The Grenadillo Box: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

such matters, but Alice was unlike anyone who’d previously fanned my amorous flames (and I readily confess to generosity in several quarters). She was tall, almost to my shoulder, with bright auburn hair to match her fiery temper, and none of the curves that usually enchant me. Her chief drawback—or was it this that drew me?—was her reputation for awkwardness. I worried that if I declared my admiration she might scoff, as I’d seen her do on several occasions when offered an unwelcome compliment. She might then grow cold, avoiding my presence thereafter. I’m not timid when it comes to making advances, but neither am I so foolish as to go courting humiliation. And yet, with the swagger of one who’s enjoyed more successes than failures, I trusted she would succumb to my charm, provided I picked my moment carefully.
    As I said, I knew that Chippendale avoided dealings with the Goodchild yard because he deemed them dishonest, and yet when he sent me in search of wood, I reasoned there was little purpose in trying the usual suppliers and decided to take myself there. In truth (though I barely acknowledged this to myself) it was Alice, not her wood, that drew me. But all the while I made my way to her premises my apprehensions mounted. By the time I tried the gates to the front of the building in the Strand and discovered them to be locked, my courage had begun to ebb. When I entered an alley leading to the yard behind, I had determined to concentrate first on the business in hand, and to assess my chances in the other direction as I went along.
    Light spilled from a window of a modest Dutch-gabled cottage bordering the far limit of the yard. I knocked at the door and was instructed to enter. In a small, low-ceilinged, astonishingly disorderly front parlor, Alice Goodchild sat on one side of an oak gateleg table, with her account books open. Opposite, busily conjugating Latin verbs, was a young boy. A bright fire burned in the grate, and a smoky tallow candle bathed their faces in a halo of yellow, shrouding much of the chaotic room in sympathetic shade. Nonetheless I could vaguely discern that all about the walls were heaped up piles of ledgers and papers, jumbled together with a broken chair, a pewter kettle, assorted pieces of crockery, and a couple of unlit candlesticks. A pungent smell of burning seemed to emanate from the open door leading to the kitchen.
    “Forgive me for calling here, Miss Goodchild,” I said, bowing to her. “I had thought to find you at the yard.”
    She looked a little startled to see me in her private abode, yet she did not ask my business. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hopson. The yard is closed early since my foreman has journeyed home to his family for Christmas” was all she said.
    “I should not have called…. I see you are engaged.” I gestured to the table piled high with papers.
    “As you see, I have my books to occupy me.” She paused for a moment, glancing into the shadows to the muddle of papers, crockery, and books, before adding with a distracted smile, “My apologies for receiving you thus. My brother and I rarely keep company and, as to the smell, our supper has burned while I was about my figures.”
    I could not but reflect that the acrid stench and the jumble of papers cascading over every surface could do nothing to detract from the delightful effect of that fleeting smile. Her brown eyes shone warmly, and a few mahogany curls had escaped the cap confining them and fell about her face in attractive disarray. If she had been any other woman I would have made clear my sentiments—complimented her, paid court to her—but her reputation for sharpness kept me wary.
    “You have no need to apologize, Miss Goodchild, it is a perfectly charming parlor,” I responded courteously. “Perhaps I should return at some other more convenient time, for I come to discuss the possibility of supplies for Mr. Chippendale.”
    She seemed delighted at the opportunity to do business with my