Page 1 of Estelle’s Ardent Admirer (The Bookshop Belles #1)

CHAPTER 1

The First Crate

Baxter’s Fine Books, Hatfield, England,

Late June, 1814

E stelle Baxter, the eldest and definitely the most responsible of the four Baxter daughters of Baxter’s Fine Books in Hatfield, Hertfordshire, nailed a rough piece of hessian sacking to the base of the newel post. Next, she crushed fresh stalks of catmint in her hands and rubbed them against the surface, smearing the coarse fabric with a brownish-green hue.

A black shadow dropped from a bookshop with a soft thud. Crafty, the family cat, descended from high above and immediately rubbed her cheek against her refurbished toy, purring happily. The white heart-shaped locket of fur on the black cat’s chest revealed itself as Crafty rolled over to her back. The cat then grabbed onto the hessian with her front claws and kicked at it with her hind paws, as if possessed by ancestors taking down big game.

“Good girl, Crafty, we scratch the post, not the books.”

She rewarded the mostly-domesticated cat with a gentle ‘boop’ on the head, then washed her hands and set about her morning routine before the rest of her sisters joined her after breaking their fast.

Estelle enjoyed the calm of the mornings, where she could get things done before customers arrived.

The sounds of horses and people passing on the High Street outside seeped through the bookshop’s walls. The busy hotel and coaching inn next door ensured a steady stream of noise, day and night. When the stagecoach arrived from London, Baxter’s Books would provide a welcome distraction to travellers while the horses were changed. It was a chance for them to stretch their cramped legs after hours of sitting inside a coach.

The bookshop interior was naturally dark, as they’d long since blocked the ground floor windows with bookshelves. The enormous bookcases solved two book-specific problems; they created extra storage as well as protecting the valuable and rare books from sunlight damage.

It did make visibility rather dim, though. This was another of Estelle’s early-morning tasks, lighting the lamps behind their protective glass casings, so that customers could find their way about the shop. As so could Estelle. That visibility was something she could have used rather more of as she moved behind the shop counter and stepped on something wet and crunchy, that slipped sideways under her weight.

“Crafty!” she yelled, trying to see what she’d stepped in. Hobbling on one foot, she reached the shop entrance, unbolted and opened the door. The shop’s welcoming bell tinkled. Sunlight revealed the revolting truth; the eviscerated remains of a quarter of a mouse on the bottom of her slipper.

“Oh Crafty, can you not?” Estelle said despairingly.

She peeked up and down the length of the street. People bustled about in front of the Red Lion, waiting for the next coach to arrive. Between Baxter’s Fine Books and the Red Lion was the archway through to the stables at the back. Conveniently, there was a boot scraper by the steps of the nearest door. Estelle hobbled over and scraped the mouse remnants off the bottom of her shoe, making a disgusted face as she did so.

Just as she’d finished cleaning her shoe, the stagecoach from London arrived, laden with all manner of trunks and travelling cases strapped to the top, and several people crammed inside.

She darted back to the bookshop and tucked the small curtain on the door window to one side. It let light in a shaft of light that illuminated the floor, but did not fall upon any books.

The light revealed a trail of mouse debris leading to the back of the counter. Estelle sighed and reached for a cleaning rag and the ashpan beneath the counter, both placed in readiness for dealing with this regular chore.

Once she’d cleaned up the mess, Estelle made a mental note to check behind the counter in the mornings as her first task from now on. Crafty was an excellent mouser, but lately she had developed the most disgraceful personal habits.

As much as Crafty - full name Wollstonecraft - caused problems, the bookshop did need a good mouser. Before the cat came along, they tried keeping mice away with copious sprigs of lavender and rosemary. It made the shop smell wonderful, but the desperately hungry mice still caused damage to several books a week. Crafty had taken to her designated role with fervour, and book damage had become a thing of the past.

The bell above the door tinkled. A tall man wearing a rakish travelling cape walked in, removing his high hat as he entered. Light shone on his golden curls as if announcing a visit from a celestial cherub.

At the advanced age of twenty-five, Estelle might have long given up the idea of matrimony, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate a fine specimen when he walked into her family’s shop. She looked the gentleman up and down, taking him in from his well-tailored coat to his polished Hessian boots. Rich , she thought. Surely, he hadn’t arrived on the stagecoach? A man who dressed like that would have his own carriage, or a fine horse to ride.

