Bound By Grace Read online

  Copyright

  ISBN 978-1-61626-580-9

  Copyright © 2011 by Amber Stockton. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Truly Yours, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  One

  Brandywine, Delaware, 1881

  “So, was your venture successful? Did the gentleman have what he promised? Were you able to locate it?”

  Charlotte Pringle’s youngest sister barely allowed her to step through the door to the bookshop before the verbal interrogation began. Her assistant, Laura, looked up from behind the front counter, the same place Charlotte had left her nearly two hours ago.

  Charlotte pushed back and untied the hood on her cape. After inhaling the familiar smells of leather, wood, and vanilla incense, she gave Anastasia a teasing grin. “Might I have a moment to relax from my journey before you plague me with questions? I might need to burn some lavender incense if you continue in this fashion.”

  Anastasia looked as if she might bust a seam in her daffodil walking dress, but she could wait a few more moments.

  “Laura.” Charlotte addressed her assistant. “Thank you for tending the store in my absence.”

  “It was my pleasure, Miss Charlotte.” Laura averted her gaze and wrung her hands on the apron she wore. “If you have no other need for me at the front, I’ll return to reconciling our inventory.”

  “That will be fine, Laura. Thank you again.”

  Just one year younger than Charlotte’s own age of twenty, Laura wasn’t much for conversation. But she worked hard and was quite thorough. Given Anastasia’s fanciful notions, Charlotte appreciated having someone dependable to help her.

  “So–o. . .” Anastasia splayed her hands on the edge of one of the front tables, barely acknowledging Laura’s departure. “What was the result?”

  With a calm that contradicted the butterflies fluttering in her stomach, Charlotte reached into her satchel and withdrew a worn but well-kept volume of Robinson Crusoe. She closed her eyes and ran her fingers across the smooth surface of the binding, her mind replaying the name written just inside the front cover. A first edition. Once owned by her great-grandmother’s great-grandmother, Raelene Strattford. Charlotte’s mother loved telling the story of how the book played into the courting of Gustaf and Raelene. But somewhere along the line, the book had been lost. A chance meeting with a bookstore owner in Philadelphia alerted Charlotte to the book’s location. After six generations of history, she had finally brought it back into the family once more.

  “You did find it!” Anastasia clasped her hands together just beneath her chin, her bright eyes resembling those of a child who’d just stepped into an ice-cream shop. Leave it to her sister to be overly dramatic.

  Charlotte shook her head. “Yes, although judging by your reaction, one might think you were the one who had been searching for three years to find this treasure.”

  “Can a girl not be truly happy for her sister?” The gleam in Anastasia’s eyes matched Charlotte’s excitement. “I love books as much as you do.” An impish grin overtook her lips as she turned away and moved from behind the counter, assuming an air of nonchalance. “Besides, one day some of these cherished tomes may very well become mine. And I have already been making a list.”

  Charlotte raised one eyebrow. “Oh, you have, have you?” She crossed her arms. “Suppose I decide to live far longer than you. What will you do then?”

  “Borrow them when you are not looking,” her sister said with a shrug.

  Anastasia winked and pranced away toward the four long aisles of books, but not before Charlotte reached out and tugged one of the bouncing locks hanging down her back. How nice it must be. So carefree and young. Of course, Anastasia was almost fourteen. And she’d already had at least two young men express interest in pursuing a courtship with her. Not so young, after all.

  If only those young men had older brothers or knew of some men who weren’t already engaged or married. The selection seemed to grow thinner with each passing day. Charlotte sometimes wondered if she’d ever meet a man who understood her passion. Her friends told her she needed to give up the bookshop if she hoped to find a suitable match, but that was out of the question. She loved her books too much. And if a man couldn’t love her along with everything she brought to the relationship, she’d rather remain alone.

  As the eldest daughter, however, she owed it to her parents to make a suitable match. With her older brother married and poised to follow in their father’s footsteps in gunpowder manufacturing, working closely with the du Pont family, the mantle now rested on her shoulders. If another season passed without any prospects, her parents might be forced to choose someone for her. She prayed that wouldn’t be the case, but she’d honor them if it happened.

  “Charlotte?” Anastasia called from the back of the shop. “Where did you shelve that copy of Emma you had last week? I can’t seem to find it. Someone didn’t borrow it, did they?” She gasped. “Or purchase it? I have wanted to read it for several days, but I had to finish Pride and Prejudice first. I shall simply swoon if it’s gone.”

  Charlotte erupted into laughter. “It’s the next aisle over, you silly goose, with the rest of the books by Jane Austen.” She peeked down the aisle and caught her sister’s eye. “As much time as you spend here, you would think you’d know the location of every book by heart.”

  “No, that honor belongs only to you, dear sister.” Anastasia grinned as she flounced around the corner to the appropriate shelf.

  Charlotte smiled. Yes, she did know each and every precious volume and the treasured locations where they rested. She reached out and caressed the spine of the nearest title. Some days, the books served as better companions than her friends or the latest unsuitable suitor her parents attempted to send her way.

