The Tearoom Library, No. 041 — The Blue Flower

Author: Penelope Fitzgerald
Genre: Historical Fiction / Literary Fiction / Philosophical Romance
Rating: ★★★★

Follow-Up Reading:

• Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather
  (for quiet spiritual beauty, restrained prose, and a sense of history felt through atmosphere rather than plot)

• The Man Who Was Thursday by G.K. Chesterton
  (for philosophical tension, symbolism, and the strange collision between idealism and reality)

• Kristin Lavransdatter by Sigrid Undset
  (for emotionally intelligent historical fiction shaped by faith, love, and moral seriousness)

In the Mind of Novalis

In order to understand this novel and its complexities, I had to do some reading about the poet on whom it was based.

Fritz, the protagonist, had a short but impactful life in the world of literature and philosophy—but I had not heard of him until I picked up The Blue Flower and my instinct told me to know him better.

Born Friedrich von Hardenberg in 1772, he would later take the name Novalis. He was a German Romantic poet, philosopher, and early figure in the intellectual movement of Romanticism. He came from a noble Saxon family and was trained in law, but his life was marked more by intellectual inquiry and poetic imagination than by public career.

He is best known for his fragmentary philosophical writings and lyrical poetry, especially Hymns to the Night, which reflects on love, death, and transcendence following the early death of his fiancée, Sophie von Kühn. His brief romance with Sophie is the most obvious plot arc in The Blue Flower, but as you will see in this post, I found other aspects of the book to be far more interesting.

Novalis’ unfinished novel Heinrich von Ofterdingen introduced the famous Romantic symbol of the “blue flower,” representing longing, artistic desire, and the pursuit of the infinite.

We catch glimpses of these ideas in Fitzgerald’s novel—seeds planted early in the mind of a young man destined to work in the salt mine industry.

By the time Novalis died of tuberculosis at 28, most of his family had already died before him.

He left behind a small but highly influential body of work that shaped German Romantic thought and its emphasis on inner life, spirituality, and the merging of poetry with philosophy.

The Poet on Washing Day

The Blue Flower had been sitting on my shelf for quite a while.

I knew that Penelope Fitzgerald had been considered one of the greatest female writers in recent times, but the book cover, for one, did not give me much of a hint about what her novel was about. A pair of eyes, staring out at me from a solid blue background—such a cover could be the face of a book about anything.

I soon realized that The Blue Flower was a puzzle because it follows the life of a man who lived his life pondering puzzles. In the era of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, protagonist Fritz von Hardenberg offers a glimpse into the intellectual movements of his time.

Fritz was not an immediately likeable character because he seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once. For example, in the first chapter, we see his family hard at work on washing day. Laundry was not a minor household chore in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries; it was an exhausting domestic ritual that often consumed an entire day, sometimes longer. Clothes and linens had to be hauled by hand, boiled in great vats of water, scrubbed with lye soap, wrung out, dried, ironed, and folded without the help of modern machines.

For many families, washing day structured the rhythm of the household itself. It was labor-intensive, communal, and overwhelmingly performed by women, whose work kept the family functioning and respectable.

In The Blue Flower, beginning the novel on washing day quietly grounds Fritz’s philosophical wandering in the physical reality maintained by the women around him. There is no evidence that he was not helping them (though there are plenty of passages that make clear how washing was primarily the responsibility of the women—his mother, Auguste, and his sister Sidonie, whom I will return to later in this post).

Fritz comes off as absent-minded and detached from reality. When I realized that I was judging him for that reason, I forced my train of thought to change. I, myself, am more often than not disconnected from reality. I will be doing my chores dutifully while pondering the life of an albatross or replaying in my memory a conversation that I believe could have ended better. Fritz, in this sense, is not so different from me; if I dislike Fritz, it means that I dislike this part of myself.

See what I did there? This is a novel full of philosophical puzzles, circles that never quite end, contradictions that—in their own strange way—make sense after the fact.

The Book Drew Me Back

Because Fitzgerald utilized the philosophical arcs so masterfully, once I had finished reading this novel the first time, I could not resist the impulse to return to the first chapter—to absent-minded Fritz on washing day—in order to piece together the hints she had dropped, the riddles I missed, and decide how I felt about each individual character.

Characters are most often the driving force of a good book for me. I can tolerate a subpar plot if the character is memorable, if they make mistakes I can sympathize with, if they mess up and try to rebuild their life (or even if they take more sinister paths in search of fulfillment, such as in the case of Sydney Carton in A Tale of Two Cities).

Fritz might have been the focus in The Blue Flower, but I did not find him to be the most interesting character at all. More memorable than Fritz is his six-year-old brother, the Berthold, who speaks without filter and spares no one’s feelings when he thinks it is time to be blunt. Of him, one of the characters later in the novel says: “Not all children behave childlike.”

When I read that line, I was reminded of my fascination this year with children in literature. Peter Pevensie defeating Maugrim is not a child behaving childlike in the “acceptable” sense. Mary Lennox, with her broken spirit tending the secret garden, takes more responsibility for her own self-improvement than most adults I know. And Hamnet in Hamnet makes a sacrifice that bewilders even death.

Not all children behave childlike. There is no fixed age for wisdom, or for being right. We do children a disservice when we convince ourselves they cannot understand the more complicated matters of life.