“Good morning,” she greeted the customer.

He leapt in fright, then steadied himself and turned towards her voice, pressing a hand to his chest. “Heavens, there you are! Can’t see a thing in here, it’s so dark.”

“It’s to protect the books,” she said. She really must get more of the lamps lit. Her eyes had adjusted, but someone coming in from the street clearly took longer.

“I see! Well, there’s a crate of them just arrived next door, they asked if I’d make myself useful and let you know.”

Estelle stepped out from behind the counter. “Thank you. I’ll return presently. You’re welcome to look about the shop in the meantime.”

“I’m happy to help,” he said, offering a too-charming smile.

Odd, someone as well dressed as him didn’t seem the type to perform manual labour like carting things too and fro. He knows how handsome he is , Estelle thought cynically as the gentleman laid his hat on the counter. He’d begun to take his gloves off as well, revealing hands that had done little in the way of physical work.

He might sound helpful, but Estelle figured he’d most likely get in the way. “You can make sure Crafty doesn’t run out onto the street and upset the horses,” she said.

He delivered an expression of confusion. “Crafty is...?”

“The cat. An excellent mouser, which is essential for protecting the books. Alas, she thinks horses are enormous mice and tries to catch them.”

“My word!” he laughed, blue eyes crinkling at the corners in a way which told her he laughed easily, and often. She smiled back, a little charmed despite her cynical thoughts about him. He did seem a jovial fellow, and if he was as rich as his clothes made him appear, he might purchase several books.

“It was funny the first few times, but I do feel badly for the horses. Back soon.” She headed out to the inn yard where a couple of burly men were pulling down a wooden crate from the luggage rack.

“Morning, Miss Baxter,” Mr Thomas said. He was the muscle for the owner of the Red Lion, and used to carrying heavy trunks and cases up and down stairs.

“Good morning Mr Thomas. That does look exceedingly heavy,” she noted.

He replied with a grunt, “That’s because it’s full of books.”

“We could take some out to lighten the -”

The crate toppled down from the coach and landed on the ground, splintering and shattering to pieces.

“- load.” Estelle finished with a pained wince.

What a mess! With a deep sigh, she stepped forward to grab from the top of the book pile, careful not to catch her skin on the splinters. She held faint hope none of the books would be too badly damaged. After all, they were known as Baxter’s Fine Books , not Baxter’s Damaged and Scuffed Books .

The noise brought people crowding around to see what was happening.

Mr Thomas shouted down, “Sorry about that, Miss Baxter.”

He climbed down and offered to help her pick up the mess. The man used brute strength, and some of these books looked old. And delicate.

“I’ll stack them into your arms if you like, that way I can sort as I go,” Estelle said, thinking it would be best if Mr Thomas didn’t pick them up in his none-too-clean hands. He obligingly held out his forearms and she gingerly loaded a few books up onto them.

The golden-haired gentleman came out of the bookshop, obviously summoned by the sound of the crashing crate, and said, “I say, anybody hurt?”

“All fine,” Estelle called back.

“Can I help?” he asked again.

He might not look very strong, but surely he’d be able to pick up a few books and bring them in. “Thank you,” Estelle agreed to take him up on his offer, as she nodded to Mr Thomas to take his armfuls of books in.

She handed two thick books to the well-dressed man. In the light of day, she could see his sun-kissed complexion and stunning blue eyes. My goodness, he could make a woman swoon! He had the kind of glowing skin achieved by being somewhere warm. He made the softest grunt as he took hold of the books. Then he opened the cover of one and his eyes rounded in surprise. “How wonderful! I’ve been looking for this one for ages!”

Five books loaded into her arms, Estelle peered over at the one he was marvelling over.

Drat. The moment she saw the title page a heavy sigh poured forth. “I’m ever so sorry, that one’s a special order we’ve been waiting months for, it’s already spoken for.” How was it they struggled to sell a vast array of books, but when one particular volume came in, two people claimed it?

“But I must have it,” he said.

“We can talk once we’ve brought the rest of the books in,” she prevaricated, having no intention of selling him that particular book. That was another thing about this man she began to assume - if he had money, he was probably used to getting his own way.

Well, this book was already spoken for, and that was a fact.

