The Bluestockings: Chapter Nine
“There, underneath the bottom drawer, a long, thin compartment had popped out from its hiding place. Inside, Eleanor could see a small book shoved deep into the corner.”
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Catch Up On Previous Chapters: Prologue | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8
Deliveries for Agatha kept Eleanor distracted for the next few days. She felt awkward in her body now that it was busy doing all sorts of secret things Eleanor could feel but not name. The biology of menstruation was easy enough to understand; the experience of it was another story.
Maggie was scheduled for a visit to the bookshop later that day, and Eleanor couldn’t wait to see her. She felt that if she had to keep her secret for one more day, she might burst. And this whole business of how long to wear a pad before Eleanor leaked all over her clothes was stressful, too. The only option more embarrassing than having her dad notice would be for a customer to see and point it out. Just the thought of it turned Eleanor’s body hot and made her want to sink into the floor.
“Elle, can you grab that green cardboard box of donations from the storage room for me?” her dad asked from his office. Eleanor was manning the front counter, which amounted to loads of reading time and the occasional carol sing-a-long when no one else was in the store.
“Sure thing!” she called back.
The storage room was a long, narrow space at the back of the store. Eleanor used to sneak up the stairs to the small attic apartment when she was younger and fall asleep there, dreaming of enchanted wardrobes and far-away adventures. The storage room was filled with books and boxes of books that either needed to be sorted for donation or had already been logged for inventory. Since Bluestocking sold both new and used titles, they’d offered a buyback program for anyone who wanted to sell their gently used books for store credit. These days, they received more used copies than they sold, so James had put an end to that service last year. Every time Eleanor saw the sign upfront informing customers they no longer took donations or offered credit, she was reminded of the notice in her dad’s desk. Time was running out.
Eleanor stepped to the center of the room and turned in a tight circle. Any unlogged donations were put by the door so as not to get mixed up with current inventory, but the dusty, hardwood floor was clear. In the dim light of the poky space, Eleanor crouched low to read what was written on the handful of boxes on the shelves, starting with those closest to the floor. She scanned rows, hands on her hips, until she finally saw the small green box shelved high above her head. Her dad must have already logged them all into the system.
As Eleanor pulled a small chair away from the heavy antique desk tucked in the far left corner, the room suddenly grew warmer. Eleanor glanced around, but there were no vents in the storage room. The air had grown thick like a knit blanket, cozy and comforting. Then, the scent of cinnamon and orange filled the space around her, enveloping Eleanor in its heady aroma. She felt light and happy. Safe. Her limbs tingled the way they did when she was about to fall into a deep sleep, and Eleanor was filled with the sensation of home. It was curious and strange. She stood on the chair and breathed it in, lost for a moment in the comfort of its presence.
Then, as she reached for the box above her head, Eleanor’s foot slipped, and she stumbled in the chair. With a yelp, she crashed down on top of the desk and tumbled to the floor. She moaned in pain, her shin throbbing where it had slammed into the corner edge. A nasty purple bruise had already begun to form there. Eleanor winced and rubbed at the spot, blinking back hot tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks.
Just as she was about to attempt to stand and put weight on the injured leg, Eleanor glanced over at the desk and froze.
There, underneath the bottom drawer, a long, thin compartment had popped out from its hiding place. Inside, Eleanor could see a small book shoved deep into the corner.
She swallowed hard and scooted closer. Her breath came in short bursts as she reached out and retrieved the book with gentle hands.
The cover was old, cracked leather, soft as butter, and faded from black to a dull slate gray. A thrill of discovery worked its way up Eleanor’s limbs, making her forget all about the bruise still throbbing on her injured shin. She opened the cover and scanned the handwritten page with hungry eyes. Scrawled in a messy, feminine hand across the top were the words The Woman of Valbrooke Hall, Draft Chapter One.
Eleanor spoke the words in a reverent voice, turning the page to finger through the book’s contents. More than half the journal was filled with handwritten chapters, the pages wrinkled and stiff with water damage. Eleanor gasped with delight at each turn of the page. She flipped back to the inside cover, and there, in the top left corner, was a name.
Alma Gardyne.
Brow wrinkling in concentration, Eleanor searched her memories for any author of that name. Nothing came to mind. Recalling her conversation with her dad, Eleanor wondered if perhaps Alma Gardyne was one of the authors the Hurst family had published long ago. But why would one of their authors have hidden her book in a desk once owned by the Hursts in the very building where they had housed their publishing office?
Why...and when?
Eleanor’s spine tingled as she considered the possibilities. She had a real-life mystery on her hands. First, the room had filled with the delicious scent of spices, and then she had fallen on the desk. No doubt, the crash had knocked loose some part of the hidden drawer, enabling it to come free for the first time in many years. Eleanor got down low on her belly and peered up at the bottom of the compartment.
There. A tiny combination wheel, no bigger than the end of her pinky finger. Whoever had last closed this compartment must have done so in a hurry if Eleanor had been able to knock it open without the combination. She slipped her hand inside once more to be sure it was empty and then tucked the drawer closed just enough to remain open without being seen should her father come looking through the storage room.
Eleanor wondered if her dad knew about the hidden compartment. With that thought, Eleanor sat up on her haunches, still clutching the small, worn book. The memory of Vera there at the desk, long hair piled in a messy knot on her head while she tallied numbers or hummed to herself, was both precious and tender, like the bruise blooming on Eleanor’s leg.
She fingered the cover again, the soft leather-like velvet against her fingertips. If Alma was a writer from this area, then perhaps Bluestocking Books carried her work.
With a brush of her jeans, Eleanor stood and tucked the book under her arm. It was meant for her to find, of that fact she felt certain, and she didn’t want to explain it to her dad just then. The room growing warm, the feeling of home...it sounded crazy even to Eleanor, but it was like the shop itself had wanted her to find the book.
Now, she needed to find out more about Alma.
“Dad, the box you wanted is up too high for me,” she told him as she passed his office, hiding the book behind her back. “I tried to grab it, but I fell and hit my shin on the desk.”
James took off his reading glasses, worry furrowing his brows. “Are you okay?”
“It’s just a bruise,” she replied.
“That’s so strange,” he muttered. “I put that box on the floor by the desk just this morning, I would swear to it.”
A cold trickle went up Eleanor’s spine. “Well, it’s up on the shelf now, so you’ll have to get it.”
James sighed and shook his head. “Okay, here I come.”
While he was busy in the storage room, Eleanor searched for Alma Gardyne in their inventory. Nothing. With a frown, Eleanor turned the faded journal over in her hands.
“Okay, I got the box down,” James said from the end of the aisle, startling Eleanor. He eyed the book. “What’s that?”
“Oh, uh,” she stuttered, “it’s a book.”
Her dad raised a dark brow. “Yeah, I can see that. Anything I can help with?”
Eleanor’s laugh was stilted. “Right. Well, it’s a book by a woman named Alma Gardyne. Do you know her?”
James looked up and chewed on his lip. “Hmm, doesn’t ring a bell. But I don’t know every book in this store by heart, honey.”
“No, I know,” Eleanor replied, placing the slim volume on the shelf as if she had just found it there. “I was just curious. It looked interesting, that’s all.”
“Try Google,” her dad said and continued back to his office, box in hand.
Eleanor had a better idea.