And this brings me to the idea that there is really no fixed age for love—all modern nuances aside—as The Blue Flower demonstrates when Fritz becomes an apprentice and falls for his master’s twelve-year-old daughter, Sophie.

As a love interest, aside from the fact that she is not even developed into a woman yet, I found Sophie to be a disappointment. I had the sense that Fritz was so caught in what Fitzgerald describes as “the kingdom of the mind” that he gave little thought to love and what it meant. He fell—or thought he fell—for Sophie, with her crude jokes and uncomplicated view of the world, and her ability to simplify what he constantly complicated.

By the end of the novel, I was unconvinced that he was ever in love with her in the sense that we understand love. She was there at a time when he was maturing into the age of love; in his intelligence, he was also too innocent to fully register her age. She paid attention to him, listened to his dense speeches, and perhaps gave him opportunities to laugh that he did not find with his family.

I sincerely do not believe he was in love with her.

However, he did care for her.

A Note from the Margins

I keep returning to the women in this book, even after I’ve finished it, as if the story is still quietly unfolding around them.

What follows is less summary and more of a personal reading of what stayed with me after the final page.

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New to the story? Start here:

Even I was surprised by the fierce questions that slipped from my mouth, words intended to wound Aunt Flora, an instinct most unlike me. Where is he? I had asked, referring to her husband, a man I had never met. Why isn’t there a single photo?

While the questions were valid, I regretted at once having sunk so low.

Aunt Flora froze. So long was her silence that I began to wonder if she would storm off. Perhaps, with these questions, I had won the verbal sparring match. However, her eyes flashed, and she replied, her calm and steady tone more unnerving than a shout would have been.

“In life, we must do things we don’t like. Women, in particular, frequently must make choices to survive. Sometimes, it involves marrying men we do not love. That was my lot in life, Rosamund. Don’t you dare judge me.”

I hadn’t expected such a calm, well-measured response. It cowed me into lowering my voice, until it was scarcely more than a whisper. “I won’t judge you, so long as you don’t judge me, either.”

Aunt Flora returned to the topic at hand, that of my leaving. “If you go now—if you make this choice—you’ll never be able to settle. Not in that place.” I frowned, for it sounded as though she knew about the Tearoom.

It sounded as if she knew where I intended to go.

She continued: “I had an unhappy marriage, but at least he left me a house. I have a haven in which to rest.” Pausing, she finished: “It’s not worth sacrificing peace for the adventure.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but was interrupted when I heard a sound from outside of the window—bells, a male voice singing softly into the night. I did not need to look in order to know who it was.

Matthew came early! I thought, turning to the window as hope began to glow in my heart for the first time all night.

I found myself frowning in confusion, for the sounds that reached me were not those of a car. Instead, I heard the clip-clop of hooves. Remembering Matthew’s reaction to cars at the supermarket earlier, I understood.

Of course he would not have come in a car.

“Whoa!” he shouted at the wearer of the bell.

I felt myself smile. I had been reading Anne of Green Gables; Matthew Cuthbert would arrive with a horse and buggy.

“I’m leaving now,” I said to Aunt Flora. “Say hello to Kate for me.”

My aunt did move to stop me as I slipped on my heavy backpack and seized the handle of my suitcase. She allowed me to move past her without attempting to continue our argument. She let me move as if I were a ghost, nothing more.

I did not waste precious time looking around the house I was leaving. It wasn’t worth the time involved; this had never truly been my home.

Opening the door, my heart softened to find Matthew Cuthbert waiting at the doorstep. Behind him, in the light of the moon, I could make out the silhouette of a horse and buggy.

Matthew looked meek as usual, wearing a coat just a tad too large for him, as if he was trying to vanish into it by melting into the sleeves.

“Are ye ready?” he asked, with his awkward smile.

Before I could reply, Aunt Flora spoke over my shoulder.

“I suppose it makes sense,” she said to Matthew, her words stony, “that the man who brought the child here should be the one to take her.”

Matthew didn’t reply at first. When at last he spoke, it was simply to say: “It had to be done.”

“You should leave her alone,” Aunt Flora spat. “She needs a roof over her head, not a fairy tale.”

I listened, baffled. Flora and Matthew were speaking as if they had met before.

My aunt continued: “She’s been safe with me all this time.”

Matthew replied calmly: “She was always meant to go back.” With a tip of his hat, he reached for the handle of my suitcase and turned to me with a kind smile.

“We’re off, then,” he said.

I nodded, watching him carry my suitcase in the direction of the buggy.

“Rosamund,” Aunt Flora said behind me—once, pleadingly, almost affectionately, and how I had longed to hear that affection during my stay here.

“Good-bye,” I said, stepping into the cool air beyond, the weight of my backpack making my movements awkward but determined all the same.

Matthew loaded my suitcase into the buggy. He did so as if it were the most ordinary thing for buggies to be traveling the streets in 2026. He took my heavy backpack and placed it with the suitcase.

From the entrance to the house, I heard Aunt Flora call again, “Rosamund!”

For a moment, I did not move. You could go back, my conscience reminded me. Perhaps it would be different now. Perhaps she would treat you kindly. Perhaps this house would start to feel like a home.

Even as I fantasized about these things, I knew that there was no changing my mind. In one day, Matthew Cuthbert, Cassandra Austen, and Lucy Craven had made it clear that my story was meant to move forward, not back.

“Ready?” Matthew asked, noticing my pause.

“Yes,” I said.

