The Bookman's Tale (9 page)

T
hick clouds hung over London, and for them Bartholomew was grateful. The heavy oaken door of Robert Cotton’s house had presented no more problem than the stone lid of William of Wykeham’s sarcophagus that Bartholomew had prized open all those years ago. This bit of prizing he managed all on his own. Not until he was safely inside, with the door closed behind him, did he light his lantern.

Bartholomew had been to Cotton’s house several times—first a few months ago, when he began to talk to the collector about Shakespeare, and most recently three days ago, when he delivered the
Pandosto
. Now he made his way quickly up the stairs and into the library. In the dim light of his lantern the busts of emperors glared down upon him, their uplit faces menacing as he began to scan the shelves in search of his quarry. It had been a stroke of great luck that Cotton had let slip he was going to Cambridge for a few days, but Bartholomew did not fool himself that the collection was unguarded. Surely some burly local to whom Cotton had paid a few shillings would be checking the outer door at any time; he needed to work quickly.

In the Nero case he recognized the Winchester Psalter he had sold Cotton twenty years ago. He wondered if he ought to take it, too, and replace it in Wykeham’s tomb—as penance for his other misdeeds. But the Psalter was a large book, and surely Cotton would immediately notice its absence. Besides, Bartholomew reasoned, taking the Psalter from the tomb had not been a crime—he had saved a beautiful book for future generations. Better it be preserved in Cotton’s library than decay to dust in a stone box in Winchester.

Bartholomew tried not to think of what he was doing as stealing. After all, he had not exactly sold the
Pandosto
to Cotton; rather, he had presented it as proof of his access to Shakespeare’s papers. That he had thus relieved Cotton of the fifty-pound down payment on papers that might not even exist Bartholomew thought of as an act of knavery rather than thievery. He hoped he might live up to the standard set for him by Shakespeare in the person of Autolycus—if a thief, a harmless thief; when a knave, a clever and amusing knave, likeable if not wholly moral.

On the second shelf of the Augustus case, Bartholomew spotted
Pandosto
. He pulled it out, wrapped it carefully in a cloth, and had just turned to leave when he heard voices at the door below. In another second heavy boots were pounding up the stairs. There was a single window at the far end of the library, looking out toward the Thames a hundred feet away. Bartholomew did not have time to think, and as the door to the library flew open, he leapt from the window to the cobblestones below.

He heard the crack of the bone an instant before the pain seared through his leg, and in that instant came a peace Bartholomew had never felt. There was no longer any question of whether his plan would succeed, whether he would escape and retire and live out his days comfortably in the country. Some people recovered from broken legs, some avoided the infection that so often poisoned the body, but Bartholomew knew with a fiery certainty that he would not. In that instant he knew that he had failed, that he would die, probably within a few days, but the peace that came with that finality surrounded him like a cocoon as he lay on the stones, his leg crumpled beneath him. Then the pain arrived.

His boatman waited for him a few dozen yards away, and Bartholomew knew he must hurry to elude capture. It would take perhaps a minute for his pursuers to realize where he had gone and to run out the front of the house and along the lane that led to the river. Without a thought for his agony, and without a sound, he pulled himself up on the side of the house, and hopped toward the water. Each movement sent the pain to greater heights than he thought possible, but Bartholomew focused his entire being on silence, biting the inside of his mouth until he could feel warm blood flowing freely. Reaching the boat, he collapsed over the gunwale and murmured to the boatman to fly downstream. As the craft moved toward the center of the river and was enveloped by darkness, Bartholomew heard the clatter of boots on the stones and then knew no more.

He awoke in his lodgings, the pain from his leg radiating through his body. His landlady held a damp cloth to his head and the boatman stood nearby. Bartholomew knew he must accomplish one more task before he drifted back into darkness. He whispered his instructions to the boatman and gave him the cloth-wrapped book and the bag of gold he pulled from within his doublet, along with a note he had prepared for just such an eventuality.

When the boatman had gone, Bartholomew fell back against the pillows and surrendered himself to the ministrations of his landlady, who tended him with the gentle attention of one who had fond memories of, on occasion, sharing his bed.

