No, she decided. Not one glimmer of lusty interest, which was just as well. Whatever desire this man might feel, it would be bloodless and shrewd, like the calculating drive for a good price or sound investment. Julia imagined sex between the two Goldsmiths must resemble the labors of unoiled machinery, steel grinding against steel.
So she had only one card to play, his passion for typography. She was more than knowledgeable in that arena herself and could easily match his enthusiasm. She hoped it might again overcome his more general disregard for her as a young person of no significance.
She was in luck. Several framed type specimens and broadsheets were arranged on the back wall. With an avid click of her tongue, she moved to admire them. Goldsmith hesitated, no doubt totting the moments he’d allotted for this interruption and calculating the cost of any digression. Then he followed her to the display.
The type specimens drew her eye first. She admired his copy of the 1734 edition of William Caslon’s proud exhibition of his foundry’s wares, as well as a striking broadsheet of Rudolf Koch’s bold new Neuland. Koch was an accomplished lettering artist, and his type designs captured his calligraphic skills.
The other sheets were title pages, all American of recent vintage. She recognized Goudy’s Elements of Lettering, featuring his long-limbed but endearing Kennerley types, and Bruce Rogers’s recent confection for the Grolier Club, The Pierrot of the Minute. Goldsmith identified other pages as Rogers’s work, and a handsome selection of Elmer Adler’s ephemera work from the Pynson Printers. As she perused this gallery, he narrated its treasures with growing animation, encouraged by the informed dips and nods of her salmon-pink cloche.
“None of your own books, Mr. Goldsmith?”
He tipped his head with satisfaction, explaining that framed selections of the firm’s own publications were displayed in the company library down the hall. Six of his books, he added, since she was interested, had been selected among the nation’s fifty most handsome productions for 1923 and 1924. He hoped to notch an even bigger proportion in the next judging. Any number of other Goldsmith titles, he noted, deserved honor as well. He credited the several designers to whom he entrusted their books, Rogers and Adler preeminently. “And this good man.”
A smiling fellow with a shock of unruly white hair strode into the room. Introduced as Mr. Dwiggins, he handed Goldsmith a pencil-rendered title page board for Willa Cather’s My Mortal Enemy and immediately excused himself. It was beautifully hand-lettered. Of the many arts she longed to master, Julia said truthfully, calligraphy was high on the list. But being left handed, she might as well wish to dance on the moon.
“It’s always a pleasure to share an interest in typography,” Goldsmith said, resuming his business day with tact. “But I understand your visit has another purpose?”
Julia retrieved her portfolio. Oh yes. She too had work to do. And now he looked to her with genuine interest. She realized with a pang that he was a true comrade. In simpler circumstances she would love to talk shop with him about the exciting new typefaces being resurrected from past eras, when the human hand had guided layout and design, before the last century’s shift to soul-killing industrial bookmaking. She dreaded to think what today’s ruse might cost her in future opportunities for such pleasures.
She settled into one of the low-backed chairs, and Goldsmith sat in the other, hands folded around one knee. His fingers were lean, nails buffed to a spotless sheen. He wore no rings. Julia crossed her legs, slowly, discreetly, just to double-check.
She heard the faintest shift in his breathing. His eyes remained lowered, and she knew. He was aware of her legs now. The man did love books more than women, as Austen had joked, but not strictly instead of them. Julia—that rare combination of a reasonably fine-featured young woman with a bibliophile’s heart and mind—had indeed aroused his interest. That gave her a second card to play. With luck it would keep her in the room long enough for her planned gambit.
Goldsmith waited, impatience fading his smile. Julia swiveled to better display her ankle.
“I was told you’re a serious bibliophile, Mr. Goldsmith,” she said, “and now I’ve seen for myself the care that goes into the design of your books. They’re consistently handsome, as attractive as they are legible. I particularly admired that pretty little edition last year of Mrs. Browning’s Sonnets and that stunning title page of Mr. Hergesheimer’s latest. And how refreshing to see colophons in trade books. I wonder why more American publishers don’t follow your lead in this. Colophons can make such a difference in raising readers’ awareness of type, don’t you think? We both know standards could bear a good deal of raising.”
Goldsmith accepted this meandering speech with grace, shadowed by puzzled boredom.
“It’s no secret I’m a fine printer myself,” Julia hurried on. “I was hoping you might look at a sample of my work. It would be a great honor to design something for you—something small, a pamphlet or catalog, perhaps. It would be an honor to play even a tiny part in your distinguished company, Mr. Goldsmith.” She readied the blue leather portfolio in her lap.
Goldsmith listened, dark eyes alert behind hooded lids. He straightened. “Thank you for thinking of our firm, Miss Kydd, but Mr. Adler supervises all of our typographic work.”
“Will you at least look?” She patted her skirt, smoothing it toward her knee.
At this he extended his hand and accepted the portfolio. Julia continued to smile, willing him to glance through the entire stack of sketches. Fortunately, her examples were credibly informed by the latest developments in type design and typography. She’d handed Goldsmith half a dozen title page drawings modeled on recent editions from French and British publishers of the sort she thought Goldsmith might like. She wanted to pique just enough interest to make sure