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If you want to sit and escape into the Tearoom for a longer stretch of time, on May 30, you’ll be able to do so, for it will be published. Preorder the Kindle eBook of Season One, The Tearoom on Ensorcell Avenue, by visiting this link! It’s available for $2.99 on Kindle.

A paperback copy will also be available soon. I have proof—here’s a photo of me holding one!

For a list of all published chapters on Substack, visit this Table of Contents.

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Riddles in the Watercolor

Entering my room to pack my things, I noted with sadness that it already didn’t feel like mine.

The bedcovers were still a crumpled mess after I had flung them aside that morning. I must have tossed and turned quite a bit; the fitted sheet was slipping loose. Yet the only thing on that bed that felt like mine was the book.

Anne of Green Gables remained in the spot where I’d left it. Otherwise, the air in this place felt and smelled foreign.

It was Kate’s room now.

Opening the closet, I took out my suitcase. It was not large size-wise, suitable for fitting in an airplane’s overhead compartment. I had only used it once when going on a school field trip to Concord. I remembered that trip fondly, and the visit to Louisa May Alcott’s Orchard House, now a museum.

In this suitcase, I could pack precious little. No matter—there wasn’t much I wanted to take.

I tossed the suitcase onto my bed and began shuffling through items in my closet. The first to catch my eye was the dress I had worn on the day I decided to visit the Tearoom. Taking it out, I held it to the light of the sun, studying it thoughtfully.

The dress was a hand-me-down from my mother, as were all of my dresses. It was silky, a shade of green that I’d always been fond of. If I could not have my mother literally in my life, I could recreate her by adopting her sense of fashion; all of the clothes I bought corresponded with her color palette.

I cared little for the hoodies and coats in the closet. Only my mother’s dresses mattered. With care, I folded them into the suitcase. Given the limited space available, I decided it was more important to pack clothing items with emotional significance.

Mass-produced cotton shirts seemed unworthy, somehow, of the journey I was about to make. I added a few, just in case, but could not imagine myself wearing them much. They did not seem like Tearoom etiquette.

The clothes packed away, I sank to my knees before the dresser, opening the bottom drawer. Here I kept my sketchbooks and folders, brimming with attempted stories. They would not fit in my suitcase, so I took my backpack from under my bed and packed everything I had ever created. I added my prized watercolor set, cakes of pigment and brushes, the nicest Christmas present Aunt Flora had ever given me.

And then I reached the bottom of that drawer, where my most precious possession rested: an old manila envelope with curling edges. Inside it were stored the watercolor paintings of my mother and father.

Struck with a sudden ache of nostalgia, I untied the bit of twine that kept these sheets together and began looking through them. I suspected that my father had painted most of these, using his wife as a model.

Mother had been an elegant woman. She wore her dark hair in a long, elaborate braid. In one of the paintings, she posed in the middle of a road in autumn, standing on a carpet of gold and crimson leaves.

It struck me that she was wearing the green dress I had been admiring earlier.

Then I sat up, as another detail struck me.

Behind her had been painted a quaint street with elegant buildings. One of those buildings stood tall with royal-purple shutters. I could make out the businesses on either side of it—a bookshop and a florist’s.

The Tearoom.

By now, I could smell the aroma of the Bundt cake as it began to take shape. I could not bring myself to move from that spot on the floor.

Mother, posing in front of the Tearoom. Mother, wearing the same dress that I had worn when I visited it. Not once had I spoken to the woman depicted in that painting, but all of a sudden, I felt as though she were embracing me.

“Rosamund!” called Aunt Flora from the hallway. “I didn’t hear you come in. There’s something I need to tell you, and you must promise not to become an emotional wreck like you usually do. Learn to have rational conversations…”

I closed the envelope, tucking it into my backpack with the supplies that would be traveling with me. My knees trembled as I forced myself up, back straight, chin held high. I did not understand the meaning of that painting—of my mother standing on Ensorcell Avenue, wearing the same dress as I had.

Yet somehow, that painting had given me what I needed for this conversation. My hand did not waver. I opened the bedroom door—Kate’s bedroom door—and stood face-to-face with Aunt Flora.

“I’m leaving at midnight,” I told her quietly. “I’ve found a job.”

Her eyes widened as she crossed her arms over her chest. There must have been something in my expression that she’d never seen before, because I did not see mockery in her countenance, nor did I see criticism.

What I saw was fear.

“A job?” she repeated. “What sort of job?”

“That doesn’t concern you.” I pushed past her in the direction of the kitchen to check on my Bundt cake. If it was to be the last one I ever made, I was determined to make it perfect.

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Welcome to the Tearoom!

To experience this tale from the beginning, visit the following link to find a list of all published episodes.

Perhaps you only want to have a quick visit and taste the tea. If so, click here to preorder Season One, The Tearoom on Ensorcell Avenue, which will be available for Kindle on May 30!

Going Home

My grocery bags felt heavier by the time I returned to Aunt Flora’s house.

The bizarre conversation I’d had with Matthew lurked in the back of my mind. I thought about his offer to carry the bags. The memory caused something in me to soften—the thought that he had offered to help.

Such a small kindness, yet it had meant more to me than he could realize.

Aunt Flora was speaking to somebody on the landline when I entered. So loud was her voice that I didn’t think she had heard me come in. The phone was set to speaker, As I ducked into the kitchen, I could hear my cousin Kate’s voice on the other side of the line.

