Leave a Widow Wanting More by Charlie Lane
Chapter 3
Hopkins moaned, head in hands. “Oooh, Gulliver’s!”
Was he being humorously dramatic or were the dramatics a serious outpouring of his real feelings? Difficult to tell sometimes.
“Mr. Hopkins,” Sarah ventured, “are you all right? Shall I fetch you—” What? A chair? Smelling salts? An audience? “Tea?”
“What can tea achieve, Mrs. Pennington? Will it win me Gulliver’s?” He lifted his head, and his eyes poured woe. “No. That is lost to me forever.”
Sarah brought him a chair, and Mr. Hopkins dropped onto it as if it were a fainting couch, one arm draped over his brow. A pitiful display, but behind it all lay true despair. The man loved nothing in the world so much as books, and Gulliver’s Travels, it appeared, held the pride of place among an exalted host of beloveds.
He moaned like a heroine in a horrid novel. “There is nothing you or anyone can do for me now, I’m afraid. Though I’d give much—anything!—to have that book.”
Sarah frowned. In her experience, nothing was hopeless. If you needed a husband, you got one. If you needed money, you found a job. If you needed an escape, you opened a book. Any problem could be fixed. “You should visit this Hellwater who has the book. Talk to him. Surely, he’ll see someone like you, a devoted lover and protector of books, is better entrusted to such a valuable book than a nomad like Lord Eaden.”
Hopkins shook his head, causing his cotton hair to frizz out around his ears. “No good. I’ve visited the Mad Earl. I’ve pleaded my case, named my price. Hellwater hates me. Always has, the bastard.”
A mad earl? Lord Hellwater, then. “But … but you said Lord Hellwater hates Lord Eaden.”
“And he does. Mostly. But there’s also a respect there. Theirs is an antagonistic friendship. But me? He simply loathes me.”
Bereft of the correct words to soothe a mournful bookshop owner, Sarah fell back on the only words that came to her. “I’m sorry.”
Mr. Hopkins sighed heavily. “Do you know, he stole my private diaries.”
“Lord Hellwater did? Or Lord Eaden?”
“Hellwater.”
“No!”
“Oh, yes.” For a moment, righteous fury ignited his features, then he drooped once more. “He’ll never sell Gulliver’s to me. Not if he were dying and I held the only cure. Not even then.” He groaned.
She knelt near the chair and patted his hands. “There, there, Mr. Hopkins. Don’t give up. Surely, the situation can be saved. Surely—”
“Drop it, Mrs. Pennington. The situation is best left alone. It’s the only way to heal from such a loss.”
But Sarah couldn’t leave it alone. The problem gnawed at her. “Why do you want the book?”
“Same reason they all do, I suppose. Well, except for Eaden.” He sighed. Again. Was that twice now? Three times? “The book’s a rarity.”
Sarah pursed her lips and rocked back on her heels to stand. Mr. Hopkins had no emotional claim to it, then. But what had he said about Lord Eaden’s motivations? “Mr. Hopkins, you mentioned Lord Eaden’s motives for wanting the book. What are they?” Perhaps if she knew why the baron wanted the book, she could fix Hopkins’s problem. If it was just a rare book Lord Eaden wanted, wouldn’t any rare book do? If she could find him a new book, a rarer book, Lord Eaden would quit his quest for Gulliver’s, and Mr. Hopkins would have a better shot.
Mr. Hopkins wrung his hands, despondency dripping from each fingertip. “He has a special connection to Gulliver’s Travels. Saw it as a lad. Has been obsessed with it for years. It inspired his love of travel and scholarship. Or some such rot as that.”
Lord Eaden’s motivations were sentimental, then—a much more difficult obstacle to overcome. It wasn’t simply a rare book he wanted; he wanted this specific Gulliver’s because it had made him who he was. Hell. And damnation for good measure.
Mr. Hopkins rose with a third (fourth?) sigh. “Get back to work, Mrs. Pennington.”
