Aside from Aunt Marcheline, he was her only family. She would have given anything to feel as if she had a brother in anything more than name.
She felt the carriage slowing and twitched aside the drapes covering the windows to reveal the street. They had stopped just before the book shop, its shiny glass windows revealing rows and rows of shelves lined with leather-bound volumes. A few new titles graced the display in the window, arranged with loving care.
This time of day the street was congested with foot traffic, not carriages, and so the coachman could safely wait outside the shop for her. He helped her down from the carriage, careful to touch only her gloved hand as she alighted onto the sidewalk, and jumped back into his seat once Victoria had also scrambled out.
Jilly watched Victoria’s face settled into a frown as she noted their destination. She did not approve of reading in general, said it gave a woman too many ideas, that no gentleman wished to take a woman to wife who knew more than he did.
Reaching into her reticule, Jilly withdrew a silver crown and tucked it into Victoria’s palm. “Go have an ice,” she said, nodding to the store beside the book shop. “And perhaps find something for lunch.”
Victoria’s face bloomed with a smile. “Thank you, my lady, I will,” she said, and trundled along, eager to sample something sweet rather than be cooped up within the musty old book shop while her mistress browsed. She ought not to have done—Aunt Marcheline would have stormed about it if she knew—but with the right inducement, nearly any guard could be slipped. Luckily for Jilly, Victoria’s price was simply a lemon ice and a slice of kidney pie.
The bookseller, Mr. Finchley, greeted her as she entered the shop. “G’morning, my lady,” he said, in his blustery, jovial tone. “Come for something new?”
She grinned back at him. Mr. Finchley was perhaps the only gentleman of her acquaintance who did not disapprove of her reading habits. His kindness might only be due to the fact that she kept coin in his purse with her dedicated patronage, but she suspected that he simply loved the written word as she did, and did not think that enjoyment thereof ought to be limited to one gender.
“Yes, sir,” she said. “Mansfield Park? I believe it is newly out.”
His face fell, and he adjusted the silver spectacles on his nose. “I’m right sorry, my lady,” he said. “But we only had the three copies, and they’ve all been sold.” He pulled out a ledger from beneath the counter and flipped through the pages, scouring his notes. “I’ve put in an order for more,” he said. “But it seems the publisher has been quite overwhelmed by demand, and it may be some time yet before I get in any new copies. I’ll be happy to hold one over for you if you like, and send a note round when it comes in.”
Disappointment flared, but she shoved it aside.