“Yes.” Annie smiled. “I may have opened the kiosk. I’m just trying it on for size.”
“Well, it’s good to see that the stupid husband didn’t squash your entrepreneurial spirit. Well done, you!”
A trilling outside was followed by a deeper snappish voice and a knock at the door. Annie ushered Gemma and Maeve into the tearoom and quickly shut the door on the chill. Gemma was waving a bottle of wine above her head like she’d just entered a dorm-room party.
“She’s been insufferable all the way here,” Maeve complained, taking her Barbour coat off and chucking it onto the bench along the window; the candles flickered in protest.
“I’m excited,” trilled Gemma. “Our first book club meeting. Oh, Annie, I love what you’ve done with the place, it looks so cozy.” She caught sight of Sally and stretched out her wine-free hand. “Gemma,” she said. “You must be Sally. It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Maeve,” said Maeve, shaking Sally’s hand next. She inclined her head toward Gemma, who was cooing over the pesto tartlets on the counter. “She’ll be asleep by ten,” she said. “She has the temperament of a Labrador puppy.”
Sally laughed.
“So, you’ve decided to open the kiosk proper, then,” said Maeve. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“News travels fast,” said Annie.
“The Willow Bay hotline never sleeps,” said Gemma. “It’ll be lovely to able to buy the kids hot drinks after a cold walk.”
* * *
—
Annie poured drinks and laid the tartlets out on the table. The candles settled down to a gentle quiver as everybody took their seats. Each woman had her copy in front of her, except Maeve, who tapped her head, saying: “It’s all in here.”
Gemma had brought a notebook with gold-edged pages, which she smoothed open with her palms.
“I’ve been making notes while the children do coloring in,” she said.
“Right,” said Maeve. “Let’s begin.”
The women shuffled in their seats and ran their hands over their books as though divining inspiration from the jackets.
“It was long,” said Sally. “But not as long as it seemed when I read it at school.”
“But not boring,” said Gemma.
Sally nodded. “No, the explanations and descriptions seemed pertinent.”
“And at least not all the women were drips,” said Annie.
“I assume you’re referring to Marian?” said Maeve, leaning back in her chair. “Unusual for a male writer of the time to write a woman of such gumption and not have her fainting all over the place.”
“I hate that,” said Gemma. She put her hand to her forehead and feigned a Victorian swoon. “Oh, I do declare,” she said in a wispy voice. “I just caught sight of Julian’s sock-suspender!”
“Laura faints all over the place,” said Sally. “Made me want to slap her with a wet cod.”
“All delicacy and self-effacing,” agreed Annie. “Why wasn’t Walter in love with Marian? She was much more interesting.”
“Because Victorian men didn’t want interesting women,” said Maeve. “They wanted china dolls with vaginas.”
“I’ve known a few twenty-first-century men like that,” said Sally.
“Why are Victorian women always written like that?” asked Gemma. “They can’t go out in the drizzle for fear of catching a chill, which will undoubtedly result in a fever and near death.”
“I always thought that about Jane in Pride and Prejudice,” said Annie. “She trots out on a horse in the rain to see Bingley and spends the next three weeks at death’s door.”
“If I’d been Bingley,” said Maeve, “that would have put me right off her.”
“If you’d been Bingley, you’d have had her put down like a lame horse,” said Gemma.
Maeve nodded gravely.
“Marian could only be brave and intelligent because she was manly,” said Annie. She flicked through her book to a piece of paper poking out of the top. “Wilkie describes her as swarthy, with a masculine jaw and a full mustache. He’s basically written Marian as Magnum, P.I.”
“I noticed that, too,” said Gemma, flicking through her notes. “Why couldn’t she be sexy and pretty and still be clever and brave?”
“If she’d been sexy, she would have been evil,” said Sally. “Because men found sexy women tempting, and therefore those women must be bad.”