“It will be so good to see you again,” Kate said. I cringed at the perkiness in her tone. She sounded happier than I’d ever been in my life. “I can’t believe I was accepted at the university. You always believed I would make it.”

“I did.” Aunt Flora’s words radiated with pride. “You have your mother’s cleverness. You’re going to stay here, of course.” It was spoken, not as a question, but as a statement. “It’s only ten minutes from campus, and I’ve always enjoyed your company.”

I’ve always enjoyed your company. The words felt like a knife to my chest.

I dared not make a sound to alert Aunt Flora of my presence. With the task I had been given, I had a chance to get back into her good graces. If I baked the perfect Bundt cake…if I proved that, though my company was not as enjoyable to her, I was at least useful…

As I turned to open the cupboard, I heard Kate say my name. “What about Rosamund? How has she been?”

A silence settled when she asked this. I wondered what I would have said, had Kate asked that question to me. How have I been? I thought, slipping an apron over my head and taking a deep breath. Where have I been?

“Rosamund…” Aunt Flora trailed off with a theatrical sigh. “Oh, I suppose she’s alright, in her own way.”

“What do you mean?” asked Kate. In the background, I could hear her pulling the zipper of a suitcase. “Is she sick?”

“I don’t know what troubles her, Kate. I’ve long quit trying to connect with her. I don’t know where I went wrong! She constantly floats around as if she was in another world.”

I listened, staring dumbly at the measuring cup in the cupboard. It was one thing to suspect that Aunt Flora felt no affection for me; it was another thing to hear her admit so.

“Maybe she’ll open up once I get there,” said Kate, her voice light with positivity that I envied. “It’ll be good to have a roommate.”

“Roommate? Oh, no,” said Aunt Flora. “She would be a poor choice for a roommate. She stayed up until four in the morning yesterday, reading a novel! You wouldn’t be able to sleep that way.” She then added, in a quiet but certain tone, “Arrangements could be made.”

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Matthew Cuthbert had said the exact same thing, not an hour ago. Arrangements could be made. I struggled to breathe, I could not think, I had forgotten the recipe for the Bundt cake that I made every single week.

“Have you talked to Rosamund about this?” Kate asked, hesitation in her tone. “It can’t be all that bad. I remember having tea parties with her when we were kids.”

“Yes, the tea parties were delightful when you were children,” said Aunt Flora impatiently, “but you grew up, and she did not!”

“You’re being a little harsh,” said Kate. Silently, I thanked her for this effort to stick up for me.

“Rosamund knows what I think,” Aunt Flora continued. “I’ve had conversations with her countless times. She’s had one boyfriend, but it did not last, I imagine because mentally she’s still a child.”

“Aunt,” Kate said disapprovingly. “Rose is—”

But Aunt Flora cut her off: “She’s always reading those books or painting those silly flowers. I worry that she will not find her place in the world. I’ve come to the conclusion that she needs a nudge. Birds do not learn to fly if not pushed from the nest.”

My hands trembled as I began measuring flour.

Arrangements could be made, my aunt had said, and I dared not imagine which arrangements she had in mind. Was she going to send me away? If so, where? I did not have other family members. The only other arrangement I could think of involved a tent under a bridge.

Kate had not been enjoying this turn of conversation, either. Abruptly, she changed the subject. “I have to take some things to the post office,” she said. “I’ll call you later, okay, Aunt Flora? Tell Rosamund I said hello.”

I heard Aunt Flora sigh before replying: “Yes, we will talk later.”

Hanging up the phone, she began a slow walk down the hallway to her room. That she did not enter the kitchen to nag me confirmed my suspicion: she hadn’t heard me come in. She didn’t know I’d eavesdropped on her conversation.

She didn’t know I knew of her plans to be rid of me.

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Living Situations

When I descended the stairs after my shower, I found Aunt Flora waiting at the kitchen table. Breakfast time had passed, but she had saved me some plates of bread, cheese, and jam. Paired with her scowl, the food did not look appetizing.

I sat and reached halfheartedly for a bread roll, not meeting my aunt’s gaze. I couldn’t remember the last time she and I had a companionable conversation. At some point in recent months, she had become hypercritical of everything that I did.

Her behavior gave me the impression that my welcome at her house was reaching its limit. She had casually mentioned renting the room in which I slept. A cousin of mine had been accepted at a nearby university.

One night, Aunt Flora mentioned that it would be sensible for Cousin Kate to sleep in a family member’s home. “But,” she added slyly, “I hate to think of Kate invading your privacy.”

The implied message chilled me. Not only was she warning me that the space in my bedroom could be better used, but she reminded me that Cousin Kate had made it to university. Make something of yourself, the message seemed to be. See? Kate can do it.

“You have been oversleeping often,” said Aunt Flora, as I spread grape jam on my roll. “Are you sick?”

I hesitated, staring at the swath of jam, as if it could provide a satisfactory answer.

“No,” I said. “Not that I know of.” Not a sickness you would understand.

“A doctor’s visit might be good for you,” said Aunt Flora.

I wondered if her care was genuine, or if she simply wished to remind me of how lackluster I had become.

“I’m sure that a walk will help.” I stood, pushing my chair back with such force that it made a loud scraping noise. “I’ll eat this on the way to the market.”

“Rosamund,” said Aunt Flora, annoyed. “You have not been dismissed.”

