The Bookshop of Second Chances by Jackie Fraser (e books for reading txt) 📗

dream last night that Uncle Andrew’s library was filled with my own books. It was quite satisfying.

A door at the back of the first room of books leads into a passage that widens into a hallway, where a wide, elegant staircase climbs upwards. There are more shelves in the passage, and even some leading up the stairs to the half-landing. It’s hard to get a feel for what the building would be like without the books, but it’s well proportioned and there are so many period details it’s hard to concentrate. The books and shelves make it feel quite dark, but there are lamps everywhere and natural light falls down from the stairwell, filling the hallway with golden sunshine. There are battered Persian rugs on the flagstones, and each nook and cranny is neatly filled with shelves and books, each section labelled: Children’s (collectable), Children’s (just for fun), Poetry, Military History, Ancient History, et cetera and so on. There are three rooms: the main one at the front; another, beyond the staircase, which is Poetry/Plays/Literary Criticism and looks very cosy, with two sofas and a coffee table spread with poetry mags; and another, much larger one at the back, with stripped oak floorboards, its window obscured by shelving. A door leads out to a garden, I presume, although you can’t see much. There’s a large shed or workshop in the way, allowing just a glimpse of trees and shrubs. The whole place smells of beeswax and old paper and is, I have to admit, rather lovely.

Having explored, I return to the first room and approach the counter. I think it’s an old sideboard, or console table, with doors at the front, and three drawers in beautiful honey-coloured wood. Topped by a vast slab of marble and quite high, it’s certainly above waist height to most people standing on the customer side. There’s an old-fashioned wooden box till standing on the top, and a couple of books propped up in Perspex stands. And a desk bell, like in a hotel. Thick dark curtains hang down, blocking the light from the window. Behind the counter, up a step, there’s an unravelling armchair and a little desk with a laptop. Sitting in the armchair, hunched and crow-like, is a dark-haired man. It’s shadowy, and he has a green-shaded desk lamp to light his little corner. He’s looking at something on the screen and is surrounded by more books, piled around him, lots of them with pieces of paper sticking out, marking his place, or maybe just particularly fascinating parts. I stand by the counter for a minute or two, but he doesn’t look round, or acknowledge me at all. I’m not exactly surprised; it’s not like I haven’t been warned.

I’m tempted to ring the bell, but that seems even ruder than being ignored.

‘Hello,’ I say, eventually.

He looks up. He doesn’t actually sigh, but he may as well have done.

‘Yes?’ he says.

‘I was wondering if you could help me,’ I say, refusing to be discouraged.

‘I doubt it.’

For some reason, this amuses me. ‘You probably can. It’s a book-related question.’

This time he does sigh. ‘Whatever makes you think I know anything about books?’

‘It’s just a hunch. Are you Edward?’ I can see him wondering whether to deny it. ‘I’ve inherited some books,’ I continue. ‘And I probably need to sell some of them. Or all of them.’

He stands up, or rather, unfolds, and comes to lean on the marble counter top. He has good bones, a strong jaw, and eyebrows clearly made for scowling. He scowls. I know he’s older than the other one, the lord. Charles. He might be five years older than me, perhaps. Approaching fifty. There’s not much grey in his hair, which is wildly curly, like his brother’s, but rather longer and more unkempt. He’s wearing a dark green jumper with a small hole (moths?) in one shoulder, a dark patterned shirt underneath, vaguely floral. He has dark eyes, a wide mouth and straight, well-bred teeth. And he’s tall, much taller than me, he might be six foot four, even allowing for the fact that he’s standing on a raised platform. He looks down at me, and I look up. It’s quite intimidating.

‘What kind of books? I’m not interested in your granny’s Mills and Boon.’ He pauses, thinking. ‘Unless you have any from the early sixties, or before.’

‘I don’t think either of my grannies ever read any Mills and Boon,’ I say. ‘They were Jane Eyre and Rebecca all the way. But anyway, I think you’ve seen them. The books, I mean. If you are Edward. I want to know how much my Scotts are worth, and whether I should sell them up here, or at home.’

‘You think I’ve seen them?’

‘Yes, apparently. First editions. Uncle Andrew’s books.’

He frowns at me. ‘Uncle… Well, but you can’t be Andrew Hamilton’s niece, surely.’

‘Why can’t I? Oh, but I’m not. I’m his great-niece.’

This is apparently more acceptable. He nods. ‘Charlotte,’ he says. ‘Or Emily, or something.’

‘Thea Mottram,’ I say, slightly irritated. ‘Hello.’

‘Yeah, hi.’ He looks at me for a moment and then walks to the edge of the counter and down the step, coming out into the room towards me. I step back, involuntarily, which he seems to find amusing. He grins at me and sticks out his hand. ‘Hello. I’m Edward Maltravers.’

We shake. I like shaking hands; much prefer it to kissing people. His hands are very large. I’m not a remotely small person – I’m five eleven, more with my shoes on – and I rarely feel short, but he really is tall, a good four or five inches taller than I am.

‘The Scotts,’ he says. ‘All of them?’

I nod.

‘About eight hundred quid for the lot. Maybe a bit more. I’d have to look at them. A couple of them are in worse condition than the others. But a couple are very good.’

‘And should I sell them here? Or in Edinburgh?’

‘You should certainly sell them to me.’

‘Yes, I can see that would