Over what he only guessed were the next several days he drifted in and out of the world. He was agonizingly awake when the bonesetter came to see to the break. As his leg became more and more swollen and inflamed, the apothecary paid several visits—each time bathing Bartholomew’s leg in vinegar to fight the infection, each time shaking his head at the landlady as he left.

It was morning when Bartholomew awoke, feeling clearheaded for the first time since the accident. The pain had subsided somewhat, but he felt the blackness beckoning him. It occurred to him that this might be a good time to repent of his sins, but before the thought had formed itself into any action, the rising darkness washed over him and he slipped into its embrace.

Bartholomew’s grave in St. Paul’s churchyard was not marked with a stone. Though his landlady had been fond of him, she had kept the few shillings he had given her for such a purpose to settle part of his debt to her. She did, however, weep as he was lowered into the cold earth.

—

M
atthew Harbottle had never known the origin of his surname. Before his mother had died, two years ago, she had always changed the subject whenever he asked about either his father or his name. His mother had only ever called herself Lil. She had died in childbirth in a room above the George and Dragon; the child had died, too. By then Matthew was sixteen and had been working for years as a stable boy at the tavern. His mother, he knew, conducted other business there, but he had always lived with this knowledge and it seemed neither shameful nor immoral to him. Shortly after her death, he had begun his new career among the players. A man from the Globe Theatre had come to the inn asking for Matthew, and though Matthew never learned why the man had come looking for a specific stable boy, he gladly accepted the job he was offered.

Matthew was small, but years of work had made him strong and he was perfectly suited for his new career. Crouched in the atticlike space above the heavens of the Globe, Matthew rolled cannonballs when thunder was required and lowered actors who were playing fairies or gods to the stage. For other productions he would work below the stage, making the sound of approaching horses and pushing props up through trapdoors. When the company traveled, Matthew looked after props and costumes, stabled the horses, and did whatever else was needed.

Matthew never saw a play, and he had never learned to read, so he could not comprehend the scripts he sometimes delivered to actors, but he did hear snatches of plays as he listened for his cues. To him plays were bits of dialogue that drifted into darkness and the undulating sound of the crowd—now a murmur, now a roar, now the unmistakable sound of three thousand people gasping in unison.

Occasionally the players would invite Matthew to come along to the tavern for a drink. Then he felt like a king, stood to a mug of ale by the men who brought words to life in an inn where once he had been a stable boy and the son of the whore upstairs. He was wise enough to know, from the winks of the players and their nods toward the upper floors, that many of them had enjoyed his late mother, but whenever he asked one of the players about his father and his name, the response was always the same—a hearty laugh and an offer of another mug of ale. Thus it came as quite a surprise when early one morning, as he slept in a room filled with costumes and props, a stranger shook him awake and whispered, “Your father has sent these for you.”

Matthew pressed the messenger, as best he could in his groggy state, for news of his father, but the man would only point to the folded paper he had delivered along with a cloth-wrapped package and a heavy cloth bag. “The letter explains everything,” he said. The messenger left before Matthew could ask him to read this mysterious letter from a father he had never known. To him, it was unintelligible scratches.

He understood well enough, however, the meaning of the cloth bag. He counted the money three times. Fifty pounds, all in gold. More money than he had ever seen, or ever expected to see. He hid the money and the book with all the writing in the margins in his mattress. He could imagine no possible use for the latter, but it seemed wise to keep it hidden, at least for the time being.

Later that day he asked one of the players to read him what was written on the piece of paper. He sat quietly on the edge of his bed as he listened to the almost incomprehensible words.

My Dear Son,

This shall be both the first time you hear from me and the last, for if I am compelled to send this letter, then know that death is near and will have overtaken me by the time this reaches you. Had things gone differently, I might perhaps have sent for you, but that is for neither of us to know. I send with this letter two treasures. The money I trust you will use to secure your future. That you will live comfortably in this world is comfort to me as I prepare for another. The other I advise you to keep as long as you can, and if you are ever forced to part with it, do not do so here in London. I wish you well.

Your affectionate father,

Bartholomew Harbottle

P.S. Though we have not met, I have heard you at work. As recently as last week I attended a play at the Globe and knew you to be in the heavens. Would that I were bound there now.

