Page 111 of The Earl's Bluestocking Bride
A laugh burst from Amelia, unbidden. “Sherry?” she asked. “At this time of day?”
Mrs. Babbington smiled warmly. “When affairs of the heart are involved, it’s never too early for sherry.”
“That’s a philosophy I can agree with.”
“Come with me, then.”
Amelia followed her down the aisle of books, breathing in the smell of old and new paper. There was just something about the scent that reminded her of possibility. There were so many stories waiting to be read, tales waiting to be told, and she wanted to explore them all.
Mrs. Babbington guided her around the counter and through a door that led into the back of the shop. There was a desk against one wall, a small, enclosed fire for heating tea, and a pair of comfortable armchairs at the far end.
“Have a seat.” Mrs. Babbington gestured toward the armchairs. “I’ll just pour us a drink.”
Amelia crossed the room and lowered herself onto one of the armchairs. The padding was soft and squishy, andalthough it had a faint musty odor, she could imagine being curled up there with a book for hours.
Mrs. Babbington retrieved a bottle of sherry from inside a drawer beneath the desk, along with two small glasses. She half filled each glass, pushed the cork back into the sherry bottle, and tucked it back into its place beneath the desk.
She carried the glasses to the armchairs and offered one to Amelia, who accepted the glass gratefully and inhaled the sweet aroma. Mrs. Babbington drank, and, cautiously, Amelia did the same.
“It’s all right,” she said, savoring the slight bite. “Better than the last time I tried it.”
“I like it.” Mrs. Babbington sat on the other armchair and crossed her legs. “Do you want to talk about what’s happened, or would you prefer to rail about men in general?”
Amelia couldn’t help smiling. “I’ve never had a friend to talk about men with before. I haven’t spent much time with women my own age. Honestly, the closest thing I have to a friend is probably my husband’s sister, and I can’t really discuss my problems with her.”
“No.” Mrs. Babbington chuckled. “I don’t suppose you can.”
Amelia gulped down a mouthful of sherry and grimaced. “My husband married me for money. That’s what it all boils down to.”
“So, why has this upset you today? It doesn’t seem as if it was a shock to you, and from what I saw of your interaction with the earl, you get along well enough.”
“We do,” Amelia agreed. “Honestly, that’s half the problem. It’s my fault. I’ve gone and fallen for him somewhere along the way, but he hasn’t done the same.”
Haltingly, she explained the beginning of her relationship with Andrew, their marriage, and, without going into too much detail, everything that had happened since. Mrs. Babbington listened without any judgment in her expression.
When Amelia finished, Mrs. Babbington sipped her sherry again and said, “Would you like my opinion?”
Amelia vacillated for a moment. It was nice to just be listened to, and she feared that if Mrs. Babbington gave her opinion, it may not be to Amelia’s liking. But perhaps honesty was what she needed, so she nodded.
Mrs. Babbington straightened her shoulders. “What I’ve learned from my years of marriage is that men, no matter how well-intentioned, are fools when it comes to the women they care about. I believe that the earl cares for you. I could see it when you visited my bookshop together. I also have no doubt that he means well. He just… well, he made a bit of a mess of things, didn’t he?”
A thud sounded inside the shop, stealing their attention, and then footsteps tapped on the wooden floor. They were light—possibly a woman’s—and they were approaching the counter at a rapid clip.
Mrs. Babbington tossed back the rest of her sherry and rose. “I had best go see who that is.”
Amelia started to get up, too, but the proprietress motioned for her to stay put.
“I’ll return soon,” she said. “You stay right here. If I take a while, you can find books in the cupboard beneath the desk to occupy yourself with.”
Amelia looked around as Mrs. Babbington left. She had to admit to being a little bit jealous of the other woman. While Amelia may have had an incredibly privileged upbringing in terms of money, she had never been able to indulge her love of books quite as openly as she’d have liked to.
Mrs. Babbington, on the other hand, got to be surrounded by books every day.
She wondered whether the bookshop belonged to Mr. Babbington or if it was all Mrs. Babbington’s. Plenty of women had jobs—she knew that just from looking within her own household—but no one ever talked about femaleshop owners or merchants. Women weren’t “supposed” to own businesses. Their husbands were.
She heard voices through the open door and strained her ears to make out whatever was being said. She couldn’t decipher individual words, but she could tell that Mrs. Babbington’s customer was indeed a woman.
More conversation was exchanged, then footsteps approached. A woman in a dark blue day dress swept into the room behind the counter, her hazel eyes already seeking out Amelia.