  “Found it!” Her sister’s voice floated to the front of the shop, preceding Anastasia’s appearance by mere seconds. She clutched the book to her chest. “I’ll have it back to you in less than a week. No one will know it’s gone.” She pursed her lips. “Except you, of course.”

  Charlotte reached out and tipped her sister’s chin with her finger. “Just be certain you don’t allow any more matchmaking ideas to enter that pretty little head of yours. Remember what happened the last time you attempted to orchestrate a rendezvous between Jeremiah Graham and Amanda Stewart?”

  “Oh, must you remind me of that again?” Anastasia held up the book to hide her face. “You have to admit they did appear rather fond of each other.” She peered over the top of the book. “How was I to know their grandmothers were sisters?”

  “You would have had you been paying more attention to the conversations around you and less to your latest matchmaking schemes.” Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Honestly, I can’t fathom why you continue to interfere in other people’s lives in such a manner. Why not allow young ladies and gentlemen to choose for themselves who they shall marry? The results are so much better that way.”

  “Not always.” Anastasia wagged one finger. “Do you recall how I arranged for shy and unassuming Paulina Whetstone to accidentally bump into the much-sought-after Matthew Adams? Those two likely would never have given each other a moment’s notice had I not moved things along a bit.” She took on an air of smug triumph. “Even you can
not deny how perfectly suited they are for each other.”

  “It is true.” Charlotte pressed a finger to her lips. “I have never seen either one of them so happy, nor more suitably matched.” She shook a warning finger in her sister’s direction. “But that is not the case with most of your attempts. And I fear reading that book”—she gestured toward the volume her sister held—“will only make matters worse.”

  “Or it might improve my skills,” Anastasia countered. “Perhaps I only need a lesson or two in observation skills. If I paid closer attention, I might become far more successful than I have been.”

  “And if you do not, I shall be forced to go behind you to clean up the pieces of your failed attempts.” Charlotte covered her sister’s hands with her own, imploring her with her eyes. “Just promise to be more careful next time. Please?”

  Anastasia tilted her head, peering up at Charlotte. “Very well,” she sighed. “But I suppose I should tell you I have already selected the fortunate young lady who will become the next focus of my attentions.”

  Charlotte raised both eyebrows. “Oh? And who might that be?”

  Her sister stepped out of reach and fairly skipped the few steps toward the back door of the shop. She placed one hand on the doorknob and pulled open the door leading to the common courtyard area behind the buildings. Peering over her shoulder, she tossed her sister an impish grin. “You.” With that, she was gone.

  The final word hung in the air like an ominous storm cloud about to release everything it held. Charlotte turned her face heavenward and sent up a silent prayer asking when the cloud finally did burst, she wouldn’t get too wet.

  ❧

  More than a week later, Charlotte marveled over how many new customers had visited her shop. It seemed as if someone had posted banners around the area, announcing the shop’s location. But she wasn’t about to complain. She did own the only shop that both sold and loaned books between here and Philadelphia. The increased patronage helped both her sales and the shop’s reputation. If each one of those who visited her shop told one or two other people, she might have to consider taking on another assistant and extending the hours she was open to the public.

  Even the courier had been making more frequent visits. He seemed to deliver a letter every other day from someone inquiring about this title or that, asking if she had it in stock and if she might set it aside for them until they had the opportunity to come in person. One such letter had just been delivered yesterday, but Charlotte had read it at least a dozen times since. She kept it folded and tucked in her pocket. During a brief lull, she withdrew the now-worn paper again and read:

  To the Owner of Cobblestone Books:

  I have recently learned of the existence of your shop from various acquaintances. It appears I might need to pay a visit, but I wanted to write and notify you of my possible arrival beforehand, for I did not wish to appear unannounced. Since the purpose of my visit is to locate a handful of specific titles, I would like to make you aware of those titles in the hopes you might secure them beforehand and have them ready. My niece is rather fond of reading, and she has read everything I’ve given her at least twice over. Enclosed is a complete list of titles I would like to locate. Any of them will suffice, as I do not expect you to have them all available. I shall be happy to compensate you for your time and assistance. Please use the address accompanying this letter for any reply. Thank you for your time. I look forward to visiting as soon as time permits.

  With regards,

  Richard Baxton

  Charlotte couldn’t place her finger on exactly what drew her to the letter, but something about the words the gentleman chose and the manner in which he framed them spoke to her. His obvious love for his niece might be part of the attraction, as well. After all, how could she turn away a doting uncle who wanted to appease his niece’s insatiable appetite for reading? She felt a kinship with the girl already.

  Not wanting to allow any more time to pass, Charlotte opened a drawer of her desk behind the counter and withdrew a sheet of paper. She reached for the pen and dipped it in ink, preparing to compose a reply.

