Aloysius reined in the horses beside the covered entrance of the Burlington Arcade. Two beadles in distinctive black and red uniforms stood guard at the entrance to ensure that the Bond Street loungers—bored dandies and revellers who had emerged early from the gentlemen’s clubs—did not enter the sedate and elegant arcade.
Above the entrance climbed a canopy of steel vines. Inside, gaslights illuminated the shops’ displays of dresses, hats, jewellery and all manner of frivolous objects craved by the very wealthy, creating an effect as seductive as Aladdin’s cave.
Lavinia barely glanced at these treasures as she stepped out of the carriage. Instead, escorted by Aloysius through a milling group of curious male onlookers, one of whom whistled rudely, she made her way to John Brindley’s bookstore at 29 Bond Street.
Together, Lavinia and Aloysius almost filled t
he tiny emporium whose every wall was crammed with books, the shelves climbing to the very ceiling. The place appeared empty of assistants.
Squeezing her way around several piles of boxes, Lavinia navigated a path to the high oak counter and peered over.
‘I believe the American statesman Abraham Lincoln has published a volume of poetry?’
A diminutive man with a very large nose that divided his saturnine face into two distinct sides, sad and sadder, sat eclipsed by a large volume he held in his lap. He looked over his half-moon spectacles at her, then, shrugging indifferently, returned to his reading.
‘I beg your pardon,’ Lavinia repeated, raising her voice in case the bookseller was hard of hearing, ‘I believe—’
‘I heard you the first time, madam. And yes, Mr Lincoln does write poetry, however he is a better politician than poet, therefore I suggest you save your pennies. Besides, you have the look of a Mrs Gore reader.’ He sniffed contemptuously and pointed a long dirty fingernail to a pile of books on a table near the door.
‘Appallingly prolific but salacious enough to sell; literature with the endurance of a gadfly. Pin Money is the one to read, or so they tell me.’
Insulted, Lavinia placed her purse on the counter. ‘I detest Mrs Gore’s halfpenny scandals. I know what I wish to purchase and it is Mr Lincoln’s poetry. I am a great admirer of the statesman.’
Sighing heavily, the bookseller slipped off his stool and, muttering, pushed a set of library steps along the sloping wooden floor at an excruciatingly slow pace. There, with surprising agility that reminded Lavinia of the bed bug she’d once seen under her father’s microscope, he clawed his way up the steps and reached to a high shelf. He pulled out a book and shook it vigorously, releasing several dead moths that plummeted to the floor.
‘The Quincy Whig journal—Mr Lincoln has published several works in here, but I seem to remember there is only one of any merit. “The Return”.’
The bookseller clambered down, made his way back to Lavinia and placed the book firmly into her hands.
‘One guinea. Outrageous exploitation on my behalf but literary stupidity, I find, is invariably expensive.’ He sounded irritated to make the sale at all.
As she reached for her money, Lavinia caught sight of a man outside. The familiarity of his profile drew her to the window where she peered through its grimy glass.
Colonel Huntington stood on the opposite kerb, accompanied by a strikingly attractive young woman in an elegant overcoat and deep crimson satin crinoline. There was something exaggerated about the young woman’s self-conscious gestures with her dramatically rouged cheeks and painted mouth. Pointing to a bonnet in a shop window, she laughed then slipped her arm through the Colonel’s and they continued their promenade.
Transfixed, Lavinia wondered for a moment whether it actually was her husband, for she did not recognise the expression that transformed his face—a smile that suddenly rendered him ten years younger.
The coachman stepped in front of the window, blocking the mistress’s view of the Colonel.
‘This is no place for a gentlewoman at this time of day,’ he said. ‘Next thing, the Bond Street loungers will be taking pot shots at yer. I did try to warn yer.’ Moved by Lavinia’s evident distress, Aloysius slipped into brogue.
Ignoring him, she continued to look blankly out the window. The girl could not be much older than herself. Could she be an old associate? A secret goddaughter? Perhaps the estranged child of a colleague? she thought, refusing to consider more obvious alternatives.
Aloysius gently tapped her on the arm. ‘Buy the pamphlet, madam. The gentleman is waiting.’
Lavinia turned back to the bookseller. A supercilious expression played across his pinched features.
‘A common doxie. They all float up from Curzon Street like there’s no tomorrow, and not a literate one amongst them. Language of love? Language of the gutter more like. Do you know the Colonel?’
‘I had assumed so,’ Lavinia replied coolly.
‘My mistress is married to the gentleman,’ Aloysius said, wanting to protect her from further humiliation.
Shocked, the bookseller dropped the volume of poetry, now wrapped in butcher’s paper, onto the counter. ‘The Colonel married, and to one so young? It wasn’t announced in the Gazette.’
Mortified, Aloysius stepped forward. ‘Mrs Huntington, there are other bookstores.’
The bookseller glanced at the coachman’s livery then back at Lavinia. Suddenly he bowed, his long greasy locks falling towards his knees, his balding pate rendered visible.