Tour Stop: The Library Thief by Kuchenga Shenje

 

THE LIBRARY THIEF

Author: Kuchenga Shenjé

Publication Date: May 6, 2024

ISBN: 9781335909695

Hardcover

Publisher: Hanover Square Press

Price $29.99

 

The library is under lock and key. But its secrets can't be contained.

A strikingly original and absorbing mystery about a white-passing bookbinder in Victorian England and the secrets lurking on the estate where she works, for fans of Fingersmith and The Confessions of Frannie Langton

 

1896. After he brought her home from Jamaica as a baby, Florence's father had her hair hot-combed to make her look like the other girls. But as a young woman, Florence is not so easy to tame—and when she brings scandal to his door, the bookbinder throws her onto the streets of Manchester.

Intercepting her father's latest commission, Florence talks her way into the remote, forbidding Rose Hall to restore its collection of rare books. Lord Francis Belfield's library is old and full of secrets—but none so intriguing as the whispers about his late wife.

Then one night, the library is broken into. Strangely, all the priceless tomes remain untouched. Florence is puzzled, until she discovers a half-burned book in the fireplace. She realizes with horror that someone has found and set fire to the secret diary of Lord Belfield's wife–which may hold the clue to her fate…

Evocative, arresting and tightly plotted, The Library Thief is at once a propulsive Gothic mystery and a striking exploration of race, gender and self-discovery in Victorian England.

 

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Excerpted from THE LIBRARY THIEF by Kuchenga Shenjé. Copyright © 2024 by Kuchenga Shenjé. Published by Hanover Square Press, an imprint of HarperCollins.

The story starts with a scandal that I thought would end my life. Fortunately, my scandal didn’t kill anyone. In fact, it pales in comparison with what I went on to discover at Rose Hall.

Thus far, the way I see it, in any good life you need to die several times to really lead a life worth living. There are little deaths and there are big deaths. My tale has both—and the real tragedy would be if this story were to die with me.

I was lying when I swore I would take this secret to my grave. I had no right to promise that.

*

 

 

Granger’s Bookbinders,

143 Long Millgate,

Manchester,

 

Rose Hall,

Lancashire,

November 20, 1896

Dear Mr. Granger,

I trust this note finds you in good health and that business is as steady as when last we met some years ago.

I write to you with an unusual commission. I will not trouble you here with the details of my current circumstances. Since the untimely death of my beloved wife, Lady Persephone, it seems the fates are in conspiracy against me. Suffice it to say that I find myself now in need of your excellent services and on a far grander scale than before.

 

The library at Rose Hall is, as you are aware, extensive. I am proud of the rarity and quality of the books it now houses, a collection that I have painstakingly curated over many years. I now find myself in the unhappy position of seeking a buyer for my collection. Many of the books, due to their age and mishandling by less cautious owners, are badly in need of restoration. There are perhaps some two hundred such artifacts. The nature of my circumstances make it necessary that this work be carried out to the highest quality and with the greatest rapidity. Since no bookbinder in the North West possesses skills equal to yours, I thought of you at once.

Please inform me as soon as you are able whether it is within your means to accept such a commission.

Your obliged and affectionate friend,

Lord F. Belfield

 

 

 

1

 

I fell in love with the feel of the cotton before I fell in love with the books. Leather felt too masculine and reptilian. Cloth was so much warmer and didn’t slip out of my hands as easily. As a child I played underneath the tables and made toy families from the scraps that fell at my father’s boots.

He would never talk to me about where the cloth we used came from, nor the contents of the books we worked on. There were a lot of things my father wouldn’t tell me, and rather than keeping me ignorant, his silence made me more curious. And fortunately, I was surrounded by the means to nourish that cu­riosity.

Most of the time we spent together as I grew up was in si­lence, folding, beveling and smoothing. I sometimes wished my fingers could be as thick as his; he didn’t grimace when school­ing leather and cloth into precise lines under his digital tute­lage. I tried to be like my father, but all the books he left lying around gave me opinions.