Thus did Matthew Harbottle become a silent, illiterate partner in the Red Bull Theatre in Clerkenwell with an investment of fifty pounds. The job he had done at the Globe he did at the Red Bull for Prince Charles’s Men for many years. As before, he accompanied the players on their provincial tours, and it was on one such tour, late in his life, that he found himself in Exeter and in greater debt at the end of a card game with a local nobleman than he would have liked. Recalling his father’s words about selling the strange book away from London, he offered the volume as settlement of the debt. The man accepted this offer, and even agreed to write Matthew’s name in the front of the book, beneath what he said was a list of others who had owned it. He thought his father would have liked this, for one name on the list, the man told him, was “Bartholomew Harbottle.” Matthew asked the man to write
Matthew Harbottle, Red Bull Theatre
, and then handed over the book without further thought. Early the next morning the company departed for Bath.

P
eter marked his progress through Ridgefield University not in courses or semesters but by his encounters with certain books—and he held a special place for the Kelmscott
Chaucer
.

At the snack bar one night during final exams, Amanda had asked him if Special Collections had any works printed by William Morris.

“Sure,” said Peter. “I couldn’t tell you all of them off the top of my head, but we’ve got a good collection of Kelmscott Press.” Kelmscott was the private press owned and operated by Morris, the Victorian author, artist, and designer. “I know we’ve got the
Chaucer
.”

“The Kelmscott
Chaucer
?” said Amanda in awe. “With the Burne-Jones illustrations? An original, I mean, not the facsimile.”

“Yeah,” said Peter, taking a bite of his hamburger. “Why do you ask?”

Amanda had just finished writing a paper on Edward Burne-Jones for her art history class. She had used the facsimile edition of the
Chaucer
to look at the artist’s medieval-style illustrations. When Peter asked her if she would like to see the real thing, she ran her foot up his calf and whispered, “Yes, please.”

The week of exams the library was open all night, but Special Collections still closed at five. Peter unlocked the door and disabled the alarm system before ushering Amanda into the narrow corridor that opened into the Devereaux Room, now lit only by the green glow of the
EXIT
sign. He turned on a reading lamp on the massive library table and pulled out a chair for Amanda. Then he disappeared for a moment into the dimness and returned with the oversized volume, bound in white leather with delicate blind stamping. From a box on the table he pulled two pairs of white cotton gloves, then he sat by Amanda and opened the book.

It was hard to believe it had been printed less than a hundred years ago. The thick paper; the exquisite foliage design wrapping around the text; the illustrations, so reminiscent of illuminated manuscripts; even the ancient typeface all spoke of a fifteenth-century volume, and of course that was exactly what Morris had intended. The pages were heavy between Peter’s fingers as he gently turned them. Even through the cotton tips of his gloves he could feel the texture of the hand-set type and the wood-block illustrations. He adored the feel of a hand-printed book. The love and care positively radiated off the pages. He turned to a page spread that included two of Burne-Jones’s illustrations and leaned back, letting Amanda soak in the beauty of the artistry and craftsmanship. She gave a short, soft sigh as she ran a cotton-gloved fingertip slowly across the page.

“It’s so beautiful,” she whispered reverently, and Peter looked from the page to Amanda’s face.

“So are you,” he mouthed silently, for though he had always found her face lovely, she had taken on a special glow as she pored over the book. She was enchanted, Peter thought, and he was thrilled that he had helped her feel that way. He wondered how it had never occurred to him to bring Amanda to the Devereaux Room before. Suddenly his mind was crowded with images of books from the collection that would delight her—works of the Victorians and of the medieval artists who had inspired them. In no volume, however, could the intersection of his passion for fine books and her passion for Victorian art more perfectly intersect than in this most famous example of nineteenth-century printing.