“It’s an emergency, remember?” I could not resist some sarcasm. “Your Bible study is meeting, and you need a Bundt cake.”

I grabbed my purse, not troubling to reach for a jacket, as it was a sunny day at the peak of April. Aunt Flora must have been scowling as I walked out the door, but she did not call me back. This fact caused me greater pain than I had expected.

The only person who had ever called after me as I fled was Miss Cassandra Austen. I would never forget that night, one month ago, when I bolted from the Tearoom. She had called me, followed me to the bus stop, and promised that I would return when ready.

Aunt Flora’s apartment was a short walk from the store where we bought groceries. The sunshine helped to boost my energy. I took a bite from my roll, enjoying the tang of the jam, slowing my pace to breathe in the scent of a lavender tree.

I thought about Anne Shirley as I walked. It was her story that kept me awake for so long the night before—how she would break into purple-prose speech at a whiff of that tree!

The phone in my pocket began to vibrate, shattering my contemplation. Sighing, I popped the last bit of bread into my mouth and reached for my phone.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw the name on the screen. Lucy.

“No,” I whispered, declining the call. “No, Mrs. Craven—I’m not talking to you.”

I hadn’t spoken to my best friend since that visit to the Tearoom. I no longer felt that I knew her. Her attempt to force me into a place I hadn’t asked for was a powerful blow. It had shattered the trust in her that, over the course of two years, I had developed.

I couldn’t talk to Lucy. I couldn’t return to the Tearoom. I would make do with my somnolent visits—as long as I could remain in them, without Aunt Flora waking me for Bundt cakes.

My eyes stung as I hurried into the market, grabbing a basket. In my pocket, my phone once more began to vibrate. Once more, I ignored it. Lucy could call me once and again; I had resolved not to talk to strangers.

Lucy was not my priority at the moment. Aunt Flora had begun the not-so-subtle process of tossing me out. Facing homelessness, I had more serious matters to consider than the management of a magical café.

It had existed for long enough without me. It would have to go on.

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“No Earlier, No Later”

It is your story!

I found myself frozen at the threshold, struck by the gravity, the certainty with which Lucy told me these words. As if she had looked into a magic mirror—perhaps the mirror in the parlor downstairs?—and been reassured by an all-knowing force that I, and no one else, could be hostess for the Tearoom after she left.

As I struggled to catch my breath, I watched Henry’s expression. Once the picture of serenity, it had become stony. I wondered if he had known before that Lucy would pick him to oversee this place, should I say no. I watched his eyes, once clear and curious, become cloudy, as if a chain were wrapping around him, as if a door had been slammed shut.

It is your story, Lucy told me, not Henry’s. Yet Henry was caught in the chaos all the same.

Did he have no way of walking out the door, leaving the building and continuing the life he planned to live—exploring the world, trying pizza places? Was there something binding him to Lucy’s word, a link he could not escape?

I knew without asking that the answer was yes. The change in him sufficed as the truth. Earlier, he was the picture of calm, offering me reassurance as Lucy tried to manipulate me. That calm had vanished, giving way to confused anger.

Lucy had picked him as a second option in the case that I should refuse. It was clear that she never asked him if this was something he was willing to do.

At that moment, I was not her only plaything. While I did not know much about him, the hurt in his eyes was enough to fuel my anger. I had spoken to him enough to know he was a good man, undeserving of disrespect.

And even if my departure doomed him, I wanted nothing to do with this place—or the woman who had once been my friend.

“Good-bye, Lucy,” was all I said.

I sidled past Henry, descending the narrow wooden staircase two steps at a time.

“Rosamund!” I heard Lucy call, her voice thick with agony, but I ignored it.

I walked past Jane and Cassandra Austen, all my nerves on edge. Looking up, Cassandra must have perceived that something upset me, for her beaming expression shifted to one of concern.

“Miss Nesbit?” she asked, but I ignored her, making my way for the door.

As I moved, I recalled vaguely that I had left my copy of Emma in the parlor. I didn’t trouble myself to go back for it. Nor did I care to try another Pride and Peppermint, ever again. I no longer felt a sense of awe, of wonder, that Jane Austen herself was entertaining the crowd behind me.

I wanted only to leave.

The bell above the door tinkled as I shoved my way into the cool March evening, then broke into a run. I moved blindly, relying on instinct to carry me across the street. At last, I found myself standing in the dubious shelter of a bus stop.

Sometime during this desperate flight, I’d allowed tears to slide unfettered down my face.

You are not happy with her, Lucy had said, referring to my aunt.

I am not happy, was my simple response.

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The Event Begins

“Why do you think you came here?” Cassandra asked, after her thoughtful pause.

“Lucy sent me an advertisement, and I came to join a book club. That’s what I’m doing here!”

“My dear Miss Nesbit, you speak as if joining a book club is a light matter. I will attempt to explain, as I am now an Emissary—same as Mrs. Craven.”

“Lucy isn’t Mrs. Craven,” I began to argue. “She would have told me. She—”

At that moment, Jane Austen emerged from the bathroom, cutting me off.

“Very well, Cassandra,” she announced. “I have given it some thought, and you’re right. I would like to read a chapter from Emma. Papa would understand; he always enjoyed my stories, so very much.”

Jane Austen neared the back room, where Mary was hiding, and raised her voice slightly.

“Hello—what is your name?—Miss Lennox. I am Miss Jane Austen, though I suspect you already knew that. Yes, dear, I am ready to do my reading. If Fanny Burney can do it, so can I. There will be more guests, right?”