  Dear Mr. Baxton:

  I have received your note and would be honored to welcome you to my shop. The books you listed are ones I already have among my inventory. So you need not allow any more time to pass before making arrangements to visit. I have set the titles aside as you requested. Please come at your earliest convenience. I look forward to meeting you.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Charlotte Pringle

  Owner

  That should do it. Charlotte read over her response three times, making certain it didn’t sound too forward but wanting it to be both sincere and professional. With a nod of satisfaction, she folded the page and tucked it inside an envelope, sealing it with wax and addressing the outside as Mr. Baxton had instructed. The next time the courier arrived, she would give him the letter to post. After that, she had only to wait for Mr. Baxton’s arrival.

  Oh, how she prayed it wouldn’t be long.

  ❧

  Richard Baxton stepped into the dark study, illuminated by the lone gas lamp on the desk. He’d been procrastinating for several weeks, but this task needed attention. Everything about the room seemed to bear a direct connection to his older brother. From the rich Aubusson rug covering most of the floor and the heavy velvet drapes at the windows to the custom-built, floor-to-ceiling shelves holding a wide selection of books, references, and ledgers, every nook and cranny said Elliott Baxton had once spent most of his time here.

  Even the leather chair bore evidence of Elliott’s presence. Richard pulled the chair away from the desk and sat down. He felt like a traitor, sitting there. This seat didn’t belong to him. It belonged to his brother. What right did he have to sit in it now? Maybe he should take the work needing to be done and return to his own place. But that would mean taking his niece away from the only home she’d ever known. It had been only two months since the accident, and barely four weeks since she’d come home from the hospital. Richard didn’t have the heart to pull her away.

  He raised his head and gazed at the wall. Portraits of his family’s patriarchs going back a half dozen generations lined the wall. They seemed to stare at him in condescension, their expectations high that he not be the one to see the family business fall to ruin. And he’d do everything in his power to see that it didn’t. Even if working with his hands and managing the building of the ships suited him better than overseeing business affairs, he wouldn’t disappoint his family.

  With a sigh, Richard shifted his attention to the ledger on the desk in front of him. He’d happily pass on this task to someone else—anyone else—but at the moment, no one available possessed the necessary skills. Truth be told, he didn’t either. But their accountant had left just before the accident, and Richard hadn’t hired anyone else yet. As the new owner, he had to get it done.

  Numbers had never been his strength. He’d left that to his more studious older brother. Now, with Elliott gone, the task fell to him. How he wished he’d paid more attention during his schooling. But if Richard allowed his thoughts to drift anymore, another week would pass and the ledgers still wouldn’t be settled. The release of the funds associated with his brother’s estate depended on the accounts being balanced. Like it or not, he had to get to work.

  Three hours later, Richard drummed his fingers on top of the ledger, tempted to let his head fall to the desktop. He’d been over the numbers in every column at least a dozen times, and they simply refused to cooperate. How had the accounting gotten so out of hand in such a short time? Or was it him? Could his figuring be that rusty?

  His brother had repeatedly told him how organized the financial side of the business was. Their former accountant possessed a degree from one of the finest schools in Philadelphia. So why could Richard not balance the spreadsheet? What was he doing wrong?

  Steady footfalls sounded in the hallway outside the study. Eager for the interruption, Richard looked up a
s the butler appeared in the doorway. The man cleared his throat.

  “Pardon the interruption, sir, but a missive has just arrived for you.”

  “Harrison, please tell me it isn’t another note from our lawyer.” Richard stood and rubbed his temples with his fingers. “I might be tempted to ask you to return it without my reading it.”

  “No, sir. This is not from the lawyer.” The butler glanced down at the envelope. “It is from a Miss Charlotte Pringle, sir. Of Cobblestone Books.” He started to turn away. “Shall I leave it on the tray in the front hall?”

  Charlotte Pringle? From the bookstore Richard had contacted? He’d expected the owner to be a gentleman.

  “No!” Richard stood and nearly toppled his leather chair. He spoke more calmly. “I will take it.” He held out his hand.

  Harrison stepped to the dark cherry desk and handed the letter to Richard. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “Thank you, Harrison. Yes, that will be all. I will call upon you if a reply is necessary.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Richard lowered himself into the well-worn chair once more and stared at the envelope. If this response was as he hoped, one of his less pressing dilemmas would be solved. He slit the seal and removed the single sheet of paper.

  So, the owner was a lady. Or perhaps a matron. She might even be an old spinster with poor matrimonial prospects who had chosen to run an old bookshop instead. Glancing at the distinctive feminine script, Richard made up his mind. Definitely a lady. And judging by the feel of the paper as well as the words chosen, a lady of class. The carefully centered seal in the wax should have told him that from the start.

  Richard read the letter three times, a pleased smile forming on his lips. The owner had signed the letter with a Miss preceding her name. That usually indicated a young lady, although it didn’t rule out the spinster possibility. Nevertheless, he had a mission in mind, and Miss Pringle had not only obliged him with a response, but she had also set aside every title he’d requested. His niece would be thrilled.