The Lost Bookshop(67)

Who was Mr Ravel? Was no one to be trusted now? Were they all working for my brother?

I had to leave, and I had to do it quickly.

It is strange how seemingly inconsequential conversations suddenly take on the mantle of fate and destiny when cast in a new light. I had been exchanging delightful letters with Mabel Harper, a woman who wrote an amusing column for the newspapers about her and her husband’s life and travels. Her husband just happened to be none other than Lathrop Colgate Harper – a successful rare book dealer and authority on medieval manuscripts. She had suggested on numerous occasions that I travel to New York and visit the infamous Book Row, and now that I had the money to do it, I decided to waste no time.

I rushed out to the travel agency on D’Olier Street and just made it before they closed. I booked my ticket for a crossing from Cobh to New York on the White Star Line two days hence. I would travel to Cork in the morning and stay overnight there, before taking the tender out to the steamship bound for America. My hand shook as I signed the cheque and the man behind the counter asked if I was quite well. I caught sight of my reflection in the window and saw a pale face with a hunted expression. I would not ignore my instincts this time. Lyndon had found me. Perhaps he had been intercepting my letters all along. After all, what use was Armand? He clearly had no loyalty to me. I left the office and headed straight for the bank.





‘What’s happened?’ Matthew asked, dismissing his secretary and leading me into his office. I was so touched by his concern for me and the baby and felt once again that familiar pull towards him. His kindness was a stark contrast to all of the other men in my life. But I could no longer entertain any feelings of weakness hoping to be saved. I had to save myself.

‘I want you to keep something safe for me.’ I reached into my back and removed the sewing box – contents still intact.

‘What is it?’

I wasn’t sure whether he would be better off not knowing, but I couldn’t help myself. I steadied my breath and spoke as slowly as I could.

‘I don’t have much time, but I believe that I have found’—sharp inhale—‘Emily Bront?’s second novel. Well, not a novel, but a manuscript. Well, part of it at any rate.’

I stood there like a bow, waiting for the arrow to land. It did not.

‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘Yes, but I thought she only wrote one novel. Wuthering Heights, wasn’t it?’

I sighed. It was always difficult to deal with civilians.

‘Precisely, Matthew. That’s what everyone presumed. But I now believe I have proof that she was writing a second. This could change the literary landscape as we know it!’

He finally began to understand the enormity of the discovery.

‘Good Lord, Opaline, this is fascinating!’

‘It is!’ I agreed, shaking my head vigorously. ‘You’re the first person I’ve been able to tell. But there’s something else …’

‘Why are you giving it to me?’ Matthew asked.

‘I’m going away for a while and it’s too valuable to leave it in the shop.’

‘Oh, I see.’ He gave me a concerned look, reading my expression, no doubt.

‘You are the only person I can trust.’

‘You’re shaking,’ he said, taking my hands in his.

‘It’s just the cold, nothing more.’ I had to leave. Matthew had his own family to protect. I had to protect mine. I slipped my hands out of his and gave him my brightest smile.

‘I’ll be back for it soon, just keep it safe until then,’ I said and rushed out of the office before I started to cry. I felt so lonely at that moment, but I had to be strong.





When I returned home, something still didn’t feel right. My books were silent around me, as though holding their breath. I struggled down the stairs to my flat. Had it gotten narrower or was I simply becoming plumper? It felt as though the very fabric of the building was contracting around me. I needed to sleep. I was so very tired. But I still had to pack. I decided I would just lie down for a moment and drifted off whilst humming to the baby. I woke up to a bright light in my face.





Chapter Thirty-Five





MARTHA





First of February. St Brigid’s Day. I wanted to get out of the house and get out of Dublin. One thing you miss in a big city is the big sky of the countryside. But what I missed most were the storms that would blow in off the Atlantic on the west coast and drown out all the painful voices in your head. It was no day for the beach. The weather was freezing, with actual frost on the window when I woke up, but I was determined. I brought a flask of hot chocolate with me and took the Dart out to Sandycove, a small horseshoe-shaped beach.

The sun was rising just as I walked past the Martello Tower, casting a pink glow all around. It was beautiful, but also bitterly cold. Thankfully there was no wind and the water’s surface looked calm enough to walk upon. I used to swim in the sea at home, but I stopped when I married Shane. Like so many other parts of my life, it just fell away as though it didn’t matter. As though I didn’t matter.

There were a few other people who had the idea of welcoming the first day of spring with a baptism in the sea. At least, it was spring according to the Celtic calendar, marking the transition from one season to the next. I stood and watched for a while as some bathers walked purposefully into the water and never hesitated, while others inched their way slowly. I couldn’t decide which approach was better. There was no way of avoiding the shock and the pain of the cold. Perhaps it was better to get the hard part over with quickly and reach the exhilaration of having mastered your own senses and the environment. That was why we were all doing this, I thought. To prove something to ourselves. That we could do something so physically uncomfortable in order to feel our own sense of power. Or something.