Cassandra laughed, then placed a hand on mine. Her smile promised that we would resume our conversation later. She then rose and went to meet her sister.

The door opened, that pleasant tinkling bell sounding once more. A tall gentleman with round black spectacles inched inside, clutching a pile of books and a newspaper to his chest. He wore a neat pinstriped suit that made me think of Downton Abbey, his dark hair combed back. He even wore silver cuff-links.

The young man must not have been much older than me, but the clothing he wore had an aging effect on him. I found myself turning away before he could notice my stare.

“Good evening, Miss,” he said, spotting me (he even sounded like an extra from Downton Abbey!) “Is this where the book club is to meet?”

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“Yes, sir,” I said, surprised that my voice sounded steady as I did so. I reached instinctively for my copy of Emma.

“Excellent,” he replied. “I’ve seen a large crowd walking up the street. The others will be here soon, Miss…?”

“Nesbit. Miss Rosamund Nesbit.” When all else fails, talk like Cassandra.

He flashed a smile and introduced himself: “Miss Nesbit, I am Henry Elfman. Would you mind if I sat with you? These are always packed events, and this is one of the best tables.”

“Not at all,” I said, a bit too quickly.

If he noticed my haste, he showed no sign of it. “Thank you very much.”

Mr. Elfman took the seat Cassandra had abandoned. Then, he unfolded the newspaper he’d brought with him, and I glanced at the front page. The New York Times. For some reason, the sight of it made me smirk—a dandy reading articles from the year 2026.

How odd it must all be to him.

As if on cue, the door opened and a group of patrons spilled inside, speaking enthusiastically. Following Mr. Elfman’s lead, I opened my book and hid my face in it, glancing sidelong at him only once.

What a remarkable day it had been already.

The Members of the Tearoom

It was a crowd like none I had ever seen before. Ladies and gentlemen of all ages and races, dressed in clothing from different time periods, talked over one another as they bantered about who would sit where and what they would like to drink.

Henry Elfman lowered his newspaper. Leaning toward me, he began to name the other guests:

“That lad there is a nephew of Victor Hugo. We must hope he won’t try to sit here; he always talks over the speaker. That lady in the blue frock—Juliet—never says anything. She only attends in hopes of hearing the play for which she is named.

“The elderly gentleman at the front is Archibald Hawthorne. He still cares for the gravesite of his ancestor, Nathaniel. Miss Aemilia Waite is an heiress somewhere in time, but for some reason has never married. She always seems to have prospective beaus. The woman with the raven on her shoulder is known only as Hannah, and she tends to have a cure for everything.”

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The Book of the Month

It was not yet sunset, but the light beyond the windows was beginning to fade. Having finished my Pride and Peppermint, I sat in a state of caffeinated bliss, wondering whether I might order another.

I contemplated calling Lucy and urging her to come. She would be tickled to know that, for the first time, I had followed her advice. However, my heart protested as soon as the thought crossed my mind. I felt protective of this memory, wanting it to be mine alone.

Lucy had already been to the Tearoom countless times. She’d gathered her stories of strange occurrences like birds built nests. She was patient, offering them to my skeptical heart, never giving up.

I wanted to respond next time with my own story, a strange occurrence of my own to regale her with.

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One thing I could no longer deny: she was right. The Tearoom was special. Though I had yet to meet any regulars, I felt certain I would belong in this place.

Here, my words and silences alike would be welcome.

Soft music began to play overhead—a longing guitar and a folksy female voice singing of spring.

Pages curling in the wet… there are books I’ve never read…

Mary appeared again. “Lovely song, isn’t it? Billie Marten — Drop Cherries.”

She smiled and held out a book.

“It’s for Book of the Month. It’s almost sunset, and most guests bring their own copies. We didn’t want you to feel left out.”

“Why, thank you.” I held my new hardcover copy of Emma up to the light. “I haven’t read it, though I did see the film.”

“You’re sure to enjoy reading with friends.” Mary peered out the window. “The first guests have arrived. I’ll go tell Mrs. March.”

Behind her, an old clock that stood against the wall all of a sudden rang with a resounding cry, causing both Mary and I to start. I glanced at the time on my phone. It was not yet the beginning of a new hour for the clock to chime like that. What did it mean?

Mary answered my question before I had time to ask, suddenly in a panic: “Oh! Oh dear! That means it is the authoress herself!”

With an anxious squeak, Mary Lennox vanished, leaving me alone—alone to meet Miss Jane Austen.

Even the gentle voice of Billie Marten could not ease my nerves.

Whether I fully believed it or not, all of a sudden, I also felt anxious. My mind might argue, but my heart was louder this time, so eager that I trembled in a way that was unrelated to the coffee.

My heart was convinced: I was about to meet Jane Austen.

The Guest of Honor

I don’t know what I was expecting Jane Austen to look like. Her name brought to my mind only that famous silhouette—the female cameo which, while striking, offered no details for the observer to study.

Shortly after Mary Lennox vanished into the kitchen, two ladies stepped into the café. They were dressed in period clothing—those airy frocks with empire waists, one blue and the other yellow. They even wore matching jewelry: fine topaz crosses were clasped around their necks.

Jewelry could do nothing against the March weather. They had no thick coats like my own; they wore only cloaks draped over their shoulders—elegant, but not much use when a frigid wind picked up. Neither of them complained.

