After the Kiss Read Free Page A

nights in the land of the Manchu.
    The true nature of the Journals of Augustin X , however, was not a travelogue. Instead, it was a graphic account of Augustin’s erotic journey throughout the world. Each of his Journals was tantamount to a book of instructions on how to engage in the sensuality he portrayed in such exquisite detail. He seemed especially entranced with the courtesans he’d met, many of whom educated him on the higher delights of sensuality. He had even fancied himself in love with one, and his tender farewell to her had brought tears to Margaret’s eyes.
    That first winter she told herself it was better to destroy the books. But they were the only link to the bookshop and her life with Jerome. Besides, reading them occasionally gave her something to do other than to worry about their perilous financial condition.
    Her conscience chuckled in the silence. Very well, perhaps she was too fascinated with these books. The Journals revealed a world she’d never before known, one of amorous encounters and erotic acts she’d never thought to witness.
    “They’re evil things, Miss Margaret,” Penelope said, glancing over her shoulder at the book on the table. “Cursed.”
    “They aren’t cursed. They are simply books,” Margaret said patiently. “Only a collection of words.”
    “And pictures,” Penelope said. “Any man who ever touched me that way would get the back of my hand, Miss Margaret,”
    Penelope’s cheeks, round and rosy on most days, were now fiery with color. Her pointed chin jutted out at Margaret. Even her straight brown hair seemed to curl with indignation. Her dark eyes met Margaret’sgaze and in them was the righteousness of the never tempted.
    Margaret admitted that she was not as pure in thought. Some nights she lay in her cot and wished her life had been different. At the same time, she recognized that the past years had taught her well. Turmoil had come to her in the guise of the fire and the death of her husband. It was wiser to wish for consistency than for chaos. Excitement was for other people.
    If there were moments, like this afternoon, when she wondered what her life might have been like if she had never married Jerome, then it was to be expected. She simply pushed those errant thoughts away.
    Margaret closed the tooled cover of the book, ensuring that the tissue was in place over each of the page sized paintings. One overlay did not fit correctly and she opened the book to straighten it. But it wasn’t one of the protective pages at all. She frowned as she pulled the paper free.
    It was a list of ten names, all with notations beside them in Jerome’s cramped scrawl.
    Penelope bent over her shoulder. “What is it, Miss Margaret?”
    “Some kind of list,” she said. Together they read Jerome’s writing.
    Jeremy Pendergrast—detests French literature. Only as a last resort.
    Horace Blodgett—haggles too much. Not a candidate for a quick sale.
    Ned Smith—Father controls his purse. A possible sale, if he’s not spent the remainder of his quarterly allowance.
    John Blaketon—very likely. In competition with Babidge.
    Charles Townsende—unlimited funds, very likely quick sale.
    Jerome’s notes continued with another five names, all with varying commentaries beside them.
    “What do you think it is, Miss Margaret?”
    Margaret turned it over, then studied it again. “I think Jerome meant to sell the Journals ,” she said finally.
    “Sell them? Why would he do such a thing?”
    Because he’d been as desperate as they were for money , she thought—a comment she did not voice to Penelope.
    “I’ve seen books the like of the Journals in the shop before, Penelope. I’ve no doubt that they brought a tidy profit.”
    Penelope looked surprised. “It doesn’t sound right that Mr. Esterly would dabble in such cursed things.”
    “They are not cursed,” Margaret said patiently. “Or do you blame them for all our misfortunes?”
    “No,” Penelope said slowly.