 

 

* * *

I arrived at the front door of Rose Hall looking more ragged than I would have liked. My breath was far from fresh, and the hair pins and clips I had used to imprison the frizzier strands had been loosened by the bumps of the rickety carriage. I had been dropped at the top of a tree-lined drive that was at least a quarter mile long, if not more. The December mists obscured my vision, and I could only just make out the shape of a grand house, the likes of which I had only really seen on biscuit tins in the windows of Manchester’s new department store, though I had imagined them as I read Brontë, Austen and Radcliffe. Even with the curls of mist in the air, I could tell this was a very English dwelling. As I approached it my feet slipped and shifted on the gravel, unused to navigating such terrain after only walk­ing on cobbled streets and across wooden floors.

Lord Francis Belfield of Rose Hall had been my father’s long-standing customer. He was the only man I’d ever seen look lux­urious without any air of pomposity. The men of Manchester were not known for wearing velvet, so the sheen of his jackets always marked him out as distinguished. It felt completely fit­ting that Rose Hall was an ode to symmetry and a more taste­ful example of the grandiosity of the mid-eighteenth century. It was an early Georgian home of Lancashire sandstone. Even though my father hadn’t mentioned it, the period of the build­ing’s erection and the mercantile success of Lord Francis Belfield were all I needed to know to deduce that the building and its grounds had been purchased with plantation wealth.

I knocked on the forest-green door and left my suitcases on the ground, hoping that looked more elegant than being strained down by the weight of my clothes, books and binding tools. In my pocket, my fingers found the folds of Lord Belfield’s let­ter. I inhaled, recalling once more the story I had so carefully rehearsed.

The door opened and a pair of prominent blue eyes glared at me through the crack. “Well?”

“Miss Florence Granger for Lord Francis Belfield, please.”

I took in the lines, too many for the face of someone who was still clearly a young man. The hand holding the door open was rough and calloused.

“He is expecting me,” I added.

“No ’e is not.”

I blinked, having not expected resistance this soon.

“I assure you I arrive here at the request of Lord Belfield him­self. I am from Granger’s of Manchester.”

The door widened and there stood a long-limbed boy of no more than twenty. His movements were almost feline. The way he handled the door without effort despite its apparent heavi­ness was quite a marvel.

“We are bookbinders. I’ve been sent to care for your master’s collection.” I retrieved the letter from the pocket of my coat and held it out.

He made no move to take it, but instead chewed his bottom lip, realizing there was truth to my words but clearly uncon­vinced by me. A female tradesperson at the door to Rose Hall was probably not a common occurrence.

“Young man, I excuse you of your impertinence, but I have been traveling for some hours and would like to rest,” I told him, trying a sterner approach. “Please fetch your master.”

“’E don’t rise before midday most days anymore. You can wait in the kitchens, if you like.”

Now it was my turn to falter. I had no way of assessing how appropriate this was. Should I be seated in the parlor? If I al­lowed myself to be taken to the kitchens, was I aligning myself with the downstairs staff? I was an artisan, not a servant. But a sharp ripple through my stomach made the decision for me.

“Very well, so long as your offer comes with a cup of tea.” I sighed and crouched down to pick up my suitcases.

“No, m’lady. I’ll tek those.”

He ushered me into the reception hall, lifting my bags up to his sides as if they weighed nothing at all. The door chuffed itself closed behind us with a low groan. The darkness of the perimeter indicated that there was no draft coming through, nor a single sliver of light. A curtain hung to the right of it and the man gave it a sharp tug. It concealed the entrance entirely once pulled across, an odd choice. It gave the sense of being sealed into the house somehow—not being able to see where one could escape.