They were transfixed by the building in which they stood—looking this way and that, at the flowers on the tables, at the narrow staircase to the second floor, at the chandelier whose lights had yet to be turned on.

The first of the ladies, the one in blue, peered at the old clock that had caused me such a fright moments ago. She peered at it as if she suspected something about it.

Toying with the topaz cross round her neck, she spoke, in a soft and pleasant voice:

“So this is the Tearoom, Cassandra? The one I’ve been sending letters to?”

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The month of March always concealed her secrets.

As frosty ground began to thaw, one could sense the land waking. Birds began their sleepy notes; trees stretched woody limbs.

All things that breathed air prepared for the approaching bloom. All things, including me—though at the time I did not know, could never have suspected it.

March found me languishing in my room, nursing a broken heart, making cups of tea and forgetting to drink them while they were warm. If not for my one friend, I would have remained in my room until the world forgot me.

Lucy’s invitation sent me on an excursion from which I would return completely changed. One did not visit the Tearoom and remain unaffected by its enchantment.

She promised me that, at the Tearoom, it was always warm. This café always brimmed with life—the ancient life of books. She was convinced that no one knew the age of the building—or of the street it stood on, for that matter.

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She had asked many older regulars the year when the Tearoom had opened. Everyone had a different answer.

“I couldn’t tell you. But it’s where I was given my first book,” said the town centenarian, Mrs. Carney.

Old Joseph had been a gardener when he was young. When Lucy asked about the Tearoom, he shrugged, saying that he could not give her a year.

He did recall that, on lighter workdays, he often took time off to seek a drink. During one of those breaks, he found himself walking down a street he had never seen before. It was called Ensorcell Avenue.

“There was a man lighting street lamps,” he claimed, “just like they did centuries ago.”

How old was that café, or the street it stood on? Lucy had concluded that no one knew.

I, Rosamund Nesbit, was neither a centenarian nor a lamplighter. I was a twenty-one-year-old high-school dropout living with an aunt because my parents had disappeared. My hobbies included watercoloring, doom-scrolling, and naps.

I had managed to live most of my life with no meaning or direction, and had no motivation to alter that fact. A relationship with a man who talked too much had seemed to change my destiny at last, but that had ended.

Following this bitter break-up, I found myself languishing on a sofa, despairing of life. It was at this opportune moment that Lucy’s invitation arrived.

Lucy and I had met on the train two years previously. We lived just far enough apart that, when we wished to meet, we had to pick a spot in between. We tended to settle for the mall or for museums. She had made attempts for us to meet at this café, but I was reluctant.

Though I enjoyed coffee and niche locations, her descriptions of the place made it sound too niche, too eccentric—even supernatural.

But that March afternoon, Lucy sent me an online advertisement (along with some heart emojis).

Visit The Tearoom on March 1, it read. We will announce our first Book Club Selection. All welcome!

I hesitated, staring at the words. Never before had I felt the urge to join a book club, but that day I was seeking new meaning in life.

Remember, Lucy chided in a follow-up text, heartbreak is no match for a good book.

If I dwelled too much on the decision, I might change my mind. Before I had the chance to overthink, I reached for my thick black coat. Slipping it on, I set off on foot.

In our daily conversations, Lucy assured me that the snowstorms of February had not stopped patrons from visiting the Tearoom. Lovers of literature were seldom intimidated by extreme weather, she said—though this year, many preferred to stay home and read Wuthering Heights.

According to reviews on the café’s website, readers of all ages and trades visited the Tearoom. Many sought coffee flavors exclusive to that location. Others gathered because they had formed reading groups. It was a natural place in which to discuss Dostoyevsky or Dickens.

Lucy, also, raved about the Tearoom—but her reviews were of a different nature. She claimed the Tearoom was…special. She insisted that the café was a place ensconced between times. According to her, there was always the chance of encountering an author one idolized.

Yeah, right, I thought cynically as I walked.

The most that I can hope for today is a good cup of coffee.

Crossing the Threshold

Though I enjoyed the occasional novel, I had never considered myself a bookworm. I was not committed enough to the love of literature to visit a café for the sake of meeting an author.

I began to suspect that Lucy’s words had planted a seed in my mind. They must have done so; after many years of resistance, something at last was drawing me up Ensorcell Avenue.

Where Books Come Alive was the café’s slogan. Very well—I was eager to find out if the slogan was true.

An invisible string guided me past piles of snow and slushy gutters. In spite of its flowery name, there wasn’t much traffic on Ensorcell Avenue. Perhaps that was why the café had resorted to online advertisements.

One of the older streets in town, the buildings were sturdy in spite of their years. They were painted in various mismatched colors. In the midst of all this stood the Tearoom, a narrow establishment of three floors. Its face was painted white, and it was decorated with royal-purple shutters.

The locale looked rather as if it had been smashed into place: a bookshop stood to its right, a florist’s to the left.

There’s magic in that place, Lucy once told me. She swore that, multiple times, she had gone in for a latte and received it with a side of magic. Based on her descriptions, I had come to think of this place the way some people think of circuses.

Lucy was a clever young lady, but when she insisted magic was real, I could only look at her with pity. It was not her fault; she must have been fooled by some flowery description in a novel or poem.

I heard myself laughing as I walked that day, for I myself was headed, all by myself, to that circus. My heart pounded. A small part of me—the child that refused to die—hoped I might also encounter something I could not explain.

