Page 38 of Charlotte

No tall figure waited there.

No one called her name.

She had no letter to read tonight except for the old ones. No sister in the other side of the bed. No certainty from the man she had come to marry.

What she did have was one bundle of brackets, a shelving list, and an almost-yes.

It was not much.

Lottie had always believed a beginning did not need to be large to be real.

She climbed the stairs to her room, set the botany book on the little table, and smoothed her hand over the cover.

Tomorrow, the library would begin.

Perhaps Mr. Peterson would come.

Perhaps he would not.

Either way, Charlotte Bellamy had not crossed half a continent to stop reading at the first difficult page.

Chapter Six

June 22, 1886 — The Meeting Hall

The Wild Rose Ridge library began in the meeting hall with three trunks, one broom, two borrowed tables, and Mrs. Hanford declaring poetry required supervision. If Delly were there, she would argue the romance section needed more supervision to not cause harm while writing in her notebook.

Lottie considered this a very promising start.

The meeting hall had been swept twice already, though dust still hid in the corners as if determined to preserve frontier standards. Benches were pushed against the walls. The morning light came through the tall windows in pale squares across the plank floor. One table had been placed near the front for sorting, and another by the door for what Delly had already begun calling circulation, even though nothing had yet circulated anywhere except Mrs. Beck’s opinions.

Lottie stood in the middle of it all with her hands on her hips and her heart full enough to ache.

Books lay everywhere.

Shakespeare in a careful stack near the window. Several books from Charles Dickens sat beside two worn primers. A row of household guides and practical manuals waiting for Cornelia. The heavy botany volume sat open on the table, its engravings of leaves and blossoms as neat and lovely as prayer. Tennyson lay beside it, still bearing the faint mark from the dock.

It was not much of a library.

It was the most beautiful thing Lottie had ever seen.

Cornelia Montgomery came in carrying a tin of nails, a measuring string, and the expression of a woman who had already fought one battle before breakfast and won by patience.

“Good,” she said, taking in the room. “You have begun without waiting to be told.”

“I hoped that was allowed.”

“In libraries? It is practically required.” Cornelia set the nails on the sorting table. “I have spoken with Mr. Stafford. He believes he can give us two proper shelves by the end of the week, if he is not interrupted by chairs, doors, wagons, or husbands who believe repair requests become urgent only after being ignored all winter.”

“Two shelves,” Lottie said reverently.

“It will feel grand for nearly a day. Then you will need six.”

“I already need six.”

Cornelia laughed. “Then you are a proper librarian.”

A proper librarian.