“I do hope so,” she said.
The squire, despite having posed the question, did not seem entirely pleased with the answer. Odd, that. He had said the village was fortunate to have her.
He stepped back from the counter and past Mr. Prescott. The two exchanged looks that were not easily discernible. Tallulah couldn’t tell if the two men were on friendly terms or if ’twas animosity she sensed between them. The squire’s crimson cape fluttered behind him as he left the shop.
Mr. Prescott stepped up to the counter. Even his swagger held a heavy hint of self-admiration.
Fortunately, Tallulah was rather immune to such things. She too could flirt and make lighthearted conversation. And she was known to toss about an expert bit of banter. But she was unlikely to fall under the spell of a scoundrel.
“You seem to have secured the patronage of our most significant local personage,” Mr. Prescott said.
“And it appears I’m soon to have the patronage of our town’s most flirtatious local personage.”
He tipped her a crooked smile, one complete with a twinkle of the eye and a raise of an eyebrow. “My reputation precedes me.”
“And what reputation might that be?”
The man chuckled lightly, far from offended. “You cannot deny that I have a reputation.”
“I don’t intend to deny any such thing. I simply wondered if you are aware of what is said of you.”
He leaned an elbow against the counter, watching her with a gaze that was at once curious and assessing. “Let me see if I can sum it up. I am a man of exceptional taste. I run a successful business. I am quick with a word of praise, predisposed toward finding beauty in everything around me. I enjoy banter and flirting, but all the women in the village are warned not to take me too seriously.”
It was, in all honesty, a good summary of what she’d heard.
“You’ve left something off,” she said.
He tipped his head to one side, clearly attempting to sort out what he might have left out.
Tallulah went about her business, wiping the counters and removing finger smudges from the glass displays about the shop, not offering him the least clue.
“You have baffled me, Miss O’Doyle,” he said. “What aspect of my rumored character have I omitted?”
“You neglected to mention the weakness you have for sweets, and”—she motioned to the colorful display on the wall behind her—“your intention to buy a great many confections while you’re here.”
That brought the smile to his face once more. Oh, he had an intriguing smile indeed! His reputation was widely spoken of, as was his ability to cut quite a fine dash. The fact that he was handsome and personable was mentioned at every opportunity. Yet, even with all of these warnings, Tallulah found herself ill-prepared for the impact of his roguish smile and knee-weakening good looks.
She would do well to be on her guard with this one.
Vera’s customers were quick to realize Ganor O’Donnell knew everything about the penny dreadfuls. He was in the shop on his second day of working there, having spent the morning unpacking the latest arrivals and helping get the displays in order. He’d even taken up the job of arranging window displays, something she’d not yet had the time to do that day. All respectable print shops had eye-catching displays. Having that part of the business sorted would bring in more print jobs, and Ganor’s easy and personable discussions of the serials would bring in more penny dreadful customers.
Hiring him had proven a stroke of genius. And yet she couldn’t shake a nagging sense of uncertainty. His knuckles bore the heavy scarring of one who’d seen more than his share of brawls. He was a fighter, though likely not a professional pugilist. She was not unacquainted with men who swung fists as a matter of course, but it still made her a touch nervous having one working in the shop.
Ganor worked hard, but there was an air of distraction about him. Sometimes his mind wandered enough that he didn’t respond when she called out to him. His eyes would take on the strangest look when someone mentioned a penny dreadful author—didn’t seem to matter which one. And he asked a lot of questions.
Still, having him there to lug and deliver things made everything run better. It also allowed her a few more unguarded moments where she could read the penny dreadfuls she loved, despite her feelings of lingering guilt. The stories Papa resented having in the shop gave her a sense of friendship and adventure. She wasn’t certain she could entirely give them up, even for him.
She was rereading the first installment in Mr. King’s latest offering, searching for the clues that he always managed to sprinkle in his writing. Vera took pride in being able to sort out the mystery a little ahead of the story.
“Enjoying it?” Ganor plopped onto the chair beside hers, the both of them sitting at the table near the back of the shop where print orders were taken.
“I always like Mr. King’s stories,” she said. “The mystery and romanticalness.” She stopped a minute. “I’m not certain that’s a word.”
He tossed back one of his heart-fluttering smiles. “Seems to me it ought to be.”
“You have a nice way with the customers,” she said. “Talking with ’em about the penny dreadfuls and helping ’em sort out which ones they’d like best.”
“Are Mr. King’s the ones you like best?” He motioned to the story she still held in her hands.
“I like most all of them.”
“So do I.” They were having a rare quiet moment in the shop, a lull between waves of customers. “Seems odd to me, though; you selling stories when your da is so opposed to ’em.”
She glanced toward the back doorway, wanting to make certain her papa wasn’t near enough to overhear. “The shop weren’t doing well. We sell a good amount of parchment and pens and such things. But, without enough print orders coming in, we needed something else. I knew the penny dreadfuls were popular, and I’d read plenty enough of them to know how to go about selling them. He was spitting fire over it when I first brought ’em here. He still ain’t happy about the whole thing. But it’s kept us afloat.”
Ganor leaned his arms on the table, appearing to settle in for a cozy chat. How long had it been since that had happened with anyone at all? Papa was sometimes talkative over their evening meals, but outside of him she didn’t have a lot of gabs.
“Why is it your da, a man who despises books and tales and the written word, plies his trade as a printer? Seems a contradiction to me.”
“He was a printer in Russia. It’s the trade he knows and the skills he has.” She shrugged, her hands held out to her side. “He never prints any books or stories or bits of fiction. He limits himself to documents and advertisements and pamphlets.”