Almost hypnotized by the interplay of text, illustration, and design, Peter did not hear Amanda shift in her chair, and so the only warning he had was the slightly rough texture of her cheap cotton glove slipping across the bare flesh above his collar. Peter’s physical contact with Amanda had previously been limited to holding hands as they walked each night from the Student Center to the residential quad, an occasional embrace, and short, chaste good-night kisses at the door of Amanda’s dormitory. Like everything else about Amanda, the kisses were regimented, and Peter liked that. That quick kiss was the highlight of his day, every day, but if he had stopped to consider what else it might lead to, and how it might lead there, his dread of the unfamiliar would have invaded the peace Amanda had created in his life. But she moved so quickly in the quiet isolation of the Devereaux Room that Peter did not have time to fear the unknown. He did wonder afterward if she had planned that moment, knowing that in that room Peter would feel more comfortable than anywhere in the world.

Her cotton-gloved hand pulled his head toward her and she pressed her lips to his—not the quick, dry kiss he was used to, but an endless, open kiss with damp lips and the unmistakable feel of her tongue darting into his mouth. Her other hand reached down and pulled Peter’s arm around the small of her back and he tightened his arm around her, pulling her body into his. Peter’s eyes were closed and he had lost all sense of where they were; only Amanda’s warmth in his arms and against his lips existed. They kissed for what seemed like both an eternity and an instant. He nibbled her neck and she drew her fingers through his hair and he caressed her back and they kissed and everything disappeared except Amanda and her lips and hair and body. And then she pulled away and did the last thing he expected. She began to laugh. Peter sensed immediately that she was not laughing at him but laughing with sheer joy. Even in the dim light her eyes sparkled, and the smile he had seen briefly every night after the kiss in front of her dorm played across her face with such enthusiasm, it seemed like it would never fade.

Finally she fell back in her chair. “Look at us,” she said. “Mr. Timid and Miss Methodical, nuts about each other and making out in the rare-books room.” Only later did Peter realize this might have been a profession of love; at the time it seemed like only her delighting in the absurdity of it all. And then Amanda said the most surprising thing of all. Leaning conspiratorially into Peter, she nodded to the portrait of Amanda Devereaux watching over them and whispered, “What would Grandmother think?”

“Amanda Devereaux was your grandmother?” said Peter, removing his gloved hand from the small of Amanda’s back and turning to look at the portrait. “I can’t believe I didn’t see that. You have her eyes. Did you know her? What was she like?”

“ ‘What was she like?’ ” Amanda repeated. “Peter, I’ve just told you my big secret—the one piece of information that has chased away every guy I ever liked and attracted a bunch of creeps I couldn’t stand. Don’t you get it? I’m a superrich heiress. You’re now supposed to form all sorts of preconceived notions about me.”

Peter leaned forward and kissed her wetly on the neck, pulling her toward him. “I’m afraid all my notions about you have already been conceived.”

“Peter,” said Amanda, laughing and pushing him away. “This is a big deal for me. It’s why I enrolled in Ridgefield under my middle name. I’m not Amanda Middleton; I’m Amanda Ridgefield. You’re the first person I’ve told, and I sort of expected a reaction.”

“Look,” said Peter, settling back in his chair. “It’s no big deal. I mean it’s nice that you don’t have to worry about money and everything, but I certainly don’t want you to judge me by my family, why should I judge you by yours?”

“It is a big deal,” said Amanda. “You think so, too, I can tell. You’re smiling.” Peter could not deny it. “See, you can’t stop grinning, and you can’t even look me in the eye.”

“I’m not looking you in the eye because I’m looking at the hickey on your neck, and I’m grinning because I’m remembering how you got it.”

“You honestly don’t care that I’m like Ridgefield royalty and that I’ve got scads of money and that lots of people are going to treat me and anyone I’m dating in certain ways because of it?”

“I don’t,” said Peter, who was getting over the initial shock of discovering that his two Amandas were connected. “Let’s kiss some more.”

“And you don’t care that when you meet my parents they’re going to put you through every test you can imagine to make sure you’re good enough for precious Amanda of the Ridgefields?”

“I’d expect nothing less no matter who your parents were.” Peter leaned toward her, but she gently pushed him away.

“And you don’t care that when everybody finally figures out who I am, and they will soon enough, they’ll all think you’re after me for my money?”

