Ian had given me carte blanche on this book restoration, which meant I was free to choose any cover style, color and endpaper design I wanted. The reason he wasn’t concerned was because the book’s historical significance was minor and the cover had already been replaced once before, in 1923.
Ian had known me long enough to know that I would never be tempted to veer too far from the guidelines of the American Institute for Conservation. In other words, the antiquarian book world would frown on a shocking-pink-and-tangerine-striped Jane Eyre. So I played by the rules and always tried to be mindful of a book’s historical integrity. The materials I chose would be close to identical to those found in any bookbinding studio back in 1847 when the book was first createde.
That same philosophy went into the method of stitching the pages back together and affixing the new cover to the text block. I would try to be as true to the original materials and style as possible, minus the mistakes that had caused the structural problems in the first place.
Days ago I had cleaned and brushed the pages free of the musty bits of dirt and dust that seemed to collect in old books despite the care owners took to keep them safe.
Now Jane was ready for her final deconstruction.
After popping two malted milk balls into my mouth for energy, I picked up my trusty surgical scalpel and began to cut the strands of old binding thread from the middle page of each signature. I separated the assembled pages one by one, pulling more threads away as I went. The loose pages were stacked neatly on a new pile.
Once the entire text block was free of the gnarly old threads and bits of hardened glue left from the original binding, I lined up the pages exactly even and placed them as a block into a press, sewn side up. I measured exactly where I wanted the eight new sewing holes to go, and then I measured again. And then I did it again.
I was still paranoid about getting these measurements right because I’d done them wrong once, many years ago. My teacher had given me so much grief that I never forgot the lesson. Measure twice, cut once, as my father always advised. In my case, it was measure three times, cut once.
I pulled out my handheld razor saw and lined the blade up with the pencil marks I’d made. I sawed through the thick paper block precisely one-sixteenth of an inch in the eight marked spots.
In case it isn’t instantly obvious: I can be a little anal when it comes to this stuff.
My sewing frame was already set up, and now I took three lengths of linen tape and secured each of them around the top rung of the frame. I slipped a weight on the ends so each would hang down straight and even. Once the text block was lined up next to the linen tapes, I tightened the frame enough that the tapes became taut.
Then came my thread. I cut off a lengthy piece of thick white bookbinding thread and ran it through a chunk of beeswax to coat it. That would keep it from tangling and spinning. Then I threaded a serious-looking, three-and-a-half-inch bookbinder’s needle.
I grabbed a few more malted milk balls to help me concentrate, because threading the needle sounded simple, but it wasn’t. You had to dent the thread in one spot and actually pierce the thread in another…. Well, I couldn’t begin to describe the intricate way a bookbinder threaded her needle. That is, I could, but I might put you to sleep. Besides, it was something you had to see for yourself, like the Grand Canyon or Old Faithful.
I got lost in my work, sewing signature after signature, securing the entire block to the linen tapes with tiny stitches that would hold everything together.
When Dalton and Savannah walked into the house, I raised my head and only then noticed the time. Almost five o’clock. Wow, I really could focus when I wanted to.
I greeted them, then confessed, “I was going to order dinner, but I got a little carried away with my work.”
“We brought food home,” said my darling, wonderful, thoughtful sister, holding up several grocery bags. “I’ll cook.”
I tried to contain my yelps of joy. While Savannah carried everything into the kitchen, Dalton stayed and stared at the odd-looking contraption on my worktable, trying to figure out what I used it for.
Then he made a guess. “Ah, it’s a frame.”
“That’s right.”
He continued to circle it, studying it as though he were Sherlock Holmes trying to solve an irksome mystery. He finally declared, “It’s ingenious in its simplicity.”
I pointed out the features, explained the wooden screws, the linen tabs, and the kettle stitch. His eyes were still clear, not blurry, so I considered my mini-lecture a success.
“Fascinating.” He wandered around the workshop, pulling open the map drawers where I stored the materials I used for covers and endpapers, and then examining the Peg-Board that held fifty different colors and gauges of thread.
“What’s the hot plate for?” he asked.
“I use it to heat my tools for gilding.”
“Brilliant.”
“Are you going out again tomorrow?” I asked.
He abandoned his tour and joined me at the worktable. “Alas, no. Today was a lark and your sister’s a charming companion. But tomorrow I’ve vowed to work on the cookbook code.”