Page 51 of The Battle of the Bookshops
“My mate at Exeter Uni, Brynlee Ann Roberts, if you’ve heard of her?” Charlie raised his eyebrows in inquiry, but Jules shook her head. “Actually, it’sProfessorBrynlee Ann Roberts. Well, she’s written a book on the witch hunts, done a podcast, all that stuff. Anyhow, she’s doing a paper on some weird folk customs thing, mainly down in Cornwall. She loved the sound of the grimoire, so I pinged her the transcript, and she says she wants to meet us. She’s got ‘thoughts.’”
“Ooh! What?” Jules demanded.
“She won’t tell me on the phone. I’m going to Exeter next week, to meet up with her for lunch. Want to come?”
“Is the pope Catholic? Absolutely! You should come too,” Jules told Flo as she appeared with a tray of tea.
“Ah, no, sadly I’m not free this Monday,” explained Flo when the opportunity was explained to her.
“Hot date with keen amateur chef man?”
“I wish.” Flo smiled. “No, I’ve finally got around to making an appointment and getting our darling solicitor to dig out these deeds and see where we are with this tedious lease renewal. I’m due there midday, or I’d come with you. Doubtless it’ll cost a couple of thousand to get whatever it is sorted.”
Jules blew out her cheeks. It was a depressing thought, but she was sure Flo was right. Legal stuff could be pricey.
“To be honest, I’ve been putting it off because we didn’t have the funds,” Flo went on, “but business is doing so well, now is the time, and I really can’t ignore it any longer.”
“You don’thaveto do it,” insisted Roman, having pinned his father down over breakfast in the family’s enormous kitchen.
“But why on earth would I not?” his father growled, generously buttering his second slice of toast. “We own the land. They don’t. They could have extended their lease or offered to buy the freehold from us at any point over the last hundred years. It would only have cost a few thou if they’d done it sooner, but they didn’t. Now, it’s simple: they pay, or they lose.”
“And you literally get a free building. A highly valuable building.”
“Business acumen, my boy,” Henry boomed expansively. “It is skillful handling of the family’s assets that paid for your education, for this house—all the advantages you and your sister enjoy in life.”
“‘Acumen’ and ‘skillful handling,’ my foot,” exploded Roman, grabbing his scalp and tugging at his hair in frustration. “My great-great-uncle or whoever gambled on the turn of a card. There was no skill in that, just a lucky, drunken bet that paid off. Good on him,” he went on sarcastically. “Way to continue the rift, to continue the way the Montbeaus exploit the Capelthornes, to crush them, humiliate them, ruin them... Why do we do it? Let’s face it, no one can even remember anymore. And so, it continues... another hundred years of hate.”
“So, who is it that’s filled your head with all this nonsense?” his father sneered. “It’s that Capelthorne girl, isn’t it? Maggie’s child. If she’s anything like her mother—”
“Stop!” Roman shouted. “Her name is Julia. And if youdareto say anything negative about her or her family, I will walk out of that door, and—I swear to God—you will never see me again.”
Roman’s mother gasped, and he turned to her. “Ma,” he said softly, “you have to listen, both of you... I love her. She’s the one.”
“Darling,” she said, holding out her arms, smiling sadly. Roman went to her and hugged her. He was so huge, and she was so tiny, she nearly disappeared from view. “I just want you to be happy,” she said into his chest. “Bring her here. Maybe your father will come ’round.”
“What? No! I’m not subjecting her to this family,” said Roman firmly. “Not unless I have your word you will not use this ridiculous legal technicality to remove her entire family’s assets. You’d also be making an elderly woman homeless, taking away everything she’s ever known, her livelihood too,” Roman said to his father, who was now looking abashed as he finished his coffee.
“I’m sorry, son,” he replied, “but it is what it is. Just business.”
Jules was dying to tell Roman about the mysterious developments around Bridget Capelthorne’s story, but he had proved elusivesince their row after the supper at Gabriel and Imogen’s house. Normally, they would have had one of their walks or at least a quick coffee at Finn’s by now.
She missed him. Their daytime meetings—fit around a busy work life—had quickly adopted the form of freewheeling conversations about every topic in the universe. When their viewpoints aligned, Jules felt more validated—seen—than she had ever felt in her life before. When their viewpoints differed, Jules could not remember ever being more fascinated by another person’s opinion. And if that all sounded too serious, Jules smiled at the memory of the many times they gently took the piss out of each other, she mused as she dusted the shelves before opening.
More romantically, Jules also loved spending the evening in Roman’s apartment up at his grand Middlemass family house, but she was shy about bumping into the rest of his family and had avoided staying overnight. Also, she was keen not to leave Aunt Flo on her own in the flat above the shop too long—not now that she had fallen and injured herself.
Who could ever have imagined she and Roman would have developed this—whateverthiswas—so easy and yet so intense? Perhaps it was that sense of things being too good to be true that had rattled Roman so much, Jules pondered, starting to feel bad she had been so angry with him. She got it. She felt that way too... as if their happiness and good fortune were more than they could reasonably hope for, as if fate was bound to have some cruel twist up its sleeve, just ready to crash down on their world. Why not? It was a Capelthorne and Montbeau liaison after all. When had that combination of factors ever gone well in the past?
But could all that have ended now, as a result of her losing her temper? Maybe... if four days’ radio silence was anything to go by.
Her phone pinged.
Supper?it said.
Roman had cooked them steak and salad, with baked potatoes. It was his favorite meal, but he was barely eating, Jules noticed. Instead, he was already on his second glass of the wine she had brought, a smooth, full-bodied red she knew he liked. He sat, watching her eat, his eyes fixed hungrily on her over the rim of his glass, as if only the intensity of his gaze could keep her there in front of him. The candle between them flickered, emphasizing the dark circles under his eyes and the chiseled planes of his face.
At a loss to understand his mood, Jules kept up a light flow of chat about Flo and her fancy man, about Merlin’s antics, and about her and Charlie’s planned trip to Exeter the following day, to hear about the grimoire.
“What about Flo? Is she not going too?” he said, obviously making a palpable effort to sound interested.
