She truly did like so many of the new works presented. She devoured them weekly. She also subscribed to many of the penny papers, which had the most delicious and shocking stories. She had read all of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels and was now attempting to find something besides Fanny Burney. Perhaps some new author might take her fancy.
The very idea, the promise of some new book, filled her with the most delicious hope, which was quite a tonic compared to her earlier feelings of doom.
As she turned towards one of the more secluded rows at the back of the shop, she spotted a strange closet that was slightly ajar.
She’d never seen it before.
It was most mysterious.
Ophelia pursed her lips as she contemplated the wood paneling.
She found herself drawn to it. Looking about her for signs of customers, she snuck towards the door. Rather surprised at her own sense of adventure, she stopped before the panel, paused, and looked over her shoulder. She felt almost naughty.
Slowly, she stretched out her hand, then opened the door.
She blinked, slightly deflated.
It revealed a closet of shelves.
There was no secret treasure trove. No collection of rare, ancient books. To her chagrin, she quickly realized that there weren’t even stacks of books on the almost bare shelves. No, just various things that might be needed at the desk at which they sold the items of the shop.
But then she spotted it.
One volume. Yes, a slender single volume that was slightly out of place and askew.
Most oddly, her heart leapt at the sight of it.
From its abandoned state, it was a book that no one else had seen in the shop.
She bit her lower lip, a strange sense of anticipation building inside her.
Perhaps it was just a ledger of accounts.
It did not look like a traditionally published book.
No, this looked as if it had been loved and used. She adored used books. She loved books that had been read before by a multitude of people just as much as she loved new ones. Because when a book had been read by a multitude of people, she truly felt that one could sense the love for the pages as one pored over them. It was like an echo of affection passed down through the months and years.
Looking back over her shoulder again, she realized she was quite alone and glad of it. All the shopkeepers seemed to be occupied at the front of the store.
Usually, rain would mean the shop was packed with people slipping in, but not today. Not on this Friday so early in the morning. Perhaps everyone was still recovering from the previous night’s revels.
After all, her set, even if she eschewed such things, did stay out quite long, often to the earliest hours dancing every dance.
Her sisters certainly had.
She had retired to a corner and read the miniature book she’d tucked in her reticule. She had felt little ill effects when she’d risen this morning.
But she knew more than half of the ton had sore heads and aching feet.
Daring herself, she reached out and took up the volume. She held it in her hands, turning it ever so slowly, looking for any indication of a title.
Carefully, she opened it and looked at the first page.A Wallflower’s Guide to Becoming a Bride.
She gasped.
’Twas as if fate was laughing at her. Or guiding her. It was exactly what she needed!
What in the world?