Estelle looked at the sun in the sky and wanted to get the books inside. At least there appeared to be no chance of rain. It didn’t take long to get the rest of the books safely inside, stacked in piles on the counter.

Her sisters arrived down the stairs and got straight to work. Marie opened the ledger to record each title and price. Louise carefully checked the binding of each one to see which would need repairs, while Bernadette placed bouquets of chrysanthemums and chopped lemon rind into cotton envelopes to deal with unwanted arrivals like silverfish and moths. Estelle delighted in the way the four of them worked together in harmony. They’d told their father everything would be under control while he was gone, and they were true to their word.

Meanwhile, their well-dressed customer had helped himself to a chair and was sitting by the door using the light from the window. He was absorbed in the book he wanted, but could not have.

“If you promise to take extra care of it, you may read it here in the shop?” Estelle offered by way of compromise. He was treating it carefully, which was pleasing to see.

The man shook his head. “Alas, this is not for me, but a gift for another.”

She felt badly for him, but the situation was beyond her control. “Again, I’m dreadfully sorry, but that book is already promised, and paid for b…”

“I’ll give you double. No. Triple!”

Estelle sent up a prayer about not giving in to temptation, then patiently explained the situation to the man again. “I simply can’t. He is one of our oldest and most valued customers.”

“Tell me his name, I shall make him see sense.”

That sounded quite ominous! And seriously bad for business if they handed out personal details to strangers. “No, sir, I could not. I must insist you return the book.”

As she’d suspected, he was clearly used to getting his own way, as his jaw jutted stubbornly. Hoping he’d be sensible, Estelle held her hand out for the man to return the book.

With a groan, he said, “Very well,” and gave it over.

He did not, however, let go of it straight away.

Estelle looked at the man, with his fine clothes and straw-coloured curls and leather gloves so new they were as smooth as silk. He wasn’t used to people saying no to him. At all.

“Thank you,” she said, as he finally let the volume leave his hands. “Is there anything else I might interest you in? As you can see, we have a wide selection…”

“No. Thank you.” With a polite nod, the gentleman picked up his hat and departed, leaving Estelle staring at his back.

There goes a rich potential customer. What a pity I couldn’t sell him this book!

Later that day, Estelle wrapped the precious book the handsome and rich stranger had wanted in an oilskin, then tucked it into her travelling satchel. Louise, Bernadette and Marie continued with their tasks as she bid them farewell. Crafty waited by the shop door to get out, but deft footwork made sure Estelle made it out while the cat stayed in.

A couple of crows had set up by the boot scraper, treating it as a buffet. Estelle walked through the archway to the livery yards, where she hired a horse for the day.

Serenity beckoned as she and the borrowed horse soon left the noise, bustle and smells of Hatfield behind.

Everything felt easier out here amongst the fields, as if leaving her worries behind her in town. The sun shone weakly from behind clouds. Swallows swooped above the grasses while sheep grazed nearby. The wind might be cool, but the freshness of it invigorated her.

A pang caught behind her ribs as she compared the bright outdoors with the shadows of the bookshop. I love the bookshop , she told herself, as if she needed a little extra convincing. Books were her livelihood and not just her future, but the family’s.

But gosh, it was lovely to be out in the fresh air, riding side-saddle with the wind in her hair. Even if it was on a borrowed horse called Somerset Valley Four. At least the horse seemed quiet and didn’t object to bearing a lady riding side-saddle. His balance was good, and she didn’t have to focus too much on her horsemanship.

Travelling and delivering books was the most pleasant part of her life. In some cases it was a shame to part with them, but the prices collectors paid was far too good to pass up.

With time to think and simply be, her thoughts drifted to her father, who had recently travelled to the continent to hunt for rare books. She missed him, as they all did, but knew he was having an incredible adventure. Now that Napoleon was safely exiled to Elba, an Englishman like her father, must be having a wonderful time in France. He spoke fluent French, as they all did, thanks to their late mother, so he would be easily understood. Now that the fighting was over, he’d be making his way about unhindered. The thought of spending her days travelling the countryside and purchasing books filled Estelle with wistful longing. If only she could have gone with her father, as she had on so many of his local buying expeditions! Matthew would not hear of her going with him to France, however, saying it would be far too dangerous. Dangerous? Napoleon was locked up, things were safe again.

The real reason he didn’t want to take her was because she needed her to look after her sisters and the bookshop in his absence, but he’d played the threat of danger for all it was worth.

