands more in the world.
“I will buy them,” Miss Amherst said, and reached to take them from me. I shook my head, my fingers still gripping the bindings fiercely.
“I could never—”
“Please—this is my fault entirely. I told you, I always spend my pocket allowance on books.”
I’d no experience with gifts, except those Papa brought back to me from Town; but I did not think I should allow so costly a gift as a book from an acquaintance—friend?—of such short standing. Miss Amherst looked quite determined, however, and I closed my mouth. Her fingers curled around Volume One at the opposite end to mine.
But before I relinquished it, I said, “You must let me buy you something in return, somewhere where I can open an account. A bonnet, perhaps? A weakness for a weakness?”
She was all surprise; we paused there, each grasping the book, looking into one another’s faces. Then—of course—she laughed.
“Very well,” she said, and took the book from me before I could think of further protests. Then she raised an eyebrow until I handed over the other two volumes, as well.