A Knight Before Christmas (A Rogues to Riches Prequel Novella)

Chapter One

“Mr. Farris is back again,” Faith whispered as she reshelved biographies. “He’s lurking among Mrs. Radcliffe’s offerings.”

“Leave the man in peace, sister,” Chloe replied, adding four more volumes to the stack in Faith’s arms. “Many a man enjoys Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, all the while protesting that his purchase is for a wife, mother, or sister.”

“But Mr. Farris already owns everything Mrs. Radcliffe has ever written.”

“True enough.” Mr. Aidan Farris was a loyal customer, though lately he must have been spending all of his free time reading.

Chloe crossed to the bookshop’s front counter rather than indulge in idle speculation. “Mr. Nelson, have you made your selection?”

Faith sidled away, for Mr. Nelson was a prodigious ditherer. He spent good coin for his books, though, so Chloe came around the counter, patience at the ready.

From the corner of her eye, she watched as Mr. Farris paged through a bound version of The Romance of the Forest. He’d taken Mrs. Radcliffe’s tale to the shop’s front window, where the light was best. Reading glasses sat on a fine blade of a nose, and winter sunlight found red highlights in sable hair. He was gray-eyed, tallish without approaching awkward height, and more sober in his demeanor than Vicar Waites holding forth on the topic of irresponsible wagering.

Mr. Farris maintained that serious demeanor while he read a rollicking tale of thwarted passion, undeserved penury, and misplaced heroism. What sort of story would provoke a man like that to smiling?

“I’ll take this one for my missus,” Mr. Nelson said, using the counter to assemble a stack of loose chapters into a neat pile. “She does love when I read to her of a long, dark evening.”

“We have bound copies,” Chloe replied. “Mrs. Nelson might like one of those. Some of them are very handsome.” And a bound copy would be a more profitable sale for the shop, at a time when every ha’penny was desperately needed.

“Bound copies come dear,” he said, looking uncertain. “Perhaps I’d best buy the first few chapters, and if Missus enjoys them…. But then I’ll have to either buy the rest, or pay for the whole book and the first few chapters.”

Chloe mentally kicked herself. This equivocation could go on for an hour, during which she’d not be assisting other patrons as the day drew to a close and buying on impulse became more likely. The result might be no sale at all, which was exactly what she deserved for trying to inspire Mr. Nelson to make the larger purchase when he’d already come to a decision.

“Or I could buy just the one chapter,” Mr. Nelson went on, “and see what she thinks of that. Missus is particular, not like me, and woe to the man who offers her a tale she doesn’t care for. Hard to tell much from one chapter though. Perhaps the lending library—”

“The lending library is three streets over, and might not have such a popular tale,” Chloe said. “I’d hate to see you travel that far in the cold for nothing.”

Chloe frequently patronized the lending library, reading their inventory to judge what she ought to stock in the shop. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to afford the membership there, but what would that matter if she and Faith lost their home and their livelihood?

“Activity is good for us,” Mr. Nelson countered, sending the chapters in his hand a dubious look. “One should not pay for milk without first making sure it’s fresh.”

Mrs. Draper was standing at the opposite end of the counter, a pamphlet on flower arranging in her hand. A small purchase, but she was an impatient woman. She’d happily leave the pamphlet, the better to get to the cookshop just as the day’s roast was carved.

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The light changed and a man came up on Chloe’s right. “Ah, but a rousing tale is not a pitcher of milk, is it?” Mr. Farris peered at the chapters Mr. Nelson held. “Excellent choice. I have the bound version of all six of her novels, and read them frequently. Alas we shall have no more stories from Miss Austen’s pen.”

Mr. Nelson peered up at Mr. Farris. “Did she get married?”

Mrs. Radcliffe had written all of her novels while married. Chloe kept that observation behind her teeth while she caught a whiff of Mr. Farris’s fragrance. Either he’d recently loitered in a bakeshop, or he liked the scent of cinnamon.

“Miss Austen went to her reward before her last novel was published,” Chloe said. “She never married.”

“The poor creature,” Mr. Nelson murmured. “You say you’ve read all six of her novels, young man?”

“I have a handsome set of bound volumes, which I expect will become collector’s items. When an author is no longer extant, one never knows how much longer her works will be available, and her books are some of my favorite stories.”

Mr. Nelson’s bushy white brows drew down. “But one should not buy from the dairymaid without first sampling…”

“Come,” Mr. Farris said, “I’ll show you where the bound volumes are. Milk is for cooling our tea. Stories are for lightening the heart and enriching the mind. The thrill of discovering a tale page by page is more important than saving a few pence, don’t you think? And heaven help a fellow if his lady becomes enthralled with a story and he can’t get his hands on the next installments. Do you prefer red leather or brown?”

Bless you, Mr. Farris. Chloe got back to the counter just as Mrs. Draper had set the pamphlet down.

“Flowers are so cheering this time of year, aren’t they?” Chloe asked. “The illustrations in that pamphlet are worth framing according to Mrs. Dash.”

“Myra Dash said that?”

Mrs. Dash’s son was an aspiring painter, while Mrs. Draper’s daughter was fast approaching spinsterhood. The two held rousing arguments in the print shop across the street, but neither one was of a literary bent.

“I did hear something to that effect,” Chloe replied as Mrs. Draper passed over two small coins. “And Mrs. Dash has such good taste where the visual arts are concerned. I wonder if she’s solicited her son’s opinion of the illustrations?”

Mrs. Draper tucked the pamphlet into a voluminous beaded reticule. “Lord knows the boy has opinions on everything else.”

“Perhaps if he were invited over for a cup of holiday punch and some fresh biscuits, he might share those opinions with you and Miss Draper. Have a pleasant day, ma’am, and enjoy your pamphlet.”

Chloe dropped the pennies into the drawer beneath the counter, where they joined a precious small collection of coins and a few worn notes.

“I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Thatcher,” Mrs. Draper said, leaning nearer as she drew her reticule closed. “I hope you young ladies can manage.”

So do I. “Thank you for your condolences, ma’am. Grandfather is at peace, and we are doing all we can to protect his legacy.” Chloe said those words at least a dozen times a day, but like the coins in the drawer, they weren’t enough.

A few platitudes did not convey the grief she and Faith endured, or the sheer terror they’d faced as the extent of Grandfather’s indebtedness had become plain. They kept the shop heated, they didn’t dare burn so much as a lump of coal in the upstairs rooms where they lived.

For their customers, they wore smiles and made cheerful small talk. Upstairs, they wore three shawls and dropped exhausted into bed without saying much of anything except prayers that by some miracle they’d be able to prevent Mr. Barnstable from foreclosing on Grandfather’s shop.