He glanced at the title. “People like Marie Antoinette?” His teeth were a bit crooked. He pretend-swept again.
“Why, yes. Her life was so much more glamorous than mine.”
“It didn’t turn out so well.”
I shrugged. “And that makes me feel better about my own life.”
“Ah, schadenfreude! The best reason for reading!”
I laughed. “I like happy stories too. There just aren’t very many in history.”
He had a funny face, with a nose that turned first up, then down, and cheekbones that were high and sharp. “Well, you know what they say—history is written by the winners.”
“That is why we have fairy tales as well.”
He glanced over to the fairy-tale books across the way. “Which do you like better?”
“Histories,” I admitted. “I like sad stories.”
He squinted his eyes, as if trying to think of a way to extend the conversation. Now I rather hoped he would. No one was ever interested in what I had to say. But suddenly he looked down, finding an actual bit of dirt on the ground. “I should leave you to your reading. Will you . . . be here a while?”
I glanced outside. The sun was low in the sky, and I knew I needed to do my shopping. I wanted to stay, though, and regretted the time I had spent at the milliner’s. I could not afford a new bonnet or a book, but at least I could read the book at the stall. “I have to go too. But I’ll be back next week.”
He smiled, and though his bottom teeth were crooked, it was a kind smile. “I will look forward to it. Perhaps . . .” He stopped, sweeping.
“What?”
“Perhaps you will let me talk to you again?”
“Perhaps I will.” I handed him the book.
I left the store, grinning, then rushed through the market. I visited the butcher’s and the fishmonger’s stalls in rapid succession and was halfway through the greengrocer’s when I heard a voice above my head.
“Excuse me, miss? Can you help me?”
At first, I did not realize he spoke to me. No one ever did, other than to tell me to move on. The conversation with the bookseller’s assistant was the longest I had had in a year with anyone who wasn’t Father. Even Father didn’t talk much.
Only when the voice repeated itself did I look up.
“I am sorry. I didn’t realize you were speaking to me.”
“No, it is I who am sorry. Perhaps I was rude to interrupt you.”
“Oh, no.” I looked up.
Up was where I had to look to see this young man. He was very tall, and when I beheld his face, I almost had to suppress a gasp, for he was beautiful, the most beautiful man I had ever seen. He reminded me of nothing more than the sun, for his face, his smile, his eyes of blue, all framed by curls the color of chestnuts, warmed me, warmed my face, my body, my heart.
“Oh . . . no . . . ,” I stammered again, unable to form any longer words. Did I know any words?
He looked away. “I know it is wrong to address a young lady without a proper introduction, but I cannot ask the greengrocer for any more help. I have asked him twenty times already, but I need aid in selecting these pears.”
He pointed to a bin of pears. They were in season, large and golden green with barely a hint of red.
“Pears . . . you . . . my help?” I would have helped him with horse dung, had he asked, but it was strange that he asked for my help with pears.
“I am here shopping on my own,” he explained, “and I do not know much about selecting fruit. These pears, for example. How do I choose some that will not turn to mush in a day?” As I looked closer, I realized he was not a man at all, or barely. He might have been my own age.
“It depends,” I said when I could next breathe. I wished I had worn a newer dress. “Are you going to eat them right away, or is your wife making a pie?”
He smiled a bit ruefully. “Alas, there is no wife. It is only me, a poor student, buying them to eat in my lonely room.”
I looked around, adjusting my blond curls as I did. The greengrocer did not appear busy, truth be told. In fact, he was examining the young man almost as closely as I was, very likely staring at his cloak, which was fine looking, for a poor student’s cloak. In fact, I shivered as it brushed against me.
“Of course I can help you. I was just . . .” wondering if you had a wife. “Here.”
I reached into the bin and seized one golden pear. “This one, for example, has a good color, but it has been picked too early.” Never an authority on fruit, I waxed rhapsodic on the subject, trying to impress the handsome stranger.
“How can you tell?”
“It’s hard like a rock. Poke it.”
He reached out to touch it and, as he did, his hand brushed mine. His was soft, so soft, as if it had done not a bit of work. I folded my own fingers inward, that he would not notice the calluses from my Tuesday churnings. How could a man’s hand be so soft?
“Do you feel how it has no give at all?” I asked him.
He nodded in earnest, as if he found the subject fascinating. “I do.”
I groped around in the remaining pears until I found one perfect, red-gold one. “Now try this one.”