Lanier’s eyes sparked at the words new press. Among a small circle of local book collectors, including Austen Hurd, word of Julia’s Capriole Press had leaked across the Atlantic, which gratified her enormously. A year ago her small edition (fifty-five copies on handmade Barcham Green paper) of Virginia Woolf’s Wednesday, an ethereal prose poem (or possibly only a four-page sentence), had stirred interest among London’s small but growing population of wealthy gentlemen ravenous for rare and beautiful books. Add a touch of the refined risqué—a lithesome nude line engraving by Eric Gill—and they’d gone into raptures. New York bred an equally avaricious specimen of bibliophile, the most elite (that was, wealthy and male) of whom congregated at the eminent Grolier Club. Julia’s Capriole Press would never pander to Grolier tastes, of course, but it was a glorious thing to have such devotees, and she longed to feel that pleasure again. Another minor vice.
She stuck to her resolve not to declare herself as a publisher quite yet. “Capriole’s on hiatus, I’m afraid,” she said. “At present I’m merely a collector.” The writerly shine in Lanier’s eyes dimmed at this news.
Calling herself a more garden-variety bibliophile may have deflected one man’s eager attention, but it inflamed the other’s. Austen demanded to know more about her collecting interests. His face was an appealing one: short waves of dark hair coaxed away from his forehead, eyes watchful as a playful dog’s, and skin the color of weak tea. His smile was askew—the right corner of his lower lip sagged, and only one cheek puckered—but it curled his whole face. When she mentioned a fondness for modern fine printing, he concurred with volcanic enthusiasm.
Lanier edged away as the conversation galloped off through talk of the great private presses, of Kelmscott, Ashendene, Doves, and Vale. It swooped around the Roycrofters studio of poor American Elbert Hubbard—lost on the Lusitania, his work now so painfully out of fashion. It flitted out to the brash Californian printers mining typographic gold in San Francisco and dallied over the prettily voluptuous new French editions with pochoir illustrations, of which Austen knew little but begged to hear more.
“I’m sailing to England soon,” he said, his voice furred with a slight lisp. “First time, if you can believe it. I’m going to meet Francis Meynell—do you know him?” Julia knew of Meynell and his Nonesuch Press in London but had not personally met the man. Before she could say as much, Austen’s grin blazed, alight with shoptalk. “Or how about Gibbings, that fellow who’s taken up Golden Cockerel? Gorgeous wood engravings. His Brantôme knocked my socks off.”
“Robert Gibbings, yes. He’s planning a Samson and Delilah next. And”—Julia paused, teasing his open-mouthed anticipation—“they say Eric Gill may join him.”
“In Berkshire?” Austen’s collar had escaped from his lapel, warping the knot of his tie.
The simple question, asked with his disproportionately excited lisp and crooked grin, made Julia laugh. To her astonishment, she couldn’t stop. Rocking her forehead in her palm, she laughed all the more helplessly when he echoed her with his own steady chug.
“I’m sorry,” she choked, wiping tears from her cheeks. “It’s just that look on your face.”
He offered her his handkerchief. “It’s my most devastating effect.” He leaned forward. “There was a young printer named Julia—”
He paused. “—but don’t let her elegance fool ya.
“. . . She dabbed at her eye, afraid she might cry—”
Another pause. Then a rush: “. . . at the sight of a gent so peculiah.”
Julia doubled over in fresh laughter, catching her frock’s shoulder strap just as, mercifully, Duveen’s voice boomed above the party’s commotion.
“Everyone! Lovelies!” Duveen stood near the piano, waving his arms. The sleeves of his dressing gown billowed like nautical flags. The room quieted. Julia and Austen recovered their dignity, more or less, and moved to join Lanier at the front of the crowd.
“I promised a surprise, and you shall have it,” Duveen shouted as two maids passed through with trays of champagne glasses. “Time to announce the next Goldsmith great!”
He glanced about, greeting late arrivals with a wave of his left pinkie. Hope and anxiety jostled on every expression. Suspense grew as he affected hesitation, dithering with fluttery hands. The drama was more cruel than entertaining, and a few brusque voices called out for him to stop farting around.
Duveen laughed, spun, and lifted the back hem of his dressing gown in rude reply. “That’s for you hyenas.” He cued a trill of piano keys to quell the answering barks and howls. “All right, all right, settle down.
“To the century’s next great literary sensation.” His outstretched glass sailed wide as his voice sailed high. “To the next great New Negro voice!”
The crowd seconded his toast, champagne sloshing, but uncertainty shadowed most faces. Who? Which of them was to be lifted into eminence by the coveted Goldsmith imprint? Negro narrowed the field considerably. Standing beside Julia, Logan Lanier had stiffened, alert and unbreathing, all modest charm forgotten. Across the room, Jerome Crockett’s face was a study in dignity, eyes downcast. To hide his gleaming hope?
“To Harlem Angel!” Duveen shouted. “To our very own Eva Pruitt—as brilliant as
