"Engagement"

ENGAGEMENT

By Maisie McAdoo

         Georgia’s cousin, Mr. Macomb, said he would accompany Jane to the bookstore on Tremont Street as he was going in that direction himself.

         Jane had only met Mr. Macomb that morning. He was there when she stopped at Georgia’s house to tell her friend of her plan. Mr. Macomb was from New York, engaged in shipbuilding of some sort.

         Georgia was dressed in a new calico which set off her fair skin. “You plan to read novels! Jane, dear, is that quite proper?” she asked, half teasing but half serious, if Jane read her right. Jane loved her friend for her spark and cheer, but she knew Georgia was not a girl to venture onto untested ground. She would wait until others paved the way.

         “Will your intended not frown on such a choice,” Georgia pressed her, “being a man of such upright reputation?” Her friend paused with a hand on Jane’s arm. “Aren’t you are taking a risk, Jane?” Again, Jane heard the divided sentiments—interest and fear—in the question. Georgia was looking out for her.

         Mr. Macomb was pulling on his gloves. “You yourself will be reading the selfsame novels within the year, Cousin,” he said. “It has become the fashion in New York for young ladies to read and discuss the latest English authors.” He smoothed a lock of Georgia’s hair. Miss Norton,” he said, turning to Jane, “as soon as you are ready so am I.”

         Jane wrapped her shawl around her and tied her only bonnet in place. Mr. Macomb took her elbow as she stepped from the front door down to the street and let her go once she landed safely on the cobblestones.

         Boston’s gray March weather had thus far refused to yield to spring. There were tight buds on the trees and crocus shoots in the yards, but the clouds blowing in from the harbor persisted, damp and icy.

         Now that she was on her way to buy the books, Jane worried that Hector would in fact disapprove of her reading. He was rising in stature at Cadwalader and Wickersham and hoped to soon be admitted to court as a lawyer himself. Nothing must be whispered; nothing could seem at all on the edges of propriety. Hector was always most kind, but he tended to caution her, unnecessarily, on her public behavior.

         “What novels are you looking for, Miss Norton?” Mr. Macomb asked as they made their way across the Common.

         “Oh, as you guessed, some English authors. Ann Radcliffe is one.”

         “I’ve heard her name,” Mr. Macomb said, “and favorably.”

         Jane risked a glance. Polished leather boots, pale nankeen pants encasing the thighs of a frequent rider, a soft jacket of some deep color, a wide mouth, dark hair. She was careful not to meet his eyes, which she sensed awaited hers.

         Quickly, she struck up a new topic. “You mustn’t become delayed on my account, Mr. Macomb,” she said. “It will take you several minutes more to reach the Long Wharf and then to find that merchant you are seeking. The wharf can be very busy in the mornings.”

         “But I was warned never to leave a lady alone in a bookstore,” he said.

         With that, Jane did meet his eyes, which were crinkled around the edges. There was something relaxing about Mr. Macomb’s company.

         They almost missed the place on Tremont Street. Its front consisted of two tiny leaded windows and a low, narrow doorway squeezed between them. What caught their eyes was a sign swinging above the door.

Books, Maps, Folios

Latest European Works

Enquire Within

Hiram Belknap, Prop.

         They stooped to clear the lintel and stepped down onto the shop’s uneven stone floor. The oil lamps were not lit and the small windows illuminated only the front third of the shop. The back was like a cave.

         “Good morning? Mr. Belknap?” Mr. Macomb called out.

         There was a shuffling, a cough and then they saw him emerge from the cave, a single candle held upright before him. Mr. Belknap was angular and gray, with a pair of spectacles on a high-bridged nose. When he came closer Jane noticed a rather musty odor about him.

         “Yes?” he asked in a querulous voice.

         “Good morning,” Mr. Macomb repeated and waited for the man to welcome them. He did not; merely peered at them through dust and darkness.

         Jane, whose eyes were excellent, began to make out the books closer to the front and moved toward the display. She imagined Mr. Macomb was already eager to take his leave.

         “Mr. Belknap, I don’t suppose you have any books,” Mr. Macomb asked. Jane turned into her shoulder to hide a smile she could not control.

         “Yes, we do have,” Mr. Belknap answered solemnly.

         “Would it be possible for us to take the briefest look if it’s not too much trouble?” Mr. Macomb continued in a voice so solicitous Jane feared Mr. Belknap would take offense.

