In becoming Miss Gray, I wasn’t just hiding from Lyndon, I was hiding from everything and everyone. All of the expectations of my gender to be all of the things I no longer was – pure, timid, passive. I wished we were still in Paris, where being ordinary was frowned upon and breaking the rules was a rite of passage.
I hadn’t slept well, or at all really. I found my thoughts returning to Matthew. He had visited the shop briefly before I left. I think he was embarrassed by what had happened, how we had held each other that night. I imagine he would not have come at all if he did not need to collect the rent, but his good manners precluded him from having a purely transactional visit and so he began to speak about the shop and his childhood dreams to become a magician.
‘A magician?’ I echoed in disbelief. As if to prove his point, he reached behind my ear and found a small glass ball. I reached out to take it from his palm, yet somehow it had disappeared into thin air.
‘How did you do that?’ I said, smiling brightly.
‘Ah, now that would be telling.’
If only I could have made my feelings disappear so easily. On the days he came, everything was brighter, sunnier, happier. But when he left to return to his family, I felt wretched.
‘Mon Opale,’ Armand whispered, nuzzling into my neck.
I let him put his arms around me, chasing the loneliness away. I hadn’t intended to come back to his rooms, but I suppose from the minute we set eyes on each other in Yorkshire, it was inevitable. Yet I couldn’t help thinking that I held no place in his heart above any of the other women he bedded. Well, I wasn’t going to let him think that I cared for him either. That way, I wouldn’t get hurt. The reasoning of an idiot; but love, as they say, is blind.
‘I must go,’ I said eventually, kissing him lightly on his cheek.
‘Mais non, reste.’
‘I cannot. My boat leaves this evening and I have some business to attend to before then.’
‘Business?’ He propped himself up on his elbow and watched me dress. God, he was gorgeous! An Adonis. I had to turn my back on him while buttoning up my blouse.
‘A book.’
‘Of course it’s a book. Tell me.’
I turned to look at him. Yes, he was beautiful and yes, he was a valuable connection in the book dealing world. He had also helped me to escape Paris. Yet, as I had realised in Sotheby’s, he was cut from the same cloth as Rosenbach. Ruthless, single-minded and greedy. When it came to books, perhaps I was too, because in that moment I realised that while there may be honour amongst thieves, the same could not be said for book dealers.
‘Perhaps I can stay a little longer,’ I said, kneeling on the bed beside him and letting him unbutton my blouse again. Loneliness is not a discerning bedfellow. In fact, the more inappropriate the company, the more it suited my fatalistic outlook when it came to love. Something told me I would never find it, so why bother saving myself for it?
I didn’t have much time. My ears echoed with the sound of my heels rushing along the pavement, as I scanned the numbers on the door. My search had led me to Soho and a small warren of alleyways tucked behind Regent Street. I stayed true to my word and told Armand nothing of my detective work regarding Emily Bront?’s second novel. I made a decision that morning that I would stand by for the rest of my life: the work would always come first. However, I did ask him to suggest a dealer who might be familiar with bookshops that were no longer trading. Having spent an interesting morning in Mayfair, I was given the address of Brown’s Bookshop.
It was now a solicitor’s office, but I was reliably informed that the previous owners retained the flat above the shop. I knocked on the door for quite some time, before a middle-aged woman, dressed all in black, answered.
‘Mrs Brown?’ I hazarded a guess.
‘Yes,’ she replied, raising her head slightly to peer through the glasses that were sliding down her nose. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No, we are not acquainted and I am sorry to bother you, but I was hoping to speak to your husband. It’s concerning his bookshop and his aunt, Martha Brown.’
She smiled in a sorrowful way. ‘Oh, we haven’t had one of these for a while, have we, Reginald?’
There was no one there, but I assumed Reginald was upstairs, as she looked skywards.
‘One of what?’
‘A Bront? fan. Do come in,’ she invited, as it had begun to drizzle slightly. We climbed the stairs and came to a pretty little parlour room facing the street below. Every surface was covered with lace doilies but there wasn’t a book in sight. It was not a good start. I took the seat she offered me at a small round table in front of the fire.
‘We shall have tea,’ she called out again to some invisible person. Within minutes a young girl with sullen features carried in a tray with cups and saucers and a silver teapot.
‘Thank you,’ I said but received no response.
‘Well, she might look vexed. I will have to terminate her employment and go to live with my sister in Cornwall. I simply cannot afford to live here any longer,’ Mrs Brown pointed out, sadly.
Once a polite amount of time had passed, I enquired about Mr Brown and whether or not I could speak with him.
‘Oh but, my dear, you are a fortnight too late. My dearest Reginald passed away, in that very chair,’ she said, pointing to an armchair in the corner. ‘Hence the move to my sister’s.’
‘Ah, I see,’ I said, ruing my terrible timing. ‘I am very sorry for your loss, Mrs Brown, and I won’t take up any more of your time with my silly detective work.’
She bade me stay a little longer, at least until the rain eased up, as it had now turned into a torrential downpour.
‘Besides, I don’t get to talk very much about our old bookshop any more. I used to enjoy working there.’
‘Might I ask what happened to the stock? Did you sell everything?’
‘Everything that would interest one such as yourself I’m afraid. Oh, there were many dealers back then, keen to get their hands on anything related to the Bront? family. Even a book of birds belonging to the family!’ she cooed. ‘I mean, honestly, there comes a point where you have to draw a line.’
She had no idea who she was talking to! When it came to book scouts, there was no line. Anything that might relate to an author or their life was of interest. ‘Besides, if I had anything left to sell now, I would be only too happy to part with it. I will need all the funds I can muster at my age.’
Life was difficult for a woman on her own, I could appreciate that. I told her about my shop in Dublin and, as pathetic as it may sound, I revelled in her praise of my independence.
‘But now I really must go, reluctantly, Mrs Brown,’ I said, realising the time. I had to get the train back to Liverpool for the evening sailing.
‘Oh, I am sorry, you’ve come all this way hoping to find something and I have been of no help,’ she said, struggling up from her seat to see me out. ‘Wait a minute, perhaps I do have something you might fancy,’ she said, disappearing into another room. When she returned, she was carrying what looked like a little tin box.
‘We had it in the bookshop, but it never sold,’ she said, handing it to me.
‘What is it?’