Page 63 of Charlotte
“No.”
The answer warmed her more than it should have.
He glanced at the botany volume still open on the table. “I wanted to ask about that one.”
“The botany book?”
“I want to look at the flower section.”
“For the library?”
“For the library,” he said.
Lottie carried the botany volume to the ledger table and opened the book to the inside cover. “You may borrow it. Though it is heavy.”
“I noticed.”
“And eastern.”
“I noticed that, too.”
“If you put foxglove in tea, I shall be very cross.”
His mouth moved again. “I will bear that in mind.”
He signed the ledger below his first entry.
Peterson.
Still only the surname.
He picked up the botany volume with his left hand and tucked it carefully against the Tennyson. Two of her books now rested beneath his arm.
The sight did something deeply unreasonable to her heart. At the door, he stopped and turned halfway back.
“Miss Bellamy.”
“Yes?”
He seemed to consider one phrase, discard it, and choose another with care. “I will bring it back clean.”
“I know you will.”
His gaze held hers. Lottie felt the weight of what she had said. Not I hope. Not please do. I know.
Trust could be a frightening thing to hand to a man. It could be frightening to receive too, judging by the way he stood with her books against his side and a quiet crease between his brows.
Then he touched the brim of his hat with two fingers. “Good day, Lottie.”
He left before she could answer.
Lottie remained by the table, one hand resting beside the ledger, while his footsteps crossed the porch and faded toward the street.
Lottie.
Not Miss Bellamy.
Not Charlotte.
