Shadow (Wendy Darling #3)(10)

Mrs. Tatterley’s mouth dropped open. “Wendy Darling! Well, I never. Wait until your mother hears of how rude you have been! That is no way to talk to an adult. And for your information, we come to Whitfield’s because it is the only bookstore within walking distance of our home. You know that. I never . . .” She turned and walked back to the register, grabbing the books roughly from Mr. Whitfield. “That will be all. Thank you,” she snapped. With a toss of her head and a whiff of overpowering freesia, she exited the store, the bells clanking loudly after her. Wendy turned back to Mr. Whitfield.

“You shouldn’t have angered her,” he said quietly.

“She was insulting! Also, she’ll forgive me. She comes over every week to eat all of Liza’s pound cake. I’ll apologize then.”

Mr. Whitfield shook his head. “You have no idea what you are doing, do you?”

Wendy bent over to pick up some of the books that Mrs. Tatterley’s large behind had knocked over. “I don’t know what you are speaking of, sir.”

“Don’t think I don’t know,” he said coldly, the first time she had ever heard that tone come out of his mouth. “You could ruin him, my son.”

Wendy jerked her head up. “Ruin? How?”

“Your family could ruin our business.”

“My family would never—”

“They would. The Darlings and the Tatterleys and the Muchsens and the Browns, if they ever found out that one of their precious daughters was in love with the bookseller’s son . . .”

“I’m not in love with Booth!” she protested weakly, trying to hide the blush rising in her cheeks. “Booth is my friend.”

His voice softened. “I know that you care dearly for Booth, and for me. Wendy, you are like my own daughter. But if you truly love my family, you will stay away from my son. Think of what your parents would say. Think of what they would do. To us. Booth has everything to lose, while you only risk your heart.” The bookseller shook his head. “I should have seen this coming a long time ago. I indulged you both for too long. The Mrs. Tatterleys of the world do not look lightly upon adoration between the classes.”

Wendy felt her world unraveling, thread by tiny thread. “Mr. Whitfield . . .”

“Away with you now. Your face is already breaking my heart as it is. I’ll tell Booth that you went home. Please don’t forget the books for your brothers.”

Her movements stiff and mechanical, Wendy picked up the pile of books from the table, one of them slipping out of the twine binding and hitting the floor with a loud thud. “Tell Booth that I . . .” She tried to maintain control over her voice, which was cracking, her lower lip trembling. Mr. Whitfield looked away from her with red eyes behind his glasses.

“Wendy, I’m sorry for this misfortune. It isn’t fair. But please think about Booth’s future before you consider your own needs. Good day, child.” He waved his arm toward the door. Wendy moved toward it, unsteadily gathering her shawl and stepping outside onto the dusty street. Her skin, still warmed by Booth’s touch, seemed to steam in the cool London air, and the world suddenly seemed strange and unfriendly.





CHAPTER THREE


WENDY DIDN’T REMEMBER THE WALK HOME, only that she had been numb, her hands wrapped tightly around her books, her heart strangely empty and sad. People moved around her in a blur: men with black hats, boys in wool shorts, babies pushed in their prams with bright red cheeks and curious eyes. She stepped into Number 14, and before she even had a chance to breathe, Liza was on her, fussing about her missing gloves.

“Miss Wendy! Why are you so pale? Where are your gloves?”

Wendy looked down at her hands, remembering Booth’s lips on her palm. “Sorry, I must have lost them.”

Liza sighed. “Those were expensive, child! A gift from your mama! Are you feeling okay?” She was pressing her hands against Wendy’s cheeks now, feeling her forehead and lips. “You feel clammy. Go put on your nightgown and lie down. I’ll be up with some tea in a few minutes for you. Tell those boys to vacate the nursery so that you may rest.” She tsk-tsked. “Between you and your brothers, I get no rest . . .”

Wendy slowly climbed the stairs up to the nursery, pushing open the champagne double doors that her mother had spent weeks fussing over. When she walked into the room, a wave of sound pushed its way out toward her. John, his eye covered with a black eye patch, leapt down from her dresser, a long stick in his hand. Michael, running as fast as he could on short little legs, careened into her waist.

“WENDY! We are pirates! Now you can be our captive!”

“Michael, not now,” she mumbled, pushing her way past him before thinking better of it and rustling his hair affectionately. “I’m sorry, Michael. I’m not feeling well. Could you play pirates in the sitting room perhaps, or maybe the library?” John looked up at her, his hazel eyes, the exact shade of hers, simmering with annoyance.

“We were here first. Maybe you can go lie down in the library instead.”

“John, please.” Wendy wandered over to the dresser that had just been a pirate ship and gently pushed John’s display of tiny wooden soldiers to the side. “I need to get dressed. Please, can you play somewhere else?”

Michael stomped across the room and plopped heavily down on his bed, pulling Giles, adorned with a red scarf around his neck, with him.