Nice? I thought. Was she kidding? They were spectacular. The entire book was fantastic. I couldn’t believe it had been allowed to molder away in someone’s garage. But I wasn’t about to criticize Vera’s lackluster response aloud.
I should’ve been used to that sort of attitude by now. Nobody gushed about books as much as bookbinders did. I would’ve loved to have mentioned how rare it was that a children’s book printed in 1911 was this beautifully preserved. Children were not generally known for their ability to treat books gently.
I sighed inwardly and changed the subject. “Now, obviously not every copy of this book could be printed with original artwork attached to its cover. So let me explain briefly about this particular edition. Back in nineteen eleven, when this book was printed, a publisher would occasionally release two versions of the same book. A regular edition and a limited, more expensive edition. This version is obviously one of the limited-edition copies.”
“How limited?” Vera asked, her gaze focusing in on the book.
“Very.” I turned to the next page. It was almost blank except for two lines of print in the middle. “This is called the limitation page. It states here that only fifty copies of this numbered edition were printed. And the number six is handwritten on the next line. So this particular book is number six out of fifty copies made. It’s beyond rare.”
Vera gulped. “And . . . and that’s good, right?”
“Yes, that’s very good. And, of course, you will have noticed that on the same page we see that it’s been authenticated with the date and original signature of the author, Frances Hodgson Burnett.”
“I did notice that.” She bit her lip, still nervous, though this time I figured it was from excitement, not fear.
Now that she was finally showing some emotion, it was time to bum her out. Earlier at rehearsal, Jane Dorsey, the show’s director, had advised us to balance things out by mentioning a few negatives. So I flipped to a page in the middle. “I should point out a few flaws.”
Vera’s expression darkened. “No, you shouldn’t.”
I chuckled. “I’m sorry, but the book isn’t without its imperfections.” I faced the page toward the camera and pointed at some little brown spots. “There’s foxing on a number of pages. These patches of brownish discoloration are fairly common in old books.”
“Eww.” She drew the word out as she leaned in to get a good look. “Are those bugs?”
“No. They’re clumps of microscopic spores, but that’s not important. Sometimes foxing can be lightened or bleached, but you should always hire a professional bookbinder to do the work.”
Turning to the inside front cover, I said, “There’s also an additional signature on the endpaper, right here.” I made sure the camera could see what I was referring to, and then I took a closer look at it myself. “It doesn’t look like a child’s handwriting. It was probably a parent signing for the child. I can’t quite make out the name, but I assume it’s the signature of one of the book’s first owners. They used a fountain pen, and it’s faded a bit.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Writing one’s name in a book can diminish its value, but that’s another topic altogether.”
“But—”
“Let’s not dwell on the negatives,” I hurried to add, “because other than those items and a few faded spots on the leather, it’s in excellent condition and—”
“And what?” Vera demanded, interrupting what was about to be my rapturous summary of the book’s qualities.
I pursed my lips, thinking quickly. I had been given six minutes to talk about the book, but the director had warned me that as soon as I revealed my appraisal amount, my segment would be over, even if I had minutes to spare.
I wasn’t ready to stop talking about the book—big surprise. But Vera was finished listening and it was time to put her out of her misery. More important, I noticed Angie hovering. And Randolph Rayburn, the handsome host of the show, stood next to her, looking ready to pounce into the camera shot and cut me off.
“And for a book of this rarity,” I continued hastily, “in such fine condition and with the author’s original signature included, it’s my expert opinion that an antiquarian book dealer would pay anywhere from twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars for this book.”
“Wha—?” Vera’s eyes bugged out of their sockets. “Twenty . . . Say that again?”
“Twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars,” I repeated, happy I’d finally gotten a reaction out of her. The producers were going to love that look on her face.
I turned the book over again to examine the rubbed spots on the back cover. “Frankly, Vera, it would take only a few hundred dollars to have the book fully restored to its original luster. Once you did that, you could probably add another three to five thousand dollars onto the value.”
“Another five thou— Holy mother-of-pearl!” Vera slapped her bountiful chest a few times as if to jump-start her heart. “Oh, my God. Are you serious?”
“Yes.”