First Impressions: A Novel of Old Books, Unexpected Love, and Jane Austen by Charlie Lovett Page B
Authors: Charlie Lovett
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she now stood, painted in gold letters, were the words AUGUSTUS BOXHIL L, SECONDHAND AND ANT IQUARIAN BOOKS . Sophie thought a friendly bookseller might be just the thing to help her banish the thought of Gerard Tompkins pawing through her uncle’s books. She pushed open the door and stepped inside as a tinkling bell announced her entrance.
Unlike Tompkins Antiquarian Books, Boxhill’s smelled the way a bookstore ought to smell. It was a deeper and more intense version of the smell that had permeated Uncle Bertram’s flat before the removal of his books, and Sophie stood for a moment breathing in the rich aroma of dust and knowledge.
“Miss Collingwood, what a delight to see you.” Mr. Boxhill sat behind a tall counter at the back of the tiny shop, barely visible through the stacks of books arrayed in front of him.
“Good morning, Mr. Boxhill.”
“Please, call me Gusty. It’s a silly name, but it’s what everyone calls me.”
“Then you should call me Sophie.”
“I must say, Sophie, I was appalled by what happened to your uncle’s library. Vultures, they were, swooping in like that without anyone even calling you. I was out of town, I’m afraid, or I should have let you know and tried to save a few things for you. I know how much your uncle meant to you.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. . . . I mean, Gusty. It was a shock to find his books gone. I’m living in the flat now, you know.”
“Oh, dear, I didn’t. Well, we must get you some books. I can’t bear the thought of those empty shelves. Your uncle had me to tea a few times and we had some delightful hours perusing his library.”
Sophie stood for a moment, not sure what to say. Her search for books from Uncle Bertram’s library could not be furthered here at Boxhill’s, and she was on the verge of saying good-bye and moving on, but something about the store called out to her. It wasn’t just the smell and the clutter—both of which transported her to days spent with Uncle Bertram. Perhaps it was the way the sunlight caught the dust motes in the air and the careful lettering on boxes of old postcards and playbills stacked in front of the counter. Or the way the books on the highest shelves—out of reach of all but the tallest customers—were perfectly aligned, while those at eye level showed every sign of having been pulled off the shelves and examined again and again. Or the chipped paint on the molding and the worn floorboards under her feet. Above all, it was a feeling that all of this pressed into her bones, that while there might be valuable and collectible books hiding on the shelves of Boxhill’s, the books in this store were not meant for displaying behind locked glass doors—they were meant to be read. Standing in Boxhill’s Sophie felt, for the first time since her uncle’s death, at home. And as soon as she realized this, she knew what to say to Gusty.
“At Bayfield you said that if there was ever anything you could do for me . . .”
“Name it,” said Gusty matter-of-factly.
“I need a job,” said Sophie.
“You saw the sign in the window?” he said.
“No . . . I just thought . . .”
“Your timing is impeccable. My shop assistant left last week and I’m desperate for help. When would you be able to start?”
“I could start . . . now,” said Sophie.
“Well, you have been coming to the shop for most of your life. You’re certainly qualified. Overqualified, even. Now we’ll have to sort out details like salary and hours, but in the meantime I suppose there’s nothing for it but to say welcome to Boxhill’s.”
“You mean I’m hired?”
“Who else am I going to find who knows half as much about books as you do?”
“That’s . . . well, that’s just marvelous,” said Sophie. “I’d very much like to give you a hug, if you weren’t behind that counter.”
“Well, suppose I come out from the counter and we pop round the corner for a spot of lunch and then I’ll show
Unlike Tompkins Antiquarian Books, Boxhill’s smelled the way a bookstore ought to smell. It was a deeper and more intense version of the smell that had permeated Uncle Bertram’s flat before the removal of his books, and Sophie stood for a moment breathing in the rich aroma of dust and knowledge.
“Miss Collingwood, what a delight to see you.” Mr. Boxhill sat behind a tall counter at the back of the tiny shop, barely visible through the stacks of books arrayed in front of him.
“Good morning, Mr. Boxhill.”
“Please, call me Gusty. It’s a silly name, but it’s what everyone calls me.”
“Then you should call me Sophie.”
“I must say, Sophie, I was appalled by what happened to your uncle’s library. Vultures, they were, swooping in like that without anyone even calling you. I was out of town, I’m afraid, or I should have let you know and tried to save a few things for you. I know how much your uncle meant to you.”
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. . . . I mean, Gusty. It was a shock to find his books gone. I’m living in the flat now, you know.”
“Oh, dear, I didn’t. Well, we must get you some books. I can’t bear the thought of those empty shelves. Your uncle had me to tea a few times and we had some delightful hours perusing his library.”
Sophie stood for a moment, not sure what to say. Her search for books from Uncle Bertram’s library could not be furthered here at Boxhill’s, and she was on the verge of saying good-bye and moving on, but something about the store called out to her. It wasn’t just the smell and the clutter—both of which transported her to days spent with Uncle Bertram. Perhaps it was the way the sunlight caught the dust motes in the air and the careful lettering on boxes of old postcards and playbills stacked in front of the counter. Or the way the books on the highest shelves—out of reach of all but the tallest customers—were perfectly aligned, while those at eye level showed every sign of having been pulled off the shelves and examined again and again. Or the chipped paint on the molding and the worn floorboards under her feet. Above all, it was a feeling that all of this pressed into her bones, that while there might be valuable and collectible books hiding on the shelves of Boxhill’s, the books in this store were not meant for displaying behind locked glass doors—they were meant to be read. Standing in Boxhill’s Sophie felt, for the first time since her uncle’s death, at home. And as soon as she realized this, she knew what to say to Gusty.
“At Bayfield you said that if there was ever anything you could do for me . . .”
“Name it,” said Gusty matter-of-factly.
“I need a job,” said Sophie.
“You saw the sign in the window?” he said.
“No . . . I just thought . . .”
“Your timing is impeccable. My shop assistant left last week and I’m desperate for help. When would you be able to start?”
“I could start . . . now,” said Sophie.
“Well, you have been coming to the shop for most of your life. You’re certainly qualified. Overqualified, even. Now we’ll have to sort out details like salary and hours, but in the meantime I suppose there’s nothing for it but to say welcome to Boxhill’s.”
“You mean I’m hired?”
“Who else am I going to find who knows half as much about books as you do?”
“That’s . . . well, that’s just marvelous,” said Sophie. “I’d very much like to give you a hug, if you weren’t behind that counter.”
“Well, suppose I come out from the counter and we pop round the corner for a spot of lunch and then I’ll show
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