front of the items she
knew were either more expensive or more obscure. When she took a
book from the shelf to examine it, she didn't use her index
finger to pull at the top of the spine, but reached back and
pushed it from behind until it jutted far enough from the rest
to grasp it lower down. Slowly she worked her way around to the
greybeard's desk and commented casually, "You have a very fine
selection of Amsterdam imprints from the Golden Age. Jansson,
Caesius..." She trailed off, having deliberately dropped the
name of the publisher with whose volumes he was least richly
supplied.
He looked up at
her through his thick spectacles. "Did you see the Blaeus? I
have more of them, but Caesius is really Blaeu by another name."
"I didn't know
that," she said, wide-eyed, though she did. "How are you for
English imprints of the same period? I'm particularly interested
in Greek and Latin classics."
"I have a few
Brindleys, though they're eighteenth century. Caesar, Lucan,
Juvenal. I could probably unearth some others if you're
interested."
"Oh yes. I'd
appreciate that very much." Most male antiquarian booksellers
fell into two categories, she had discovered: the misogynists
who would be happy if a woman never sullied the masculine purity
of their domains, and the ones who were pleasantly surprised to
see a woman enter the premises. Especially if she were
(relatively speaking) younger and appeared to hang on their
every word. Even the latter type, however, never failed to drive
a sharp bargain when it came to settling on prices. Browsing his
shelves, she had fallen in love with a set of Ovid's works, each
volume no taller than an index card, and printed by Blaeu in
1649. They were bound in light cream-colored vellum with gold
stamping, and Roworth wanted £ 930,
about $1500. Tempting, but out of her league, she decided
regretfully. After some spirited haggling, she concluded a deal
for a desirable but less costly volume of Juvenal's satires from
1744. It was the date of Pope's death, she recalled with a pang.
As he was about to ring up her purchase, she told the bookman
that she'd like to have some tea. Were there any teashops close
by?
"No, but I can
give you some if you don't mind my old crockery. I was just
about to have a cup myself."
"How delightful.
Have you been at J. Roworth for long?" He had. "Are you by any
chance Mr. Roworth himself?" He was. By the time Laura left,
she'd learned that Roworth purchased the two lots in question
from Sotheby's in the 1980 Patterson sale, and in January 1981
had sold nearly all the books to a member of the nobility from
Yorkshire, a Baron Belmont-Speck.
It was Thursday,
so in the late afternoon she emailed James using the address on
the card he'd given her: In
dire need of pizza and beer. Do you know a place for tomorrow? He answered within an hour: Olivera. It's in Shoreditch near my flat. I'll collect
you after work, 6:00.
15.Home Improvements
It was warm and
muggy, so she wore one of her new dresses, a lined sleeveless
shift in light blue with little daisies embroidered on it. She
had espadrille sandals with a short heel in light blue with
yellow trim. The dress was a style she often wore, but the
colors were more girlish and youthful than her usual taste, as
were the shoes. She'd also bought an inexpensive straw handbag,
really not much more than a tote, but it had a zipper. She
rolled up a pair of black stretch pants and a yellow tee to wear
home, along with a change of underwear, and stowed them in the
bag. Under the dress she had on a new pair of lacy panties in
robin's egg blue, and a matching push-up bra. She hoped it would
give Magda a run for her money.
James looked
appreciative when he picked her up at six on the dot. He was in
a suit as usual, this time in light grey with a pale blue,
satiny
knew were either more expensive or more obscure. When she took a
book from the shelf to examine it, she didn't use her index
finger to pull at the top of the spine, but reached back and
pushed it from behind until it jutted far enough from the rest
to grasp it lower down. Slowly she worked her way around to the
greybeard's desk and commented casually, "You have a very fine
selection of Amsterdam imprints from the Golden Age. Jansson,
Caesius..." She trailed off, having deliberately dropped the
name of the publisher with whose volumes he was least richly
supplied.
He looked up at
her through his thick spectacles. "Did you see the Blaeus? I
have more of them, but Caesius is really Blaeu by another name."
"I didn't know
that," she said, wide-eyed, though she did. "How are you for
English imprints of the same period? I'm particularly interested
in Greek and Latin classics."
"I have a few
Brindleys, though they're eighteenth century. Caesar, Lucan,
Juvenal. I could probably unearth some others if you're
interested."
"Oh yes. I'd
appreciate that very much." Most male antiquarian booksellers
fell into two categories, she had discovered: the misogynists
who would be happy if a woman never sullied the masculine purity
of their domains, and the ones who were pleasantly surprised to
see a woman enter the premises. Especially if she were
(relatively speaking) younger and appeared to hang on their
every word. Even the latter type, however, never failed to drive
a sharp bargain when it came to settling on prices. Browsing his
shelves, she had fallen in love with a set of Ovid's works, each
volume no taller than an index card, and printed by Blaeu in
1649. They were bound in light cream-colored vellum with gold
stamping, and Roworth wanted £ 930,
about $1500. Tempting, but out of her league, she decided
regretfully. After some spirited haggling, she concluded a deal
for a desirable but less costly volume of Juvenal's satires from
1744. It was the date of Pope's death, she recalled with a pang.
As he was about to ring up her purchase, she told the bookman
that she'd like to have some tea. Were there any teashops close
by?
"No, but I can
give you some if you don't mind my old crockery. I was just
about to have a cup myself."
"How delightful.
Have you been at J. Roworth for long?" He had. "Are you by any
chance Mr. Roworth himself?" He was. By the time Laura left,
she'd learned that Roworth purchased the two lots in question
from Sotheby's in the 1980 Patterson sale, and in January 1981
had sold nearly all the books to a member of the nobility from
Yorkshire, a Baron Belmont-Speck.
It was Thursday,
so in the late afternoon she emailed James using the address on
the card he'd given her: In
dire need of pizza and beer. Do you know a place for tomorrow? He answered within an hour: Olivera. It's in Shoreditch near my flat. I'll collect
you after work, 6:00.
15.Home Improvements
It was warm and
muggy, so she wore one of her new dresses, a lined sleeveless
shift in light blue with little daisies embroidered on it. She
had espadrille sandals with a short heel in light blue with
yellow trim. The dress was a style she often wore, but the
colors were more girlish and youthful than her usual taste, as
were the shoes. She'd also bought an inexpensive straw handbag,
really not much more than a tote, but it had a zipper. She
rolled up a pair of black stretch pants and a yellow tee to wear
home, along with a change of underwear, and stowed them in the
bag. Under the dress she had on a new pair of lacy panties in
robin's egg blue, and a matching push-up bra. She hoped it would
give Magda a run for her money.
James looked
appreciative when he picked her up at six on the dot. He was in
a suit as usual, this time in light grey with a pale blue,
satiny