Charlotte said.
“Me too,” said Joanna.
After leaving the café, Charlotte was relieved to see that Joanna headed off in the opposite direction after a simple goodbye. She had been concerned that she would have to give Joanna a reason for why she didn’t want to walk together.
Charlotte arrived at 37 Slaidburn Street with ten minutes to spare. She studied the handsome three-story building and realized that Harriet and Thomas probably owned the whole place. Distracted by that thought when she couldn’t even afford new clothes, Charlotte realized she had been standing there for a solid minute or two without having knocked or rung the bell. She opted for the bell.
The door swung open heavily, revealing Harriet in a fitted tweed skirt and a crisp white blouse that made her black hair seem impossibly darker, high-heeled shoes, and a thin silver necklace lying against her skin. “Come in. I see you received my message.”
Charlotte took a few steps in and examined the interior, Harriet closing the door behind her. The furnishings were probably antiques, and looked to be from at least a hundred years ago. Charlotte was too polite to ask if the Persian rugs were new replicas, family heirlooms, or something in between. In the foyer, early morning light cast its beams through a cabinet’s glass doors, highlighting the fragile-looking vases and figurines on its shelves. Charlotte guessed that the windows had an automatic tinting system that would kick in when the sunlight grew too intense.
Charlotte turned her attention back to the woman who stood there calmly. “I didn’t expect to hear from you,” she admitted. “And your message didn’t exactly reveal much.”
“It said when and where. What more did it need to say?” Harriet tilted her head slightly.
“Perhaps some indication of what you wanted,” Charlotte suggested.
“Ah. Next time I’ll be more… explicit,” replied Harriet, her lip twitching into a smile. “Regardless, you’re here now. Let me make you a drink. Coffee or tea?”
“Tea, please,” Charlotte replied, even though she didn’t really need a fourth cup of tea.
Harriet indicated that Charlotte should wait in the sitting room while she slipped off to the adjacent kitchen. With the background sounds of running water and the stove’s gas flame being ignited, Charlotte allowed her gaze to wander around the sitting room. She was keenly curious about Harriet. The sitting room was decorated much like the foyer with hardwood floors and intricate area rugs. Two matching mahogany-colored sofas were positioned perpendicular to each other around a wooden coffee table. Fresh daffodils, an expensive indulgence, were set in an iridescent blue glass vase on the table.
Moments before Harriet reappeared, Charlotte had spotted something special: two dozen or so real, printed, and bound books atop a tall cabinet. She had just stepped over to examine the titles when Harriet’s voice sounded behind her.
“There’s something about the feel of paper between your fingers that makes the reading experience that much more intimate,” Harriet said, setting the tea tray on the table.
“I wouldn’t know,” Charlotte said, walking back to the sofas and taking a seat, but not before noting the names of a few of the books.
“Your family didn’t own any books?” Harriet asked, sitting next to her and pouring two cups of tea.
“Only a few. A Bible,” she admitted. “For the sake of preservation, we didn’t handle them.” She took one of the teacups from Harriet and held it cradled. “Your books – Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edith Wharton – aren’t you concerned about being seen with them?”
“Why would I be concerned?” Harriet asked, sipping her tea despite how hot it still was.
“They’re American authors. At least, you have a few American books,” Charlotte said, knowing full well that Harriet was aware of this fact. “Someone might doubt
“Me too,” said Joanna.
After leaving the café, Charlotte was relieved to see that Joanna headed off in the opposite direction after a simple goodbye. She had been concerned that she would have to give Joanna a reason for why she didn’t want to walk together.
Charlotte arrived at 37 Slaidburn Street with ten minutes to spare. She studied the handsome three-story building and realized that Harriet and Thomas probably owned the whole place. Distracted by that thought when she couldn’t even afford new clothes, Charlotte realized she had been standing there for a solid minute or two without having knocked or rung the bell. She opted for the bell.
The door swung open heavily, revealing Harriet in a fitted tweed skirt and a crisp white blouse that made her black hair seem impossibly darker, high-heeled shoes, and a thin silver necklace lying against her skin. “Come in. I see you received my message.”
Charlotte took a few steps in and examined the interior, Harriet closing the door behind her. The furnishings were probably antiques, and looked to be from at least a hundred years ago. Charlotte was too polite to ask if the Persian rugs were new replicas, family heirlooms, or something in between. In the foyer, early morning light cast its beams through a cabinet’s glass doors, highlighting the fragile-looking vases and figurines on its shelves. Charlotte guessed that the windows had an automatic tinting system that would kick in when the sunlight grew too intense.
Charlotte turned her attention back to the woman who stood there calmly. “I didn’t expect to hear from you,” she admitted. “And your message didn’t exactly reveal much.”
“It said when and where. What more did it need to say?” Harriet tilted her head slightly.
“Perhaps some indication of what you wanted,” Charlotte suggested.
“Ah. Next time I’ll be more… explicit,” replied Harriet, her lip twitching into a smile. “Regardless, you’re here now. Let me make you a drink. Coffee or tea?”
“Tea, please,” Charlotte replied, even though she didn’t really need a fourth cup of tea.
Harriet indicated that Charlotte should wait in the sitting room while she slipped off to the adjacent kitchen. With the background sounds of running water and the stove’s gas flame being ignited, Charlotte allowed her gaze to wander around the sitting room. She was keenly curious about Harriet. The sitting room was decorated much like the foyer with hardwood floors and intricate area rugs. Two matching mahogany-colored sofas were positioned perpendicular to each other around a wooden coffee table. Fresh daffodils, an expensive indulgence, were set in an iridescent blue glass vase on the table.
Moments before Harriet reappeared, Charlotte had spotted something special: two dozen or so real, printed, and bound books atop a tall cabinet. She had just stepped over to examine the titles when Harriet’s voice sounded behind her.
“There’s something about the feel of paper between your fingers that makes the reading experience that much more intimate,” Harriet said, setting the tea tray on the table.
“I wouldn’t know,” Charlotte said, walking back to the sofas and taking a seat, but not before noting the names of a few of the books.
“Your family didn’t own any books?” Harriet asked, sitting next to her and pouring two cups of tea.
“Only a few. A Bible,” she admitted. “For the sake of preservation, we didn’t handle them.” She took one of the teacups from Harriet and held it cradled. “Your books – Nathaniel Hawthorne, Edith Wharton – aren’t you concerned about being seen with them?”
“Why would I be concerned?” Harriet asked, sipping her tea despite how hot it still was.
“They’re American authors. At least, you have a few American books,” Charlotte said, knowing full well that Harriet was aware of this fact. “Someone might doubt
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