‘If I am such a burden to you both, I will simply move out.’
‘And where on earth do you think you would go? You have no money,’ my mother pointed out. Now in her sixties, she had always referred to my arrival in the family as their ‘little surprise’， which would have sounded quaint had I not been aware of her loathing for surprises. Growing up in a household of an older generation only compounded my urge to break free and experience the modern world.
‘I have friends,’ I insisted. ‘I could get a job.’
My mother shrieked.
‘Damn and blast, you ungrateful brat!’ Lyndon growled, grabbing my wrist as I attempted to get up from my chair.
‘You’re hurting me.’
‘I will hurt you far worse than this if you do not obey.’
I tried to free my arm, but he held fast. I looked to my mother, who was making an intense study of the rug on the floor.
‘I see,’ I said, finally understanding that Lyndon was the man of the house now and he would make the decisions.
‘Very well.’ He still held on to my wrist, his sour breath in my face. ‘I said, very well.’
Meeting his eyes, I again tried to pull away. ‘I will meet this suitor.’
‘You will marry him,’ he assured me and slowly he released his grasp.
I smoothed down my skirts and tucked my book under my arm.
‘Right. That’s settled then,’ Lyndon said, his cold eyes looking somewhere just beyond me. ‘I shall invite Austin to supper this evening and all will be arranged.’
‘Yes, Brother,’ I said, before retreating to my bedroom upstairs.
I searched the top drawer of the dressing table and found a cigarette that I’d stolen from Mrs Barrett’s stash in the kitchen. I opened the window and lit the tip, taking a long slow inhale like a femme fatale from the films. I sat at my dressing table and let the cigarette rest on an old oyster shell I had picked up at the beach last summer, a carefree holiday with my best friend Jane before she herself got married. Despite the fact that women now had the vote, a good marriage was still seen as the only option.
Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I touched the nape of my neck where my hair ended. Mother had almost fainted when she saw what I’d done with my long tresses. ‘I’m not a little girl any more,’ I had told her. But did I really believe that? I needed to be a modern woman. I needed to take a risk. But without any money, how could I do anything other than obey my elders? That was when my father’s words returned to me … Books are like portals. I looked again at my bookshelf and took another long drag of my cigarette.
‘What would Nellie Bly do?’ I asked myself, as I often did. To me, she was the epitome of fearlessness – a pioneering American journalist who, inspired by Jules Verne’s book, travelled around the world in a mere seventy-two days, six hours and eleven minutes. She always said that energy rightly applied and directed could accomplish anything. If I were a boy, I could announce my intentions to do the Grand Tour of Europe before getting married. I longed to experience different cultures. Twenty-one years old and I had done nothing. Seen nothing. I looked again at my books and made my decision before I finished smoking my cigarette.
‘How much can you give me for them?’ I watched as Mr Turton examined my hardbacks of Wuthering Heights and The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
He was the proprietor of an airless shop that was in reality just a very long corridor without any windows. His pipe smoke gave the air a viscous quality and my eyes began to water.
‘Two pounds and that’s being generous.’
‘Oh no, I need much more than that.’
He saw my father’s copy of David Copperfield and before I could stop him, he began to leaf through the pages.
‘I’m not selling that one. It has … sentimental value.’
‘Ah, now this is interesting. It is known as the “reading edition”， as Dickens would have read from it at his public readings.’ His bulbous nose and tiny eyes gave him the look of a badger or a mole. He sniffed out the valuable book like a truffle.
‘Yes, I am aware,’ I said, trying to snatch the book back from his greedy paws. He continued with his appraisal, as though he were already selling it at auction.
‘Sumptuously bound in full polished red calf. A charming edition; ornate tooling in gilt to the spine; all page edges gilt; original marbled endpapers.’
‘My father gifted me that book. It is not for sale.’
He looked at me over the rim of his glasses, sizing me up. ‘Miss …？’
‘Miss Carlisle.’
‘Miss Carlisle, this is one of the best-preserved examples of these rare issues I have ever handled. ‘
‘And the illustrations by Hablot K. Browne. You see his pen name, Phiz,’ I added, with pride.
‘I could offer you fifteen pounds.’
The world fell silent, the way it often does the moment before a life-changing decision. On one path lay freedom along with the unknown. The other was a gilded cage.
‘Twenty pounds, Mr Turton, and you have a deal.’
He narrowed his eyes and his lips betrayed a grudging smile. I knew he would pay, just as surely as I knew that I would devote my life to getting that book back. As his back was turned, I slipped my Wuthering Heights back into my pocket and left.
That was how my career as a book dealer began.
Chapter Two
MARTHA
Dublin, nine months ago …
When I first arrived at the redbrick Georgian house on Ha'penny Lane that cold, dark evening with rain dripping from my jacket, I hadn’t planned on staying. The woman on the phone sounded less than friendly, but I had nowhere else to go and very little money. My journey to Dublin had begun a week previously and from the other side of the country, at a lonely bus stop just outside the village. I don’t know how long I sat at the bus stop, if it was cold or warm, or if anyone passed me by. All of my senses were dulled by one overwhelming urge – to leave. I couldn’t see out of my right eye, so I didn’t see the bus eventually pulling up. My whole body felt numb, but when I slid off the stone wall, my ribs complained. Still, I wouldn’t let my thoughts go back there. Not yet. Even when the driver got down to help me with my suitcase and looked at me as though I had just escaped from a secure facility, I wouldn’t let my thoughts go back there.
‘Where to?’ he asked.
Anywhere but here.
‘Dublin,’ I answered. Dublin might be far enough. I watched the countryside slide past my window. I fucking hated those fields, the small towns with a school, a church and twelve pubs. The greyness of it, pressing in on me. I must’ve started to doze off, because I jumped, thinking he was on top of me again – my hands protecting my face. I didn’t know what to protect. He was too quick. And when he found the poker, it all fell away from me. Everything. Every hope I had. Every naive, stupid hope. I learned something in that moment; you’re on your own in this world. No one is coming to save you. People don’t suddenly change, say they’re sorry and begin to treat you with respect. They are a jumble of hurt and pain and they will take it out on whomever they can. I had to save myself.
‘Just a coffee and a toasted cheese sandwich please,’ I said to the waiter, picking the cheapest item on the menu.