mouth, suddenly looking quite hungry. “I suppose I can part with Pride and Prejudice . But only—”
“No but only s.” She strode past him with the feather duster and threw it in a cupboard filled with cleaning supplies, including a bottle of vinegar-and-water and the rag she used to shine the windows and the large, ornate looking glass her father had always had in his library. The rag she used to clean it was one of Papa’s old shirts, actually. She had a feeling he’d approve of her new endeavor were he alive to see it.
Comforted by that thought, she wet the rag with the vinegar-and-water solution and rubbed it in great circles around the looking glass. London was a smoky place. But even where she’d made a clean spot, the mirror appeared murky, able to reflect back only the meager gray light slanting through the shop windows.
The bell rang again.
“If you’ve come back for Mr. Darcy, you can’t have—” Otis said in a singsong voice then paused.
“Him,” he finished in a whisper.
The glow from the lamp cast over the books went from a watery yellow to a deep, burnished gold in a trice. And no wonder. Captain Arrow, who until this moment hadn’t deigned to grace their shop, was now blocking the doorway and the scant light coming through it. Not only that, he was grinning as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Maybe he hadn’t, which annoyed Jilly no end.
“Ahoy, Captain,” Otis said in an overly admiring voice.
The captain did have particularly gleaming white teeth set off by his swarthy tan, but Jilly did her best to ignore his sterling good looks. “I don’t believe we can help you,” she told her new neighbor, the rag still in her hand. “We’ve no brandy here. Only books.”
She knew it was self-pity making her churlish, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
“I’ve come to reinvite you to the theatrics,” the captain said, ignoring her slight. “You and your assistant both.”
Otis bowed. “You do me a great honor. I am Mr. Otis Shrimpshire, bookstore clerk extraordinaire. And fashion connoisseur.” He waved a hand. “Not that it matters. Books are my business now.”
Captain Arrow seemed only slightly taken aback. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said in amenable tones. “And marvelous shoes, if I do say so myself, Mr. Shrimpshire.”
“Please call me Otis.” Otis positively beamed at him.
Jilly pursed her lips. “Thank you for asking, Captain, but we’re not interested in attending the theatrics.”
“ I am.” Otis elbowed her.
She sent him a dirty look.
“Do come, Miss Jones,” Captain Arrow urged her. “One must make merry occasionally”—his face took on a noble, serious aspect—“even a stalwart woman of business such as you.”
Woman of business. She was that, wasn’t she? It was lovely to hear herself addressed with respect.
And stalwart. That was a good word.
“Yes, well—” she began, about to tell him that owning Hodgepodge was a massive responsibility she didn’t take lightly, then pulled herself up short.
He was making fun of her, wasn’t he?
There was a distinct twinkle in his eye.
“I’d rather be a stalwart woman of business than one of your silly lightskirts,” she snapped at him, and flicked the cleaning cloth at an invisible spiderweb. She would pretend it was the captain’s broad shoulder and that he was so cowed by her skill with the rag, he left her in peace and went home and became quiet and subdued for the rest of his life.
“The shocking female who owns this wretched store is right,” called an ugly voice from the door.
Jilly’s mouth dropped open. She ceased her rag-flicking and turned around to see who had freshly insulted her. A prune-faced elderly woman, her pinched mouth stained in cherry juice, shuffled into the shop and eyed them all with disdain. Her gown was elegant but unfashionable, and a small porcelain figure of a lady looking eerily like her—snooty and grand and diabolical—was
“No but only s.” She strode past him with the feather duster and threw it in a cupboard filled with cleaning supplies, including a bottle of vinegar-and-water and the rag she used to shine the windows and the large, ornate looking glass her father had always had in his library. The rag she used to clean it was one of Papa’s old shirts, actually. She had a feeling he’d approve of her new endeavor were he alive to see it.
Comforted by that thought, she wet the rag with the vinegar-and-water solution and rubbed it in great circles around the looking glass. London was a smoky place. But even where she’d made a clean spot, the mirror appeared murky, able to reflect back only the meager gray light slanting through the shop windows.
The bell rang again.
“If you’ve come back for Mr. Darcy, you can’t have—” Otis said in a singsong voice then paused.
“Him,” he finished in a whisper.
The glow from the lamp cast over the books went from a watery yellow to a deep, burnished gold in a trice. And no wonder. Captain Arrow, who until this moment hadn’t deigned to grace their shop, was now blocking the doorway and the scant light coming through it. Not only that, he was grinning as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Maybe he hadn’t, which annoyed Jilly no end.
“Ahoy, Captain,” Otis said in an overly admiring voice.
The captain did have particularly gleaming white teeth set off by his swarthy tan, but Jilly did her best to ignore his sterling good looks. “I don’t believe we can help you,” she told her new neighbor, the rag still in her hand. “We’ve no brandy here. Only books.”
She knew it was self-pity making her churlish, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.
“I’ve come to reinvite you to the theatrics,” the captain said, ignoring her slight. “You and your assistant both.”
Otis bowed. “You do me a great honor. I am Mr. Otis Shrimpshire, bookstore clerk extraordinaire. And fashion connoisseur.” He waved a hand. “Not that it matters. Books are my business now.”
Captain Arrow seemed only slightly taken aback. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said in amenable tones. “And marvelous shoes, if I do say so myself, Mr. Shrimpshire.”
“Please call me Otis.” Otis positively beamed at him.
Jilly pursed her lips. “Thank you for asking, Captain, but we’re not interested in attending the theatrics.”
“ I am.” Otis elbowed her.
She sent him a dirty look.
“Do come, Miss Jones,” Captain Arrow urged her. “One must make merry occasionally”—his face took on a noble, serious aspect—“even a stalwart woman of business such as you.”
Woman of business. She was that, wasn’t she? It was lovely to hear herself addressed with respect.
And stalwart. That was a good word.
“Yes, well—” she began, about to tell him that owning Hodgepodge was a massive responsibility she didn’t take lightly, then pulled herself up short.
He was making fun of her, wasn’t he?
There was a distinct twinkle in his eye.
“I’d rather be a stalwart woman of business than one of your silly lightskirts,” she snapped at him, and flicked the cleaning cloth at an invisible spiderweb. She would pretend it was the captain’s broad shoulder and that he was so cowed by her skill with the rag, he left her in peace and went home and became quiet and subdued for the rest of his life.
“The shocking female who owns this wretched store is right,” called an ugly voice from the door.
Jilly’s mouth dropped open. She ceased her rag-flicking and turned around to see who had freshly insulted her. A prune-faced elderly woman, her pinched mouth stained in cherry juice, shuffled into the shop and eyed them all with disdain. Her gown was elegant but unfashionable, and a small porcelain figure of a lady looking eerily like her—snooty and grand and diabolical—was
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