Rose Gardner's Florist (The Providence Street Shops #2) - Bonnie Dee Page 0,28
The Case of Mr. George Edalji by an author she recognized, Arthur Conan Doyle. Enlightenment for a New Moral Age. Out-of-place in this illustrious collection was a children’s book: Ozma of Oz by Frank Baum.
Rose picked up the book and leafed through it, smiling in delight at the illustrations of Mr. Baum’s magical world.
Carmody dropped into his chair. “You’ve discovered my secret weakness for children’s fantasy stories. Some late nights when tomes on weighty topics are too dark, there is comfort in retreating into lighter fare. Carroll’s Alice was a favorite in my youth. Recently, there has been a surge in children’s literature, including works by Baum, E. Nesbit, Hodgson Burnett and the satirical Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc—definitely not intended for the very young.”
Rose closed the book on a beautiful illustration of the fairy ruler of Oz and stroked the embossed cover. “How I would have enjoyed reading such fantasies as a child. I possessed only one dull moral epistle distributed by church missionaries, all about Pious Penelope and Naughty Nancy. Still, I read it until the binding fell apart. I coveted more interesting tales from the bookseller’s cart but could not afford to buy anything, so I would hover nearby and when the vendor was busy, I’d read whatever I could get my hands on as quickly as I could. Eventually, he would notice me, slap my hands, and tell me to move on.”
“Unforgiveable! No child should be denied books. I support an organization that distributes free reading materials to the needy, and children most especially. The plan is to someday establish lending libraries around the city in poorer neighborhoods.”
“What a worthwhile endeavor,” Rose exclaimed. Yet more layers to this kind man who gave his time to tutor students and his money to make certain everyone had books to read. His generosity warmed her.
“Please, feel free to borrow anything you like from my collection. Why don’t you peruse the shelves now?”
Rose did not need more prompting to browse the library shelves. The books, both ancient and freshly printed, exhaled a delicious papery odor with every page she turned. She could have explored for days, reading snippets of this volume or that in Mr. Carmody’s extensive library.
After Reardon arrived with their lemonade, she resumed her seat.
“What are you currently reading?” she asked, before sipping the tangy, iced drink.
“The horticulture book and an anthology of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s mysteries. The latest is a case of a damsel in distress—aren’t they always?—who beseeches Holmes to find her missing guardian whom she believes has absconded with her fortune.”
Rose thought of Candace, except in her case it was the damsel who had disappeared—and without her fortune. Her guardian must have police searching for her by now. Would Merker eventually track her down and force her to return home?
“Mr. Carmody, could you recommend someone who might provide legal advice about inheritance and the age of majority?” Rose interrupted.
If he was startled at the abrupt question, he was too polite to show it. “No doubt my solicitor, Mr. Jennings, has knowledge of such matters.”
“I’m asking for a friend, so I may not share details before consulting her,” Rose explained. “With her permission, perhaps your solicitor might help with a very delicate situation.”
“I should be happy to retain him on her behalf.”
“Thank you. I would greatly appreciate it.” She wanted to share her burdens with him, to confide about Miss Sweet, and also her worries about Arietta’s future. Mr. Carmody was such a sympathetic listener. But neither topic was appropriate for discussion.
He had gathered a stack of children’s books for her to take home, and now she studied the cover of a green volume with a gold embossed figure playing a flute. “Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens,” she read aloud. “Is this based on Mr. Barrie’s play?”
“The opposite. The Pan character first appeared in Barrie’s book The Little White Bird, then the stage play, and last year the author published this volume with charming illustrations by Arthur Rackham.”
Rose leafed through the pages, examining the mischievous, magical illustrations. She had not been to the theater, but one couldn’t live in London without having heard of this play written especially for children. “Would you read a chapter aloud, Mr. Carmody?” she asked impulsively.
“If you wish?” He took the book from her, opened the volume, and began to read, “All children, except one, grow up…”
Rose settled in her chair, took another sip of her beverage, and fell in love. The story of the boy who never