“Amanda,” said Peter softly, taking her hands in his and feeling the warmth of her nervousness through the thin glove, “I don’t care about any of that stuff. I love you.” He had said it without premeditation and it seemed like the most natural and truthful thing in the world, but his declaration unintentionally brought the conversation to a much more serious level. Peter felt the tension in her hand, and grasped for a way to change the subject before she felt pressured into a response. He glanced up at the portrait of Amanda Devereaux, gazing down on her granddaughter. “Now seriously,” said Peter, standing up and pointing to the portrait. “I want to know all about Amanda Devereaux.”

He heard the tiny sigh of relief escape from Amanda’s lips as she relaxed into her chair. “Well,” she said, “she died before I was born, and Mom doesn’t talk about her much, but from the few stories I’ve heard, I gather Gran was pretty amazing.”

—

P
eter did not go home that summer. He rented Francis Leland’s basement apartment, where he would live for the remainder of his undergraduate career, and spent his mornings at the library assisting Hank Christiansen with restoration work and continuing to commune with the Devereaux collection. In the afternoons he mowed Francis’s yard or washed his car to help offset the rent. The two of them would sit on the broad front porch sipping iced tea and talking about books or anything else that took Francis’s fancy.

Peter saw Amanda every day. They took long walks in Ridgefield Gardens, the grounds of the former family estate now owned by the university. They went to the movies on hot afternoons and swam in the pool at Amanda’s house when her parents were out of town. “You’ll have to meet them eventually,” Amanda said, “but let’s enjoy the summer.” Other than this one mention that Peter must one day meet her parents, they did not speak of the future; they merely lived in the present. It was a perfect summer.

One weekend they drove to Wrightsville Beach in Amanda’s car, staying in separate rooms in a cheap motel three blocks from the beach. Peter had insisted on paying, and the Seaside Inn, whose glory days were long past and not particularly glorious, was the best he could afford. Amanda did not complain. They lay in the sun and ate hot dogs and ice cream and over-fried seafood, and they walked on the beach, standing ankle deep in the surf, kissing expertly. Peter had never kissed a girl before Amanda, but their frequent late-night visits to the Devereaux Room that spring had given them plenty of practice.

“Have you ever been to the beach before?” asked Amanda as they walked hand in hand through the edge of the surf.

“Fifth-grade field trip,” said Peter. “Boy, was that a miserable three days.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“I had this crush on Rebecca Ferguson, but of course I didn’t have the nerve to do anything about it.”

“You never told me you had a girlfriend.”

“Believe me, I didn’t,” said Peter. “She only had eyes for Glenn Bailey, but I was doing that fifth-grade thing where you think if you do a grandiose enough job of brooding, the girl will notice you and take pity.”

“I would have taken pity,” said Amanda, slipping an arm around his waist.

“Trust me, you wouldn’t have. I was the world’s mopiest fifth grader. Following them while they walked on the beach holding hands, staring at her from the next table at dinner, sitting in the dark crying while they sat next to each other at the bonfire. If we’d all been thirty years older, they would have taken out a restraining order. As it was, nobody noticed.”

“Crying in the dark. You poor thing,” said Amanda. She stopped walking and wrapped both her arms around Peter, pulling him into a long, warm kiss. “So do you like the beach better this time?” she asked.

“Just a little bit,” said Peter.

Amanda gave him another quick kiss and then was off and running through the surf and Peter was chasing her and they were both laughing and he had a feeling that overcame him about once a day with Amanda—that he had never been happier in his life.

That night Peter lay awake in his room. He was still adjusting to the newness of a companion and of passionate, if chaste, physical contact. He was pleased with their tacit agreement not to sleep with each other for the time being, but his body ached for Amanda as he lay in bed replaying the sight of her in her pale blue bikini. He embraced the ache. It reminded him that Amanda was real. For the first time in his life, he knew exactly what he was aching for.

Peter took to reading love poetry, not just from the elegant cases of the Devereaux Room but from simpler shelves in the other rooms into which Special Collections spilled—rooms filled with manuscript materials and books from floor to ceiling. Occasionally Peter came across a book that he thought deserved the more honored position of a spot in the Devereaux Room. He would make his case to Francis and almost always be overruled, but Francis nonetheless encouraged Peter in this endeavor. “The best way to learn about books,” he said, “is to spend time with them, talk about them, defend them.”