Booth’s blue eyes met hers. “We will finish this conversation later.”
And then he was gone, and she was left alone in his bedroom, her mind a whirling storm, filled with both passion and dread. She brushed off her dress and spent a few minutes straightening her hair bow and her tights and pushing back the stray hairs that had crept forward. Even when picking the woolly lint specks off her tights, Wendy could not keep the smile off her face. Finally satisfied that she looked completely like nothing had happened in Booth’s bedroom, Wendy stepped out from behind his door and made her way to the ladder and back down to the store. Her hands wrapping around the wood, so warped by Booth’s hands that it was smooth, she climbed down, mindful of her dress with each chaste step. She had almost reached the bottom when she heard her name screeched, a sound that made her hairs stand on end.
“Wendy Darling?” Mrs. Tatterley, her mother’s favorite gossip partner, was standing at the register, where Mr. Whitfield was dutifully ringing up cookbooks. She bounced over to Wendy, her large bosom traveling first, followed by the swaying of a dozen pearl necklaces, all real. Wendy knew this because Mrs. Tatterley always made it a point to tell others about her wealth. A buttoned-up silk gray dress flared out in double layers around her feet, and the collar stretched wide over her pink corseted bodice. On her head sat an enormous hat of peach silk roses, greenery, and a black and white striped bow.
“Wendy Darling! I didn’t know you would be here! Is your dear mother here?”
“Mama is not here today. She had a ladies’ meeting after Mass.”
Mrs. Tatterley bustled around her. “Oh, of course, of course, she mentioned that last week. A meeting about the new parchments for the altar, is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Tatterley bent over Wendy and squinted. “Good Lord, child, your cheeks are so flushed. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so red. Are you sure you are not feverish?” Wendy politely sidestepped her touch, not wanting this woman’s perfume-drenched hands to touch anywhere Booth had kissed. Her mother’s friend eyed the ladder. “Did you come from upstairs? Why on earth would you want to go into that musty attic? I’ve told Mr. Whitfield here several times that if he wants to continue getting my business that he will clean up this store to a more sanitary level! He can’t expect people of our stature to shop amongst such dust. And some of the books he carries! Did you know that I saw a copy of Ibsen’s Ghosts in the back the other day? Obviously someone had been reading it! The filth of that novel! Good Christians truly should not even shop here.”
Wendy knew she should bite her tongue, and yet her defensiveness over Booth and his father rose up instead. “Then why do you?”
Mrs. Tatterley’s mouth dropped open. “Wendy Darling! Well, I never. Wait until your mother hears of how rude you have been! That is no way to talk to an adult. And for your information, we come to Whitfield’s because it is the only bookstore within walking distance of our home. You know that. I never . . .” She turned and walked back to the register, grabbing the books roughly from Mr. Whitfield. “That will be all. Thank you,” she snapped. With a toss of her head and a whiff of overpowering freesia, she exited the store, the bells clanking loudly after her. Wendy turned back to Mr. Whitfield.
“You shouldn’t have angered her,” he said quietly.
“She was insulting! Also, she’ll forgive me. She comes over every week to eat all of Liza’s pound cake. I’ll apologize then.”
Mr. Whitfield shook his head. “You have no idea what you are doing, do you?”
Wendy bent over to pick up some of the books that Mrs. Tatterley’s large behind had knocked over. “I don’t know what you are speaking of, sir.”
“Don’t think I don’t know,” he said coldly, the first time she had ever heard that tone come out of his mouth. “You could ruin him, my son.”
Wendy jerked her head up. “Ruin? How?”
“Your family could ruin our business.”
“My family would never—”
“They would. The Darlings and the Tatterleys and the Muchsens and the Browns, if they ever found out that one of their precious daughters was in love with the bookseller’s son . . .”
“I’m not in love with Booth!” she protested weakly, trying to hide the blush rising in her cheeks. “Booth is my friend.”
His voice softened. “I know that you care dearly for Booth, and for me. Wendy, you are like my own daughter. But if you truly love my family, you will stay away from my son. Think of what your parents would say. Think of what they would do. To us. Booth has everything to lose, while you only risk your heart.” The bookseller shook his head. “I should have seen this coming a long time ago. I indulged you both for too long. The Mrs. Tatterleys of the world do not look lightly upon adoration between the classes.”