Page 22 of To Love a Beast

How is your hand healing? Are you following Dr. Haverty's instructions? Don't try to do too much too soon, Papa. As you've always taught me, doing something right requires patience and a commitment to excellence. Those values apply to healing, too. No shortcuts!

I miss you, Papa, and I pray for you every day. Mr. Griffin has been kind enough to give me evenings and Sundays off, so I'll do my best to send letters frequently to keep you apprised on my progress. Don't try to write to me with your injured hand. I don't want to be the cause of impeding your recovery. If something is urgent, you can send a telegram to the attention of Mr. Lightfoot. Otherwise, I'll assume all is well.

May God watch over you until we are together again.

With all my love,

Callista

May 8, 1891

Dear Papa,

How I missed your steadying presence beside me today. My heart pounded with such relentless force, I feared it would escape my chest when I handed Mr. Griffin the first re-covered book for his inspection. I've presented finished products to new customers on multiple occasions, of course, but this one carried so much more significance due to the size of the contract and what it means for the future of our bindery. My knees nearly buckled from the weight of it.

Yet more than financial security played into my nerves. I cared about Mr. Griffin's reaction from a personal standpoint as well. I didn't just want his approval, I wanted his pleasure. I wanted his gaze to lighten and his mouth to curve. Having never met him, you might not understand my emotional investment, but Mr. Griffin has suffered some significant personal tragedy and does not smile easily. How I wish to change that. To give him a reason to smile every time he walks into his library and takes one of his rebound books in hand. Books are magical in that way, don't you think? Capable of eliciting joy even before one opens them. It's why the sight of an abundant library never fails to lift my spirits. But I digress . . .

He smiled, Papa! One had to look closely to catch the shift from flat to slightly less flat, but I'm counting the subtle shift as a smile, and no one can convince me otherwise. His mouth might not have curved more than a few degrees, but I could see the smile in his eye. Did I mention he only has the one? Well, I suppose he might have two, but he wears a patch over his right eye, so I can't be sure. It gives him a rather rakish, piratical air. Very fitting for a man who enjoys adventure novels. That's probably why I selected his copy of Treasure Island to recover first.

I think I held my breath through the entire inspection. It seemed to take forever for him to render a verdict, but his words have been tooled into my memory as surely as his design was tooled into the leather of that first cover.

"Excellent craftsmanship, Miss Rosenfeld."

Excellent! Not "fine" or "acceptable." Excellent. Oh, Papa, I nearly swooned from the satisfaction that flooded through me at his words. My fingers itch to get to work on the rest of his collection.

Now that I have his approval, I plan to work on multiple volumes at once. I've decided to spend tomorrow dismantling books in preparation for the week to come. I'll choose ten books similar in size and remove their existing covers. Then I'll cut new book board panels, leather, and endpapers, so they will be ready to go. I'll only be able to press two books at a time overnight in the smaller binding press I brought with me, so that will limit my pace somewhat, but I doubt I'll be able to complete more than two books working on my own, anyway. I'm not as fast as you when it comes to paring the edges of the leather, and the gold tooling will take considerable time for the more elaborate pattern chosen for the spines. While the covers are more simplistic in style, the straight lines of the rectangular design are less forgiving and will require great concentration and precision to master. Thankfully, the embossing press will make the leafy corner motifs easy to accomplish.

Since Mr. Griffin's books are relatively new, the text blocks will require little, if any, repair, which will save considerable time. I should be able to repurpose many of the headbands and tailbands as well. Mr. Griffin decided on the pale green marbled endpapers as you predicted, though he selected the gold-toned vine pattern I prefer to pair with the blue leather that we will be using for his poetry.

The size of this project threatens to overwhelm me whenever I think of the sheer number of books I will need to recover over the next four to six weeks, so I've limited myself to focusing solely on one shelf at a time. Hopefully, that will help.

I miss your hugs, Papa, and the gentle encouragement you give so generously. I'm doing my best to make you proud.

