Unseemly Honeymoon

Chapter 1 New York City, July 5, 1899 Deighton’s Book Shop Some might consider it unusual for a new bride to bring her husband to a bookstore at the start of a thirty-day honeymoon tour, but Mrs. David Bradley—née Concordia Wells, formerly a literature professor at Hartford Women’s College—loved bookstores almost as much as she loved Mr. Bradley. The hush of the space, the smell of paper and ink and bindings, the sight of heavily laden bookcases that reached nearly to the ceiling—all held the promise of new adventures to discover or old friends to revisit. One old friend in particular. “Why, it’s Miss Concordia!” A thin, slightly stooped man on the far side of sixty set aside a stack of well-worn leather volumes and limped over to clasp her hand. “How long has it been? Ten years, at least.” “Longer than that. Before Papa died.” Concordia’s father, respected Greek and Latin scholar Randolph Wells, had brought her here as a child whenever they made the trip to New York City from Hartford. She had happy memories of this place. The man smiled. “Your papa was my best customer.” He tilted his head for a better look at the young lady. Even a casual observer would note the merry green eyes behind silver-rimmed spectacles, the charming flush that touched her freckled cheeks, the wisps of deep red hair that escaped her hat and clung to her damp neck, and the slightly plump but diminutive figure, smartly attired in a summer walking dress of navy linen. Standing beside her was a smiling gentleman in his early thirties, dark-haired and dark-eyed—though at the moment his eyes were only for the lady, who seemed to return the favor. “And who might you be, young man?” the proprietor asked. Concordia started. “Where are my manners? This is my huh—husband, David Bradley.” Drat it, she still stumbled over the word husband. “David, this is Mr. Deighton, owner of Deighton’s Books.” David extended a hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Deighton.” “Everybody calls me Rusty.” He stroked his salt-and-pepper beard ruefully. “Not that you can tell why anymore.” He turned back to Concordia. “So, just married, eh?” “A few weeks ago.” She self-consciously rubbed the ridge of the wedding band beneath her glove. “We are getting away only now. But how did you know?” He chuckled. “Your young man’s standing awfully close to you to be anything but a happy new groom, and you haven’t been eyeing my shelves nearly as much as you’ve been eyeing him.” She felt the flush creep up her cheeks as David grinned broadly. “Though I see marriage hasn’t changed you much, since you’re here and not down the street at McCreery’s white sale picking out table linens.” She made a face at him. “It’s cooler in here.” He threw back his head and laughed. “Fair enough. Looking for anything in particular?” “Do you have any books of Antoine Lavoisier?” David asked. “The chemist?” Rusty stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm, maybe. I know we have several copies of Traité Élémentaire de Chimie, though I imagine you already have that.” David nodded. “It’s standard reading.” “Well, I’ll show you the section. There are bound to be hidden gems in there. Something might pique your interest. What about you, Miss—I mean—Mrs. Bradley?” “I’ll just browse.” Concordia nodded toward the back corner of the store, where a narrow, spiral staircase led to the upper gallery. The left portion of the gallery had only a door that led to the private apartment where Rusty and his granddaughter lived, while the right section was crammed with more bookcases. “I assume your Romantic poetry section is still upstairs?” “Very little changes here,” Rusty said. “I’d never find anything otherwise.” As she perused volumes of Wordsworth and Keats, Concordia kept her eye on the men below. A smile tugged at her lips as she watched David, sporting a coat of camel pin-check cotton that fit smoothly across muscled shoulders, a linen crash hat tucked under his arm. It still felt strange to know they were married now. There had been one difficult time during their courtship when they had nearly gone their separate ways. She had chafed against his protectiveness, while he struggled to understand her tendency to “meddle,” as their friend Lieutenant Capshaw was fond of putting it. She understood David’s concern, of course. She had been in very real danger on several occasions. But behind each of those problems, each of those tangled puzzles to be solved, there had been a person she cared about in desperate need of help. How could she walk away? Eventually, David seemed to accept that, and they had come to an understanding. She fingered the telegram in her pocket. She hoped he would understand once again. Once Rusty had left David to browse through the sciences section, she climbed down the steep staircase to intercept him in the far corner. He brightened at her approach. “Find something you like?” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure David could not overhear. “Rusty,” she said quietly, “I need to speak with you about your granddaughter.” After a pleasant afternoon spent exploring the hidden treasures of Deighton Books, Concordia came away with a slim, leather-bound volume of Keats’s poetry, although she was also tempted by a three-volume, leather-bound, first edition of Wilkie Collins’s The Moonstone. David was pleased with the chemistry volumes Rusty had found and selected several. “Can you deliver these to the Gilsey House Hotel?” David asked. “You’re staying there?” Rusty let out a low whistle. “Pricey place, that.” David snorted. “Everything is pricey here.” Concordia smiled. “It’s a wedding gift from David’s parents.” “Claude won’t be back until tomorrow,” Rusty said. “Can it wait until then?” She lifted an eyebrow. “Claude still works for you?” The man had been here for the past twenty years. Rusty smiled. “Don’t know what I’d do without him.” “That will be fine,” David said. “We’re staying several days in the city before heading to East Hampton.” “Ah, the Hamptons.” Rusty’s eyes brightened as he scribbled a note. “Nice place, I hear, and a sight cooler this time of year.” Concordia tucked a damp strand of hair beneath her braided straw hat. “We’re looking forward to it.” In the carriage on the way to the hotel, David clasped Concordia’s hand and leaned in to murmur, “Why we need more books, when the library at the Dunwicks’ summer cottage is sure to be sufficient, is beyond me.” She chuckled. “You added more to your collection than I, Mr. Bradley.” He smiled. “Dr. Hayden’s invitation to speak at the History of Chemistry symposium this fall has motivated me to become better acquainted with Lavoisier.” He stroked her wrist just above the glove. “You are sure you don’t mind me meeting him alone for lunch tomorrow? We have much to discuss. But I feel a bit guilty abandoning you. It is our honeymoon, after all.” “Don’t worry. I’m meeting an acquaintance for lunch myself.” He raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you had friends in town.” “It’s Rusty’s granddaughter. You remember Miss Lester? She was a freshman at the college last year but had to withdraw in March.” His brow cleared. “Ah, yes. Short, dark-haired, large eyes that held sort of a melancholy look?” Concordia nodded. “The poor girl had every reason to be melancholy. Her mother became ill, and she left school to take care of her. Unfortunately, the woman has since died and the medical expenses have reduced the family finances. Miss Lester lives over the bookshop with Rusty now and cannot afford to return to school.” Perhaps she could ask the bursar—when Miss Lester was ready to resume her studies, of course—about what scholarship money might be available for the young lady. David settled back against the cushions. “Such a shame. What is she doing now?” “Rusty said she’s a switchboard girl downtown, at New York Telephone’s central office.” He could tell her little else about his granddaughter, except to acknowledge that she did seem preoccupied lately. Rusty had said, “Maybe she’ll talk to you about it, miss. She refuses to tell me what’s bothering her.” The girl’s telegram felt as if it were burning a hole in Concordia’s pocket. IN TROUBLE. NEED ADVICE. PLEASE MEET ME WHEN IN TOWN, ALONE. Should she show David the telegram? She bit her lip as she glanced at her husband. He looked so relaxed, gazing idly through the coach window at the passing sights. Why worry him? Besides, all she was doing was meeting with a former student and giving advice. Something she did every day as part of her duties at Hartford Women’s College. Better to say nothing more on the subject for now. She could always catch him up later, if necessary. The Gilsey House Hotel lived up to its reputation as a luxury accommodation. Concordia stepped out of the cab, clutching her hat and arching her neck for a better look at the ornate, Empire-style French architecture with its cast-iron façade and three-story mansard roof. She was so busy looking up that she stumbled over a gap in the sidewalk. David caught her and kept a hand at the small of her back. The doorman tipped his cap respectfully as they passed. “Felicitations to the happy couple! Enjoy your stay.” “Are we that obvious?” she whispered to David, blushing. “I doubt that I have a poker face.” David’s grin faded as he caught her just before she tripped again. “Drat these new shoes,” she muttered. “They hurt my feet.” “Here, why don’t you sit while I get us registered and check on our luggage. It should have arrived from the station by now.” Once he had helped her into a comfortable chair of tufted green velvet, he hurried over to the marble counter, staffed by a young gentleman in a bright blue waistcoat. She sat back with a sigh, looking around the lobby. She didn’t know what to gaze upon first: the warm, glowing bronze chandeliers that hung from the vaulted ceiling, the tall windows swathed in gold silk draperies, the cozy groupings of velvet chairs, or the rich, rosewood-and-walnut trim of the paneling, polished and gleaming. Soon David returned. “Our luggage was delivered from the station without mishap. The porter is taking it up.” Concordia stood. “That’s a relief.” “One more thing I forgot. You have to sign the register.” With the desk clerk looking on, smiling impishly at both bride and groom, Concordia signed her married name in the ledger with a shaking hand. Mrs. David Bradley. She glared at the man as she handed back the pen. One would think he’d never seen a newly married couple before. The bellhop led the way to their room, unlocked the door, and threw it open with a flourish. He pocketed his tip and left, with a wink in the groom’s direction. At last, they were alone. The quavering feeling in her knees, the pounding of her heart in her chest, and the hot flush of her cheeks returned, as they invariably did when David gathered her close. She wondered if they would ever fade. Bridal nerves, her mother had called them. Fortunately, David always had a way of helping her get over them.