Stepping into the hall, I was compelled to look up. It was a huge atrium, with dark green textured walls and candles placed at regular intervals which gave the illusion of a warm, close space. He led me over a black-tiled floor, underneath a vast yet delicate brass chandelier aglow with coppery bulbs. At the back of the hall, under the bifurcated staircase, he opened a hid­den door which led down to the kitchen. Before I had reached the bottom the herbaceous and deeply woody smells of the kitchen came wafting up to greet me. It was divine. But when we reached the flagstoned room I saw there was nothing on the stove; I could only imagine that months of cooking in a room with such small windows had baked the scent into the walls.

I was seated at a wooden table facing an array of copper pans and white jugs with the high windows behind me. It was clearly a kitchen intended for many staff, but there was none of the ex­pected bustle. Where was everyone? I shifted uncomfortably as I cast about for something to say, before realizing that I didn’t know the young man’s name.

“What is your name?”

“Wesley.”

“Wesley what?”

He gave me a strange look. “Bacchus. Wesley Bacchus. I’m the footman.”

He was telling me that as a footman, his surname did not matter. Of course there was no reason that I, as a craftswoman, should know the intricacies of these hierarchies, but I sat in si­lence, not wanting to betray myself further by speaking again.

I was grateful when the cook came in some minutes later—from a pantry, I imagined—but she barely looked in my direc­tion, merely banging a pan of water onto the stove. My stomach growled something fierce when she entered, almost as if my belly knew that I was meeting the person in charge of feeding the house.

I waited for her to acknowledge me, while Wesley contin­ued to look on with a smile playing about his lips. But she only retrieved a mug and a caddy, before placing a steaming tea in front of me with a snort. My shoulders slumped. I hadn’t ex­pected to be treated as a lady, but had hoped for at least some respect. Would my father have received such a poor greeting? I sipped the tea, grateful for its sweetness and warmth as the cook clattered about with her back to me. As I finished, she returned to the table with a thick slice of ham sandwiched between two slices of bread. There was also a large apple on the plate and in her other hand was a pewter cup of water. She’d clearly heard my stomach. But her face showed no compassion as she laid the blessed offering on the table.

With one last assessing glance at me, Wesley left, and the cook returned to the stove, making it clear she had no intention of speaking to me. I decided I could forget my manners just as she had hers, and devoured the most delicious meal I’d had in weeks. Salty ham on pillowy bread, with a delightfully sour apple and water that tasted like it came from the purest spring to cleanse my palate. After greedily wiping the crumbs off the plate with one of my fingers, I took out A Christmas Carol from my coat pocket and started reading until the words on the page began to blur. The beast of a carriage I had traveled in overnight had creaked with the strain of being drawn up even the slightest in­cline. Combined with the cold that jolted me from slumber, I had only been able to sleep in fits and bursts.

I awoke, suddenly, with my head on my crossed arms in front of me and my wrist soaking wet from my dribble. The plate and pewter cup had been taken away and Wesley was standing above me, a mocking smile about his thickish lips.

“I’m sorry to wake you, Miss. Lord Belfield says he’ll see you now.”

Wesley led me back upstairs, and down a corridor. As we passed a tall, gilded mirror, I stopped, horrified by my reflec­tion. My hair, after only days left to its own devices, was now once again completely untamed. My eyes were bloodshot with fatigue and my skin was pale, making my freckles stand out. Hastily, I tried to force my frizzed hair back beneath its pins as Wesley stopped too. He watched me with amusement until I had done the best I could, and we continued on our way.

I thought back to the last time I had seen Lord Francis Belfield. His best features were his long fingers, which were always en­cased in tight kid gloves that he never took off. Oh, and the smell of him! Rich pepper with a botanical soapy undertone, which always impressed me. Not in a way that would make me swoon. He’s not the kind of man a girl like me is meant to fall in love with. No, what I felt was awe. A man of his fortune had surely seen more of the world than most. He’d have tales of Saint Petersburg, Constantinople and Siam. If only I could ask him. The need to convince him of my employability made doing so inappropriate.