         “They are all right there.” The man gestured with a blue-veined hand. “And my brother’s took ill so I am Mr. Belknap but not Mr. Hiram Belknap. I am Horatio Belknap, minding his store only. So.”

         “Ah,” Mr. Macomb replied. “Sorry to hear. But we cannot see the books in the dark.”

         “Well, I will have to light the lamp, then, use some of the little oil remaining,” Mr. Belknap said through his thin lips. He turned back to his cave.

         Jane feared they had intruded. “We can come another time,” she offered, charitably.

         “No, no other time,” Mr. Belknap said, his back to her. “This is the hours.” He disappeared deeper into the cave.

         “If he was the proprietor, I’d leave,” Mr. Macomb whispered, joining her near the window.

         “Here is one!” Jane picked up a volume. “The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe. I have wanted to read this one. My aunt told me about it.”

         Mr. Macomb took it from her and opened its cover. Mr. Belknap returned with a lamp.

         “And another by her,” Jane said, when the lamplight illuminated a higher shelf. “The Romance of the Forest. Well at least they have the first two. I believe there are three volumes in all. And would you have any by Maria Edgeworth?” Jane asked, turning to Mr. Belknap.

         “I don’t know, I’m sure,” he answered. “But you’ve that other, so you have a book.”

         Mr. Macomb gave a look that was meant only for Jane. “What price, Mr. Belknap?”

         “One dollar silver, for each of them.” 

         “Ah. Then, here’s one silver dollar for the two together.” Mr. Macomb said, offering a single coin to Mr. Belknap. “That’s more than they’re worth, but for the sake of your brother’s welfare.” He touched Jane’s arm and gestured towards the door.

         “I needn’t have lit the lamp,” Mr. Belknap groused, staring at the coin in his palm.

         “No, indeed. You’re better in the dark,” Mr. Macomb called, as they exited.

         “We cannot just walk out. We are stealing!” Jane stood stock still outside the door. “And look, I have the two coins here.” She opened her palm to show Mr. Macomb.

         “We aren’t stealing. The price is written on the inside page. Here.” Mr. Macomb opened the volume he was carrying to show Jane the page. “Three shillings for this and the other must be the same. Allow me.” He took Jane’s book, opening it to the title page. “Three as well. Six shillings is one dollar. The old codger.”

         “You are right.” Jane pressed one of her silver coins on him. He hesitated but finally thrust it into his pocket and tucked both books under her elbow. “Yours fair and square,” he said, “and time for coffee.”

         “Oh my, no.”

         “You don’t like coffee?”

         “I do!” She couldn’t help but laugh. “But you have pressing business.”

         “Coffee is pressing just now,” he said.

         They took a table near the door of The Green Dragon on Union Street, a storied place Jane had never entered. Mr. Macomb ordered them coffee and a sweet pastry, though Jane insisted she wasn’t hungry. Mr. Macomb studied her silently, until finally Jane said, “What is it?”

         “You are hungry. I’d wager on it,” he said.

         “Whatever do you mean?” But her heart startled her with its quickened beat. She did know what he meant.

         “I do hope you enjoy the books. It’s brave of a Boston woman to buy them,” he went on. Jane’s hand rose to her collar and tugged it a bit higher to conceal a rising flush on her neck.

         “Mr. Hornblower, who I am to marry,” she blurted out, “is concerned that reading could mark me as … as…” The realization that she was confessing to a stranger stopped her tongue.

         “Curious? Restless? intelligent?” Mr. Macomb filled in for her, spinning one hand in little circles over the table.

         “No, I mean--”

         “None of those? Well, I admire it,” he said, “a woman who takes a risk.”

         The coffee was delicious. It was stirring her energies in such a pleasant way. “Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels are about daring women in medieval days,” she began. “One is locked in an Italian castle by a cruel uncle, far from the natural world she cares deeply about. I believe he prevents her from seeing her true love, tries to force her to marry another, but she will not.”

         “Yes, it takes place more than two hundred years ago, but the story is timeless,” Mr. Macomb said.

         So he knew the book.

         Mr. Macomb offered to escort her home, but she said really, she preferred to go alone as it gave her time to think.

         He nodded. Hector would have insisted.

          “Miss Norton,” he said as they separated at the door, “If my business proposition is accepted, I will be back in Boston in six weeks time. And we didn’t finish the pastry so we will have to return.” He bowed slightly and smiled at her.

         She watched his broad back recede down Milk Street until an unexpected shaft of sunlight struck her eyes, disrupting her vision.

--30--