“Yes, of course.” But Sarah couldn’t get back to work. As Hopkins shut himself behind his study door, she pulled a blank page from the sales ledger and picked up a nearby quill. Whenever a problem presented itself, making a list helped. At the top of the page, she wrote the problem: Mr. Hopkins wants Gulliver’s, but can’t have it. Under that, she wrote Complications: Lord Eaden’s claim. Under that, Solutions?
Then she stared at the word, willing it to produce of itself. Solutions should spring ready-made from the mere act of writing the word.
Hmph. If that were the case, she’d have enough money for James to be well-clothed, herself to be well-housed, and she wouldn’t need a new job in a month’s time. If only she could convince Mr. Hopkins that she was worth keeping around. Perhaps she needed a second list to fix this second (but arguably more important) problem—he had fired her.
Sarah’s head jolted up, her eyes wide, as the two problems merged into a single solution. “That’s it!” If she could get Mr. Hopkins that Gulliver’s, he might see the value of keeping her on! She ran to the back of the shop, lifted a hand to knock, then dropped it. What would she say to him? She didn’t have the book yet, and had no idea how she would acquire it.
She returned to her list and scratched out everything, then added a new line. How can I acquire Gulliver’s?
Think, Sarah, think. “Oh!” She threw her arms in the air. If only she were as confident, rich, and arrogant as Lord Eaden. If Sarah were a man, she’d be able to walk up to the earl’s door just like Lord Eaden, and she’d out-argue that scholarly scoundrel. She would! It was probably what he was doing right that minute; marching right up to Hellwater’s door! Blast the man. Blast all men!
Well, then, why didn’t she? It was as good a plan as any, especially considering the complete lack of other options.
She was working, that was why she shouldn’t, couldn’t really.
But why not? She’d already lost her position at Hopkins Bookshop. And leaving could very well save it.
Sarah grabbed her spencer and bonnet and strode to Hopkins’s office. “I’m going out!” she called.
The door opened. Mr. Hopkins’s head appeared, a floating ball of fluff. “Excuse me? Where to? What for? You can’t just leave. Who will mind the shop?”
“I’m going to the Earl of Hellwater’s residence to retrieve Gulliver’s for you. And, I suppose, you shall mind the shop.”
Mr. Hopkins sputtered. “You can’t just get Gulliver’s! You have no money. Besides, I offered him a small fortune, so whatever nest egg you plan to empty will prove useless. He said no, after all, to my offer. Do you mean to”—he dropped his voice to a hiss—“steal it?”
Sarah pulled herself up tall, fastening the bonnet beneath her chin. “I have no money, but I’ll think of something. Not theft, of course.” At least, that wasn’t on the table at the moment. “Now, where does the earl live?”
Mr. Hopkins blinked as if he had dust in his eyelashes. “Drury Lane.”
“Good. Thank you.” Sarah finished buttoning her spencer, ignoring how tenuous the connection between button and thread felt. She’d have to keep an eye on it, or she’d lose it when it fell. “One more thing, Mr. Hopkins.”
He eyed her, his eyebrows flying high into the frizzing hair that fell over his forehead.
“If I get the book, you will let me keep my job.” She meant it as a statement. If she were going to show up on an earl’s doorstep, bold as you please, she needed to practice her bravado now. Unfortunately, her statement had sounded more like a question.
Mr. Hopkins took his time to chew it over. “I suppose. Yes. I will. But, Mrs. Pennington, you must know, I only say this because there’s no chance in hell of success.”
Sarah squared her shoulders. “We’ll see.” The shop bells above the door tinkled as she stepped into the foggy afternoon light. Clouds hung low, but she had no money to hire a hack to get to Drury Lane. She’s have to walk and hope the weather held. A walk would be good. She could use the time to refine her plan. She was up, after all, against a formidable opponent.
Lord Eaden had been forged in unforgiving Egyptian suns, not the timid thing that peeked now from between clouds above her head. It would be difficult to defeat such a man, but Sarah had succeeded at so many impossible tasks, she no longer knew when to give up.