The door opened onto the parlor, and immediately I could see that the man I remembered from our shop was very dif­ferent from the man who sat in front of me. He was wearing a turmeric-colored silk waistcoat embroidered with indigo plants, paired with dark trousers. He had clearly dressed hastily, and a thread toward the bottom of his trousers was loose and trailing on the floor by his feet. I inhaled deeply but could not catch the spiced vegetal scent that usually accompanied his presence. He was much thinner than when I had last seen him, and his eyes drooped as if he had suffered many a sleepless night. He stood up from his seat to shake my hand but returned to it quickly as if he couldn’t bear to hold himself up for too long.

“My name is Florence Granger, sir,” I began, but he waved a hand.

“Yes, yes, I remember you. But why has your father sent you all this way without an escort? It must have been a fright­ful journey.”

“Oh, no, Lord Belfield. The journey was fine.” I cleared my throat to make space for the bigger lie. “My father sent me to complete the work on your collection that you requested.”

He looked at me aggrieved. Offended, even. The way his fore­head crumpled made me more aware of the thinning hair at his temples. Even disheveled, he was no less handsome. However, I pondered whether he might feel a sense of loss for the way he used to look. On my previous viewings of him, he looked like someone who was used to being seen and spoken of as a very handsome “young” man. Although he wasn’t superbly weath­ered, he now had the face of a man who had endured. A sad wisdom brought the tops of his eyelids a little lower. His jaw­line was a bit less tenderly set because his teeth were more used to being gritted together from stress. I supposed it was grief. He had lost his wife less than a year before, after all, leaving him with only his son.

“Why on earth would he do that? This hasn’t even been dis­cussed. Had he accepted the commission, I would have had the books sent to Manchester.”

Ah. This I had not considered. I remembered the words on the letter. I was sure that it was an invitation to stay and restore the library. My mouth was dry as I prepared my next lie.

 

Author Bio: 

KUCHENGA SHENJÉ is a writer, journalist, and speaker with work on many media platforms, including gal-dem, British Vogue and Netflix. She has contributed short stories and essays to several anthologies, most notably It’s Not OK to Feel Blue (and Other Lies), Who’s Loving You and Loud Black Girls. Owing to a lifelong obsession with books and the written word, Kuchenga studied creative writing at the Open University. Her work is focused on the perils of loving, being loved and women living out loud throughout the ages. The Library Thief is the ultimate marriage of her passions for history, mystery and rebels. She currently resides in Manchester, where she is determined to continue living a life worth writing about. 

 

PRAISE: 

“Shenjé rightfully joins a distinguished line of authors who love books and secrets and know exactly how to combine the two.”—Booklist

 

"A tantalizing read that swells with secrecy and intrigue. It's hard to believe that Kuchenga Shenjé writes of the past, and not of the present. A beautifully and skillfully written debut."—Candice Carty-Williams, bestselling author of Queenie

"Shenjé shines a light on LGBTQIA+ love and people of color in Victorian England... Fans of Sarah Waters and Bridget Collins might have in Shenjé a new author to add to their TBR lists."—Library Journal

 

"Powerful, sagacious and warm, The Library Thief is both a gripping, multi-layered mystery and a gorgeously absorbing novel that demanded I return to its pages whenever I had the audacity to set it down. Without a doubt, Shenjé's wholly original debut has bestseller written all over it."—Joanne Burn, author of The Hemlock Cure
 
"A compelling novel that starts as a mystery and grows into a coming-of-age story, examining identity, belonging, loneliness and friendship within the restrictive and stifling world of late Victorian society. The Library Thief is filled with fantastically drawn characters and with a love of books that shines through the prose."—Katie Lumsden, author of The Secrets of Hartwood Hall

 "If this book's a thief of anything—it was my attention. I was hooked, the story opening with the tantalizing traditions of a gothic mystery and then unfurling in unexpected directions, threading themes of identity, sexuality and a woman's impossible choices into an intricate web of mysteries that would not let me go."—Cari Thomas, international bestselling author of Threadneedle