Read Online The White Garden: A Novel of Virginia Woolf by Stephanie Barron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stephanie Barron
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be sheer torture, Peter twiddling a pencil between his thumbs as Marcus spoke roundly of Better Than Projected Earnings. Far wiser to finish his breakfast and get on with the appraisal of the Broadwell collection.
Later he grew accustomed to the tentative expression Jo Bellamy wore whenever she was far from a garden; but that morning, as she hesitated in the café doorway, Peter took in the corduroy jeans, the mud-spattered Merrells, and the tied-back hair and concluded that an American tourist had lost her way between the Oxford Street tube station and Thomas Pink’s on Jermyn. Sotheby’s clients tended to dress for New Bond Street; they were careful to betray their ability to meet their financial obligations, before they breached the doors of the auction house. Whereas this woman’s appearance suggested she was in search of cab fare home.
As Peter sank his teeth into his final bite of pain au chocolat , however, the stranger met his eyes and smiled. His throat constricted from sheer surprise, and he gagged. Spluttering, he half rose from his table as she hurried toward him.
“Mr. Llewellyn? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Peter gasped, peering at her through his glasses. “But I’m afraid I don’t… that is, I’m not sure—”
“They told me I’d find you here,” she said. “Table in the corner, pastry and tea, blond hair and glasses. I’m Jo Bellamy. Would you have a moment to talk?”
Peter cleared his throat, released the death grip he’d fastenedon his napkin, and gestured toward the opposite seat. “Do sit down. Cissy sent you, I suppose?”
“Cissy?”
“Department coordinator.” He sketched vaguely at his necktie. “Pearls. Twin set.”
“How did you know?”
“The rest of the Department will be in a meeting. I’m playing truant.”
“I see.” She smiled again as she pulled out her chair, and absurdly, Peter’s heart raced. He ought to have drawn the chair for her. But perhaps Americans ignored such things. And he was too late, in any case.
“How may I help, Miss…?”
“Bellamy.” She slid a large leather shoulder bag to the floor. “I don’t really know. I’ve never done this before. I’m not… good at things like auction houses.” She glanced around the café apprehensively, as though an alarm might go off; the tentative look was back again.
“You’re at a breakfast table, not a preview,” he said dryly.
“Right.” She drew a breath. “I found something. Something that might be important. Only I don’t know. And it’s not even mine. In fact, I stole it.”
Peter’s eyebrows soared. It was not unknown for the more audacious of fences to approach the house with suspect goods; it was not unknown for fakes—art, jewelry, anything of value—to be passed off as original. But such tactics were rarely shouted out loud.
“Sorry?” he said.
“I’m not explaining this right.” She blushed and slid a hand over her hair, as though it helped her to think. “Cissy said you were a Manuscript Expert.”
“That’s a job title here,” Peter explained. “It means I sellrare books. In your country, they’d probably call us Specialists.”
“Fine.” She dismissed job titles. “But can you figure out the identity of an author from just the handwriting? If the manuscript’s unsigned, I mean? And how would we do that?—Identify it as Virginia Woolf’s, say?—Or rule her out entirely?”
“Hang on.” Peter raised his thin hands above the table. “What in bloody hell are you on about?”
“This,” she replied, and withdrew a shabby notebook from her bag.
Peter did not immediately take it. Woolf. She had said Virginia Woolf .
“We could, in time, do all manner of things,” he said cautiously. “But what exactly are you requesting? A valuation? Manuscript analysis? Sale to the highest bidder?”
“Not that,” she said, alarmed. “I told you—this isn’t even mine.”
“Then any request for service should properly come from the owner. We’d
Later he grew accustomed to the tentative expression Jo Bellamy wore whenever she was far from a garden; but that morning, as she hesitated in the café doorway, Peter took in the corduroy jeans, the mud-spattered Merrells, and the tied-back hair and concluded that an American tourist had lost her way between the Oxford Street tube station and Thomas Pink’s on Jermyn. Sotheby’s clients tended to dress for New Bond Street; they were careful to betray their ability to meet their financial obligations, before they breached the doors of the auction house. Whereas this woman’s appearance suggested she was in search of cab fare home.
As Peter sank his teeth into his final bite of pain au chocolat , however, the stranger met his eyes and smiled. His throat constricted from sheer surprise, and he gagged. Spluttering, he half rose from his table as she hurried toward him.
“Mr. Llewellyn? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Peter gasped, peering at her through his glasses. “But I’m afraid I don’t… that is, I’m not sure—”
“They told me I’d find you here,” she said. “Table in the corner, pastry and tea, blond hair and glasses. I’m Jo Bellamy. Would you have a moment to talk?”
Peter cleared his throat, released the death grip he’d fastenedon his napkin, and gestured toward the opposite seat. “Do sit down. Cissy sent you, I suppose?”
“Cissy?”
“Department coordinator.” He sketched vaguely at his necktie. “Pearls. Twin set.”
“How did you know?”
“The rest of the Department will be in a meeting. I’m playing truant.”
“I see.” She smiled again as she pulled out her chair, and absurdly, Peter’s heart raced. He ought to have drawn the chair for her. But perhaps Americans ignored such things. And he was too late, in any case.
“How may I help, Miss…?”
“Bellamy.” She slid a large leather shoulder bag to the floor. “I don’t really know. I’ve never done this before. I’m not… good at things like auction houses.” She glanced around the café apprehensively, as though an alarm might go off; the tentative look was back again.
“You’re at a breakfast table, not a preview,” he said dryly.
“Right.” She drew a breath. “I found something. Something that might be important. Only I don’t know. And it’s not even mine. In fact, I stole it.”
Peter’s eyebrows soared. It was not unknown for the more audacious of fences to approach the house with suspect goods; it was not unknown for fakes—art, jewelry, anything of value—to be passed off as original. But such tactics were rarely shouted out loud.
“Sorry?” he said.
“I’m not explaining this right.” She blushed and slid a hand over her hair, as though it helped her to think. “Cissy said you were a Manuscript Expert.”
“That’s a job title here,” Peter explained. “It means I sellrare books. In your country, they’d probably call us Specialists.”
“Fine.” She dismissed job titles. “But can you figure out the identity of an author from just the handwriting? If the manuscript’s unsigned, I mean? And how would we do that?—Identify it as Virginia Woolf’s, say?—Or rule her out entirely?”
“Hang on.” Peter raised his thin hands above the table. “What in bloody hell are you on about?”
“This,” she replied, and withdrew a shabby notebook from her bag.
Peter did not immediately take it. Woolf. She had said Virginia Woolf .
“We could, in time, do all manner of things,” he said cautiously. “But what exactly are you requesting? A valuation? Manuscript analysis? Sale to the highest bidder?”
“Not that,” she said, alarmed. “I told you—this isn’t even mine.”
“Then any request for service should properly come from the owner. We’d
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