CHAPTER 1

Massachusetts, 1876

Celia glanced at the dim light in Mr. Chestley's back office.Surely, her employer wouldn't mind if she examined theTennyson a few moments longer. The hand-tooled leather volumehad arrived at the bookstore by post that morning, all theway from London. Who would order such an expensive item?She opened it at random.

And the soul of the rose went into my blood—

The Tennyson line touched a chord in her. How musical—richand true. She supposed every woman's heart longed to belike that rose whose soul got into a man's blood.

Stretching, she turned up the gas lamp overhead, then setherself in front of the counter and paged to the poem's notes.

—an over-wrought youth in love with a girl whom he is preventedfrom marrying by difference in social position.

A sudden thought stabbed her. Her beloved friend wouldnever read words like these—never be that rose ...

She pushed the sorrow aside. She must. Why else had herparents sent her to work in this new environment? Her eyesscanned the shelves of books. The week she'd spent here hadafforded her a reader's paradise. A well-stocked bookstore thisfar west of Boston was a delight. The place with its paradox ofstimulation and soothing quiet ministered to the deep partsof her soul. How glad she was to spend her working hourshere among these books rather than in the kitchen or at thesewing box.

She looked down and turned to the Tennyson's Table ofContents. The scent of its dark red leather mingled like fineperfume with its newly cut sheets. Carefully fingering the pagesof beautiful print, she scanned the contents then glanced tothe end of the column, "In Memoriam A.H.H." Next, a pictureof Tennyson greeted her, a brooding sort of fellow, hair andbeard bushing around his face, yet she knew his contemporariesadored him, calling him the bard.

Footsteps echoed from Mr. Chestley's office. Celia quicklyclosed the book, placed it on the counter, and began openingthe other packages. Maybe she could examine it later.

Her portly employer appeared beside her. "Ah, the Tennyson.I hoped it would come before this evening."

"Is it for someone special?"

"Oh, yes. I think it best you know about Mr. Lyons before hearrives. A man of decided learning, he comes every fortnight—eitherto purchase or order something new." He pursed his lips."And as unapproachable as Mr. Lyons makes himself, he stillgets the community tongues wagging. But I don't pay mind tothe gossip, and don't you either. He's one of our best customers.He usually comes Friday nights when we stay open late. IfI'm unavailable, treat him with utmost respect." Mr. Chestleybestowed a grandfatherly smile on her. "Of course, you will.You're an exceptional girl."

Celia felt herself glow at the unexpected praise.

"Now, as for the rest of these books, you can arrange themin the display window. I'll be busy in the office."

Of course, she would do what he said, but after he walkedaway, she couldn't help opening the Tennyson again.

Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,These three alone lead life to sovereign power.

Mr. Chestley and she had discussed such a thought thisweek, had disagreed about its view of man and life. She hadn'texpected a differing opinion from an old family friend.

She allowed herself another few minutes with the Tennyson,then gathering the books, headed for the display window,glimpsing the cavernous aisles of bookshelves. Here she woulddiscover new worlds. The bookstore would afford her not onlya new environment, but a little adventure as well.

Maybe a wonderful, hearthside adventure. How she lovedto read. She looked at the books she carried and clasped themhard against her. Would she ever again find another soul matein this, considering what had happened last year? However, shedid have her father and mother. She couldn't have faced thepast few months without them.

Before stepping up to the window, she glanced back. Eachbookcase had a polished mahogany end, the one nearest thedoor carved with representations of music, art, and writing.Over the years, Mr. Chestley had lovingly added a touch hereand there of Old World beauty. He not only viewed literature asfine art, but believed the place his books resided should evincean artistic spirit as well.

Edward Lyons paused in the shadow of a tree near a lamppost.Not until a lone horse and buggy passed and turned thecorner did he cross the deserted, gas-lit street. The brisk airforecast a soon-to-arrive autumn. He halted in front of theglowing bookstore window.

A shipment must have arrived recently because all the titleswere new. The display had an artistic touch he'd not seen previously.That edition of Plato looked interesting. He'd examineits footnotes; it might be a possible purchase.

A glint of pale yellow inside the store caught his eye. Awoman's flaxen hair, or was it a girl's, shone in the lamplight,artfully coiled in a braid at the nape of her neck. He wonderedwhat manner of face—

She turned to examine something on the counter, her ovalcountenance displaying classic features. Ah ...

But what about her mental acumen? Working in a bookstore,she would be bound to have some, unless hers was aclerk's mentality.

However, for him to deal with a stranger? His first spark ofinterest died a quick death. Accustomed to Mr. Chestley as hewas, he didn't want his ordered bookstore world upset. Besides,he was done with pretty women. The last one had nearly beenhis undoing.

Still, he would ask to see the Plato.

* * *

The door's brass bell jangled. Celia looked up.

A man with an imposing frame entered, wrapped in a largeovercoat. His hat brim pulled low, a wealth of brown haircascaded around his neck, covering most of his visage. Heremoved his hat. Celia startled with recognition. The man wasTennyson come to life—with the same bushy hair and beard.

Just then, another customer appeared from one of the bookaisles, an older woman enveloped in a tented gray coat, holdinghigh a volume. "I knew this was somewhere. Last week I sawit on the shelf above." The woman plunked the book on thecounter. Her large knit hat framed plump, rosy cheeks. "I toldMrs. Divers about this; she'll be glad I found it."

Celia saw the gentleman pivot and quickly enter one of theaisles, but not before the voluble customer noticed him. Shestared at his retreating figure, then bent close to Celia andmurmured, "Be careful of that one, Miss. He's a bad sort. Thewoman I'm companion to—she was his mother-in-law." Thenin a louder tone, "Let me introduce myself. I'm Miss Waul, dearie."The woman opened her purse and offered a gold dollar."Here. This ought to take care of it."

"More than enough. I have your change right here." Celialifted a box from underneath the counter.

While Celia wrapped the purchase in brown paper, thewoman flapped her coat lapels around her neck. "I should havetaken my long scarf to tie up my collar. Didn't realize it wouldturn so cold tonight." She leaned in again and asked in a whisper,"Is Mr. Chestley around somewhere? I wouldn't want toleave you alone with ..." Her head tilted in the direction of thebookshelves where the other customer had disappeared.

"Mr. Chestley is in his office in back." Celia kept her voicelow.

"Good. Well, good night then."

The door rattled when the woman slammed it shut.

Celia's eyes swept the bookcases where she'd last seen...