I stopped at the front door of the café, stomping my boots on the doormat.

What am I doing here? I wondered, obsessively rearranging my skirts.

I fidgeted for a moment with a stray lock of my chestnut hair. Perhaps I should leave. But the invisible string was still pulling me—this time guiding my hand toward the doorknob.

Holding my breath, I opened the door.

A bell overhead announced my arrival with a pleasant tinkling sound, causing me to tense. I was not someone who enjoyed disturbing the peace. I feared my arrival would inconvenience those already inside.

Would that bell interrupt an author’s train of thought? Would I encounter unkind looks if I risked a glance?

I hurried to a table and sat, reaching for a menu. I was momentarily transfixed by the options before me:

Emma’s Earl Grey

Pride and Peppermint

Dracula’s Dark Roast

Struggling to decide, I peered over the top of the menu. Though Lucy claimed there were often visitors worth observing, the place appeared empty. There was no one to gawk at.

At least the ringing bell had not inconvenienced a literary genius.

Moments later a girl in an apron approached. Her smile was pleasant, her appearance tidy. She had sandy brown hair pulled back into an elegant chignon, and her hazel eyes sparkled with something that I could not name. Mischief?

Her name tag read Mary—at least her name was simple enough. “Can I take your order?” she asked, with a curtsy.

I stared. I had never seen a waitress curtsy before.

“Yes—I think so,” I said. “I’ll have a large Pride and Peppermint with cream, please.”

“Absolutely. It’s on the house.”

Mary took the menu—my useful shield—from my hands. Seeing me cringe, she asked gently, “Why are you nervous?”

I replied, smiling sadly: “I think that I’m late for the book club.”

She shook her head. “There’s plenty of time. The tea is ready at sunset.”

Her statement caused me to frown. At a place called the Tearoom, it didn’t make sense that ‘the tea’ would only be ready at sunset. Before I could ask any questions, a voice drifted out from the kitchen.

“Miss Lennox! Where did you put the cinnamon?”

“Coming, Marmee!” Mary winced. “I’d best sort this out,” she said before dashing off.

The tea is ready at sunset, Mary Lennox said.

I glanced at the old-fashioned clock at the back of the room.

Then I made up my mind.

I would wait.

The World is Full of Magic Things

As I sipped my Pride and Peppermint, my eyes wandered around the room.

The café reminded me somewhat of an antique shop. Round tables were covered with floral tablecloths in different colors. At the center of each table stood a vase, and no two were alike.

The vases held roses—but not fresh ones. They had not wilted, either. They seemed to be caught in an in-between moment: the instant when a rose begins to bow its head but has not yet died.

A wall-length bookshelf stretched across the back of the room. It held books of different colors, heights, and thicknesses. I studied them with a faint ache in my chest, a longing that was new to me.

Though I read bestsellers sometimes, I’d never opened a book that gripped me to the point of obsession. Could it be that, in a book club, I would encounter a novel that spoke to my soul?

The world is full of magic things.

The words seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere—from within my heart and beyond it. They were not my words, not my thoughts. I knew this because my attention had been fixed on the books when I heard them.

They felt real.

Startled, I set my mug down and turned to look over my shoulder. Perhaps someone was playing a prank on the new patron. But to my puzzlement no one was there. I could find no logical source for the words.

The world is full of magic things.

My wandering gaze fell upon a table in the corner where several copies of Jane Austen’s Emma were displayed. A sign proclaimed it the Tearoom’s Book of the Month.

Mary Lennox approached again, her light footsteps pulling me from my reverie. “How is your coffee?” she asked.

“It’s the best peppermint coffee I’ve ever tasted. I’m surprised you offer it when the Christmas season is over.”

“We don’t believe good flavors should be limited to two months of the year,” Mary said. Then with a laugh she added,

“That—and we received a letter from Miss Austen herself. She insisted Pride and Peppermint remain on the menu. How can one argue with her?”

“A letter from Jane Austen?” I asked, glancing again at the copies of Emma. “So she…er…frequents this place?”

“Miss Cassandra Austen, her sister, is a regular. Jane herself has yet to visit, but she’s been writing letters to our manager.” Mary clapped her hands with excitement. “We’ve at last convinced Jane herself to visit—but she stipulated some conditions. The first was that we keep Pride and Peppermint on the menu. The second was that we should select one of her novels for our book club.” Peering at me, she changed the subject: “You look pale! Are you quite well?”

I hesitated. Should I tell her about the disembodied voice?

“I think I’m hearing things,” I admitted. “There were—words—and no one was around to say them.”

Mary’s eyes widened with understanding, and breathlessly she explained:

“No, miss, you’re not hearing things. New visitors hear that voice frequently. It comes from the foundations, miss, and always tells necessary truths.” Pausing, she added, “If you tell me what the voice said, I’m sure I can interpret it for you.”

Though skeptical, I repeated the words.

“That sounds like a line by the poet Yeats,” Mary said. “‘The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.’ Perhaps that is what is happening to you. Your senses are growing sharper because you are here.”

“Miss Lennox!” called the voice from the kitchen again.

I smiled. “The cook seems to keep you busy.”

“Oh, Marmee is an angel,” Mary said warmly. “She’s been keeping busy, since her daughters are off living their lives. What’s more, we’re trying a new enchanted brew.”

With a curtsy, she disappeared again—and I continued to wait.

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