Callista

May 10, 1891

Dear Papa,

What is it about handsome men that makes them so much more hardheaded than the usual variety? Thank heavens for Mr. Lightfoot. Had he not intervened, I'm afraid I might have done something quite shameful, such as bash the insufferable Mr. Batton over the head with my Bible. I doubt the Lord would have appreciated his holy book being used for such violence, and you know how I abhor the mistreatment of books in any fashion, but if ever there was a man who deserved to be smacked with a heavy tome, it is Ambrose Batton. Never have I met a more arrogant and aggravating man.

It all started when Mrs. Potter invited me to join her and Mr. Lightfoot in town for Sunday services this morning. I was delighted to accept, of course. Mr. Griffin prefers to worship at home. He is a believer, Papa. I've seen the Bible he carries in his satchel when he goes on his long, rambling walks each morning. The book is well worn, the pages fluffed from extensive use. However, he shies away from being around people. Do you recall the eye patch I mentioned? Well, that is only part of the picture. His face bears many scars, enough that ignorant people are often frightened upon seeing him. It saddens my heart. In truth, I barely even notice the scars anymore. His face is just . . . his face. But then I've never been one to care much for how a person looks. How they act is a much truer indicator of their character.

Which brings me back to Mr. Batton. I first encountered him during my initial journey to Manticore Manor. He shared the stage and filled the entire journey with tales of his hunting exploits, much to the delight of Mrs. Dawson, my traveling companion. She fed the man's ego to an alarming degree, which, now that I think about it, probably answers the question I asked at the opening of this letter. Anyway, he made himself quite the nuisance, constantly trying to engage me in conversation and even pulled a book from my hands to force my attention away from the printed page and onto him. Can you imagine such rudeness, Papa? I comforted myself with the knowledge that I need never see him again, but it seems that belief has been proven incorrect. I've since learned that Mr. Batton has leased a hunting cabin in the area. How did I learn this fascinating tidbit of information, you may ask? The man himself made it known when he tried to make off with me from the churchyard.

All right. So that might be a bit dramatic. I doubt he had any nefarious purpose in mind. In fact, he probably thought he was doing me a favor by choosing me from all the other available church women to bless with his attention. What woman wouldn't love to spend time with the handsomest man in town, after all? Me, for one. But he seemed to think I was joking when I made that particular comment. The man not only insinuated himself between me and the lady I'd been speaking to, but he had the audacity to commandeer my arm and place it within his as if we were not only well-acquainted, but courting! Then he started dragging me off toward the street, spouting some kind of nonsense about treating me to a fine lunch at the hotel. As if I would consent to dining alone with a man I barely know! A fact I would have shared with him had he possessed the courtesy to ask me to join him instead of simply assuming I'd be delighted. Thankfully, Mr. Lightfoot recognized my predicament and came to my rescue before I was forced to turn the sword of the Spirit into a cudgel of a more material nature.

I doubt Mr. Batton will continue his pursuit of me after today. Mr. Lightfoot tried his best not to cause a scene, but there were plenty of onlookers to witness the humbling moment, and the look on Mr. Batton's face made his displeasure clear. The eavesdropping crowd included a large number of unattached females, however, who were quick to offer their sympathies along with invitations to Sunday dinner. I didn't linger to discover which lady won his favor, but I'm sure the collective repaired any dents my refusal might have left in his pride.

The entire encounter made me grateful to be working for a man who appreciates the loveliness of a masterful painting or a delightfully descriptive literary phrase more than the fading beauty of a well-proportioned face.

Everett frowned at the sketch before him. The proportions were off somewhere. Perhaps he'd drawn her eyes a bit too large. They were certainly her most arresting feature, though, and deserved to be emphasized. Maybe if he added more volume to her hair . . . He swept his graphite over the page, recalling his bookbinder's glossy chestnut locks pinned up in simple, unadorned beauty that managed to capture his attention and imagination more than any elaborately curled and bejeweled coif that had floated around the society events he'd once attended.

A knock on his bedroom door jolted him from his artistic meditation and had him hurriedly flipping the pages of his large sketchbook to hide the evidence of a subject he had no right to depict.

Tugging the patch down over his injured eye, he straightened in his desk chair and turned to face the door. "Enter."

Lightfoot pushed open the portal and stepped inside, a tray of meat, cheese, and bread in his hands. "Mrs. Potter sends her regards and renews her insistence that you reconsider joining us for meals."