A raindrop splattered her eyelid. Looking up, the clouds had grown ominously darker. Would the rain hold off?

Another drop hit her cheek.

Summer afternoon aromas no longer surrounded her as the wind turned cooler. Being indoors so much, Estelle had not developed an ability to read the weather. Her father and Louise had the knack, but she and their late mother had never quite developed that skill.

Which would have come in handy about ten minutes ago, when she and Somerset Valley Four could have sheltered in a barn beside the road.

No point going back, she would push on and reach her customer. The book was in an oilskin, so even if the heavens opened, the treasure would be safe.

A few moments later, the heavens did in fact open.

The air soon smelled of mud and damp.

She urged Somerset Valley Four to canter, or at least trot, and the horse set off willingly enough. In mere moments, the beast stumbled badly. With a jerk, Estelle tilted in the saddle, clutching at the horse’s mane to maintain her balance. Another excellent reason she should have ridden astride; how she wished she dared! But even though she never expected to marry, she needed to maintain some respectability in Hatfield for the sake of the business.

The horse stopped.

The rain, however, did not.

“What’s the matter?” Estelle tried to urge the horse forward, but two steps and it was clear he was lame. With an exasperated sniff, she lifted her leg over the pommel and slid down to the ground. She checked the poor beastie, holding his near fore off the ground. Had he thrown a shoe?

The rain was really hammering them now, making muddy puddles in the road. The two of them were drenched through.

“Let me look at your hoof, Sweetie,” she urged, tagging gently at the horse’s fetlock.

The animal obliged and she found his shoe was intact, but a walnut-sized stone had become wedged between the rim of the shoe and the tender frog. Smooth, and now slippery and wet, the stone resisted her efforts to grab it with her fingertips and pull it out. Estelle wrinkled her nose, wishing she had a hoof-pick or even a pocket-knife on her. A hairpin would merely bend. Looking about, she found a few short sticks; the first two snapped, but the third proved sturdy enough to wedge under the stone and flick it out. The horse made a soft huff of relief through his nostrils.

“Good boy.” Relief spread through Estelle too as she set the hoof down and straightened up. “Can you walk?”

Somerset Valley Four walked forward at her urging. Glancing up at the stirrup near her shoulder, she realised it would be difficult to climb back into that side saddle. Estelle looked hopefully about for anything she might use to stand on to help her mount. There was nothing. Maybe it would be for the best to keep her weight off his back anyway, as his hoof might be quite bruised after that stone. Although he didn’t appear lame now, it might be a different matter with her on his back. Plus, now that she was soaked through, she’d be far heavier than when they set out.

Taking the reins in her hand, she walked beside him. After all, she couldn’t get any wetter.

After an hour of increasingly sodden walking, Lord Ferndale’s estate came into view. Ferndale Hall was a delightful classical stone building surrounded by wooded parklands and fields full of well-tended sheep. From the smoke rising from many of the chimneys, Estelle knew she would soon be warm and dry. As well as being a reliable customer who paid on time, Lord Ferndale was an old friend of her father’s who had a soft spot for Estelle and her sisters. His staff would probably furnish her with fresh clothes and a sturdy carriage and horse to return her home.

As she neared, a groom approached and offered to take the horse to the stables.

“Thank you, and please see to his near front hoof. I took a stone out but it could be bruised.”

“Yes, Miss,” he said, giving the horse’s nose a rub.

The elderly butler, Mr. Thorne, gave no sign there was anything amiss as he opened the door and took in Estelle’s bedraggled appearance. He did ask her to wait momentarily in the foyer, where she dripped onto the parquet floor.

He returned with dry sheets. Miss Yates, Lord Ferndale’s elderly sister who acted as mistress of Ferndale Hall, soon arrived.

“Thorne said you’d need a change of clothes.”

Miss Yates was such a dear to offer. “Thank you, I shall return them freshly laundered.”

Miss Yates smiled, “Tish tosh, no need for that. Come with me and I’ll sort you out.”

Estelle always felt amongst friends with the Ferndales. It also helped that Lord Ferndale was one of their best customers.

