It was for the best. Had I known any of it, I might have sought him out—and made a fool of myself. As it was, I did not do my work, at least not much of it. Our dinners that week were overcooked meats and potatoes, all forgotten as I fantasized about Karl or lost myself in the book, reading about the battles of Napoleon or the wives of Henry VIII. But at least I put forth the appearance of work.
Time passed slowly, but eventually, it did pass, as time always does. Finally, Thursday arrived! I left my house at daybreak and arrived at the bookseller’s stall quite early. I walked past the lady bookseller brazenly. She could not kick me out, for I had someplace to go. But the little man ran up to me.
“Miss, you are well?”
“I have no money this week either,” I said, heading him off. I did not need him following me around. “I am only meeting someone here. I will be gone soon.”
“No, no.” He shook his head. “It is all right. I know you love the books as I do. Being around them enriches the soul.” He paused, awaiting my reply.
“What?” I looked around, searching for Karl, but it was too early.
“I only wondered if you had, perhaps, done any reading this week?” He looked over his shoulder, probably to see if the bookseller was watching him.
I smiled despite my annoyance, thinking of the book, the secret book which, even now, resided under my pillow. I knew it was none of this funny boy’s business. Still, I could not resist the urge to say, “In fact, I have. I have a new book of history, and it is wonderful.”
His grin was wide, revealing his crooked teeth. “Really? I would love to know more about this book you enjoyed so much. Where did you get it?”
Ah—I saw what he was about. He thought I had read their books for free, then purchased elsewhere. “Oh, oh, no, it was a gift . . . from a friend.”
“I see.” His gray eyes shone. “So tell me what you thought about it, please, for I so seldom meet a young lady who loves books as you do.”
He was so strange. I was about to answer him, just to make him stop talking to me, when a long shadow appeared. I turned, then looked up. “Karl, it is you! You are here!”
“Indeed, I am.” Karl reached out to me, then realized it would be inappropriate to take my hand in public. Instead, he shook the young man’s hand. “You work here?”
The young man’s countenance had changed entirely. His brows were knitted together. “Yes.”
“A fine establishment,” Karl said, “and one my Cornelia likes a great deal.” Through a crack in the stall’s curtains, a ray of sunlight streamed and glinted off Karl’s beautiful hair.
“Yes,” I said, noting how he said my Cornelia. “I was just telling this young man about the wonderful book I received this week.”
“You have a new book?” Karl feigned surprise. “Then you will have to tell me about it—over the picnic lunch I brought.” Karl swung his arm, and I saw that he held a hamper. Its contents were concealed by a blanket, but I could see a loaf of bread and the neck of a wine bottle.
“I have been waiting to tell you about it!” I said.
“Then let us go.”
I had gone a few steps before I thought to bid the young clerk good-bye. But when I looked back, he had already trudged away.
Karl and I went to the little wood across from the market, and Karl spread out a red-and-black plaid blanket. I wished I had thought to bring a picnic, to show Karl my wifely skills, for I was an excellent baker. “I will bring the picnic next time. But let me help you unpack now.”
I peered at the basket’s contents and was rather amazed at their elegance. Besides the bread and wine, there was a clove-studded ham and a hunk of cheese wrapped in wax, some lovely cookies, and two of the most beautiful pears I had ever seen. But most incredible of all were the service plates, thin as eggshells, and forks and knives that gleamed silver, and glasses that sparkled like diamonds. It all seemed too fine for a poor student. Perhaps Karl was rich! I laid it all out prettily, but then I was too excited to eat. Or maybe too nervous. What if food fell from my mouth? What if crumbs sullied my dress? What if the cheese made my breath stink? I nibbled at the bread and the ham, sampled a bit of cookie, as daintily as I could, but mostly, I stared at Karl. His shoulders were so broad that they blocked the view of the market. To cover up what I was not eating, I talked of the book, proud that I could remember which of Henry’s wives had been executed (Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard) and which Catherine and Anne he had, fortunately, divorced (Catherine of Aragon and Anne of Cleves). Karl listened—and ate—with equally rapt attention, asking me questions that I happily answered. At one point, he said, “And where did you say you got this wonderful book, my lambkin? A week ago, you had only the Bible and a storybook. Now you are a wealth of information.”
I giggled, perhaps because I thought him funny, calling me his lambkin, but more likely from the wine that Karl kept pouring and pouring. I feared to place it down upon the blanket, lest it spill, so I had to drink it. My head felt like a gas-powered balloon, soaring over the treetops. “Oh, I don’t know.” I brushed his arm with my hand. “It arrived on my doorstep Friday, likely from a secret admirer.”