Sylvie had filled her head with too much Jane Austen, that was all. What she needed was more of the Brontë sisters, or nearly anything by Charles Dickens.
A sigh escaped her, and Meg sent her a smile. “You seem overtired lately.”
Sylvie couldn’t deny it. “I hope there’s coffee at Hiram’s table.”
“That and more.” Meg brightened. “Did he tell you his nephew has come to stay with him? A fine young man, if even half of what Hiram says is true. He’ll be dining with us today. He’s in Chicago studying law.”
“Then perhaps the conversation will be as stimulating as the coffee.” At the very least, Sylvie hoped their topics of conversation would vary from the usual. Anything different would be welcome.
His toe tapping the carriage floor, Stephen snapped his pocket watch open and shut, barely looking at its face. He didn’t handle new people well, but for a relative of Hiram’s, surely he’d make an effort.
The wheels beneath her seat rumbled over the tarred seams between the pine blocks paving the street. Lampposts and public drinking fountains passed by at intervals, until Eli Washington steered the horses onto Prairie Avenue. From both sides, limbs arched to meet each other over the middle of the street. In early summer, it formed a ruffling green canopy of shade. Now, the bare branches fractured the sky.
Wrought-iron fences enclosed boxwood hedges and parched gardens where hydrangeas nodded their dried, bronze-colored blooms. Front porch steps were wide and tall, flanked by sculpted lions or topiary evergreens in stone pots. The stately houses in this neighborhood fairly bristled with chimneys, turrets, and cupolas.
The carriage slowed to a stop in a horseshoe drive. Hiram’s limestone residence boasted a tower to the left of a white-columned porch, ornamented hoods over the windows, double front doors, and a mansard roof as a dignified crown and functional third story over it all. Hiram had done well in the lumber trade before selling his half of the business to his partner upon retiring.
“Watch your step, Miss Margaret.” With a large-knuckled hand, Eli helped Meg and then Sylvie from the carriage, while Stephen climbed out after them.
“Eli,” Sylvie said, “do you suppose Hiram is . . . expecting us?”
It was a standing tradition to share the noon meal with Hiram on the first Sunday of the month, but he was losing his ability to keep track of the days. And last month they’d had to skip it, due to his having the grippe.
Eli smiled, pushing creases deep into his ebony face. “We all—Mr. Sloane’s staff and I—been doing our best to see that he knows you’re coming. Honest to goodness truth? We look forward to having you folks over as much as he does. It gives Cook and Miss Dressler all manner of purpose as they plan for it.”
Sylvie smiled. Helene Dressler was a formidable force as the head housekeeper, but her heart was as stout as her waist. “I can only imagine the preparations for Hiram’s nephew’s visit.”
“Well now, that would have been a sight, had they known he was fixing to come. Mr. Sloane must have arranged it and plumb forgot to let the staff know. Honest to goodness, I think he forgot about it himself until Mr. Jasper turned up on the doorstep a month ago. But we manage fine, just like always. Mr. Jasper spends most of his time at the university or studying.”
Once inside, the Townsends were ushered past potted palm trees in the front hall and into the reception room to await their host. Stephen paced between the wainscoted walls. Meg pulled her gloves off by the fingertips and snapped them into her reticule before studying the Italianate mosaic above the fireplace, and Sylvie lowered herself to a leather chair, her fingertips grazing the brass rivets bordering the edge of the seat.
The walnut pocket doors slid open, and Hiram arrived on the arm of a man with sharp, appraising green eyes and curly hair the shades of pine and oak.
“Fine time to come calling!” Hiram said, smiling. “I haven’t seen you dear people in weeks!”
Sylvie’s stomach sank as she rose, but she wouldn’t correct him.
“This is my sister’s grandson, God rest her, and my only living relation. My grandnephew.” Hiram looked up at the young man, a struggle evident in his features.
“Jasper Davenport,” the nephew supplied. Sharp cheekbones rode just beneath his skin, but a polite smile brought a dimple to his left cheek, warming his countenance.
“Jasper, I present to you . . .” Hiram cleared his throat and bravely tried again. “This remarkable family, all of whom I consider kin. I’ve known them since this fine man first opened his bookshop, when these young ladies were no more than yea high.”
Stephen introduced himself. “And these are my daughters, Margaret and Sylvia.”
“Yes.” A mixture of disgust and relief passed over Hiram’s face at hearing their names. It was the first time he was unable to bring them to mind, and it obviously rattled him. Valiantly, he lifted his chin. “Your dear wife could not join us today? Pity, that.”
Sylvie feared to look at her father.
Meg blanched but quickly recovered. “Not today, Hiram.”
“Ah. Do give her my best.” Turning to Mr. Davenport, Hiram went on. “Stephen is a man of learning and a war hero. Meg is a promising artist, and Sylvie—” Just as he seemed to be gathering his recollections, he paused to look at her.
Sylvie shifted beside her golden-haired sister, feeling dull and mute and brown all over, from her hair and eyes to her skirt and boots. She tugged at the cuffs of her sleeves, wondering if it was evident she had turned them for more use. What could be said of her? That she was well-read? That aside from Rosemary and Beth, her best friends were fictional characters? That she was more comfortable in their world than in her own?
Hiram took her hand between his dry, papery palms. “Make no mistake. Sylvie Townsend can run her family bookstore with her eyes closed. She is the engine that keeps it all moving. And important work it is too.” His eyebrows arched as he released her. “Chicago has money and moneygrubbers aplenty, but if we were not also rich in culture, I would call it a very poor place to live indeed. The Townsends bring literature and art to a city that sorely needs both.”
A flush warmed Sylvie’s cheeks at his praise. Chicago had theaters, opera houses, art galleries, and cultural societies far grander than what the Townsends offered on the corner across from Court House Square. She smiled her thanks while Meg responded with actual words, a talent that had deserted Sylvie at the moment.
But when Mr. Davenport bowed and said, “Much obliged,” with a curious lilt to his voice, it was Sylvie he held in his gaze. “Uncle has told me so much about your family already.” A shaft of sunlight pierced between velvet draperies, shattered on the crystal chandelier, and landed in rainbows at his feet.
Stephen squinted at him. “Where did you say you’re from again?”
“The accent throws you,” Hiram guessed. “I understand. He comes from southern Indiana, close to the border of . . .” He dropped his gaze. Frustration screwed tight on his brow.
“Kentucky?” Sylvie offered, unable to bear his fruitless search for the word.
“Of course. I was about to say that. I did tell you he had come for a visit, didn’t I? I thought I had. . . .”
“You did indeed,” Meg assured him. “We’re so pleased you have family in town. Will you be staying with Hiram for the duration of your courses?” she asked Mr. Davenport.