Miss Yates had never married but had made herself invaluable in Hatfield life, being on many of the ladies’ committees and doing a great many good works for the poor of the parish. Despite being very wealthy and the daughter and sister of a baron, Miss Yates never gave herself airs or thought herself too good to associate with anyone. She was, in Estelle’s opinion, a true lady, far more so than many who had actual titles to their name.

Estelle dried herself and put on one of the skirts Miss Yates’ maid brought in. It was an older style with long belts of linen that slipped through eyelets, allowing it to be tightened or loosened depending on whether a woman was increasing or not. The jacket which matched it was of a similar style, with a waist far lower than was fashionable today. They were made of beautiful material and even more importantly, were dry and comfortable.

They might have been made decades ago, possibly around the time Miss Yates might have been expected to marry. They smelled of cedar and long storage.

Then it hit her. “Miss Yates, these are from your trousseau! I can’t wear such fine clothes.”

“I’d rather they be worn than be dinner for moths!” Miss Yates said.

Well, when she put it that way. Estelle smiled, smoothing her hand over the skirt’s fabric.

“Do you or your sisters need dresses for the assembly?” Miss Yates asked.

The question stilled Estelle for a moment. She’d momentarily forgotten about the Midsummer assembly, which was in a few nights’ time. Everyone of importance in Hatfield would attend, while many more would attend similar public dances held for all the farm workers.

Until now, Estelle had assumed any of her older dresses would do. They would not be buying any new fabric until their father was home and he’d repaid the enormous loan he’d taken out to fund his trip to France.

“I’m not one to stand out,” she demurred.

“I’ll have some sent over in any case. Miss Marie might want something new. Or old, really. They are quite old, but you’re welcome to alter them if need be. I’ve been busy sorting out the attics of late; so many things have been put up there for years and I don’t want them to go to waste!” Miss Yates held up her hands as Estelle began to protest. “ No, I won’t hear of any objections. Who else would I give them to? You know Arthur and I have scarcely any family left, only Arthur’s grandson, who has no wife and apparently has no inclination to take one. I should like you and your sisters to have them.”

There was no gainsaying the stubborn older lady, who had a positively martial glint in her eye. Estelle acquiesced graciously, and gratefully. It would be so lovely to have a new dress, even if she had to remake the style entirely.

A few extra hair pins to set her tresses neatly, and Estelle and Miss Yates were in a fit state to head to the sitting room.

Lord Ferndale was waiting for them beside a roaring fire.

“Miss Baxter, my dear,” he held his arms out for an embrace.

They truly were more like family than customers, Estelle thought, as she wrapped her arms around her dear friend and kissed his wrinkled cheek.

“I come bearing good news, I have the book you wanted!” She beamed as she opened her satchel and handed over the parcel.

Lord Ferndale unwrapped the oilskin and gasped as he revealed the precious tome within. Quickly, he stepped over to the window to get a better look at it, depositing the empty wrap on an occasional table. Horrified at the damp oilskin being so casually placed on the expensive rosewood, Estelle quickly grabbed it up and refolded it.

“Oh yes,” Lord Ferndale said, opening the cover and reading the title page. “ The Collected Works of Philo Jud?us , and most gloriously bound! Oh my goodness,” he gasped as he turned the first few pages, admiring the beautifully coloured, hand-drawn illustrations. “I cannot believe I am holding this in my very own hands.”

“I am delighted that it’s in your hands,” Estelle said, smiling happily as she observed the joy on the old gentleman’s face.

There was something so magical about matching a customer to the book of their soul. And such an old soul as Lord Ferndale needed a great many of them.

“You are a wonder,” he said, carefully turning the pages and scanning the text. “How ever did you get hold of this?”

“You have my father to thank for that. A crate arrived from France this morning, and that was in it. I came as soon as I could, because I knew you’ve been wanting it for some time.”

“This calls for celebration, you must stay for tea.”

Lord Ferndale was incredibly sweet to offer, and Estelle really was quite tempted, especially knowing how good his cook was. “I really should be getting back,” she said thinking that perhaps she could be persuaded to just one cup of tea, and maybe a cake or two. “You and Miss Yates have done enough already, I have dry clothes and the rain shall ease.”

As if to make a mockery of her words, the sky darkened and more rain began to fall.

A man walked past the sitting room’s open doors. He was almost out of sight when he stopped and walked backwards.

He stared into the room.

Directly at Estelle.

“You?” he said.

Estelle’s manners deserted her. “Oh no. Not you!”