“On the fifth of November, of course!” Light dawned in the reporter’s eyes.

“November fifth? What is there to celebrate on November fifth?” Katherine asked with a puzzled frown.

Miss Harriet flung out an arm and declared intensely, her eyes large and her voice dripping with uncharacteristic drama, “Gunpowder, treason, and plot!”

Katherine looked even more puzzled.

Mr. James chuckled and explained “Guy Fawkes day. It’s an English holiday and usually includes something delicious to eat, if I remember correctly.”

He concluded with a wink at Katherine, then turned back to Miss Harriet. “And what part can a humble reporter play in such a dramatic celebration?”

“Well,” began Miss Harriet, returning to her normal down-to-earth self, “I want to do a real Guy Fawkes’ celebration, and at home, we always had someone read the poem—you know, the one that begins ‘Please to remember the fifth of November.’”

“I’ve heard of it.” Mr. James replied, nodding.

“Well, I was wondering if you would be willing to be my reader? I don’t have a dramatic enough voice to do it justice, and I don’t want it to seem like just a publicity stunt for the shop. I think it would feel more like a community event if I weren’t the only one up in front of everyone.”

Mr. James made a show of checking his calendar, then looked up with a grin. “I suppose I could squeeze it in.”

“Oh, I am glad!” cried Miss Harriet.

“It sounds like it will be quite the occasion! Do let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

Miss Harriet smiled broadly. “I surely will!”

12 Harborside by Lamplight

The unusual warmth and sunshine of September shifted almost on the dot with the arrival of October. The puffy, white clouds which had drifted through the bright blue skies of September were suddenly replaced by a flat grey expanse, from which a light drizzle perpetually seemed to fall.

Katherine hummed softly as she dusted the jars, enjoying the cozy light from the large Victorian oil lamp which hung from the ceiling near the window. Another large oil lamp stood on the counter, and a third on a bookcase in the “Captain’s quarters,” as Katherine like to call the office room. Outside, the light—already gloomy to begin with—was fading, and the lamps, though they gave off a surprising amount of light, were beginning to lose their battle with the dusk which slowly crept in from the darkening pane of the storefront window.

Captain Braddock came in and set his ledger on the counter.

“Looks like it’s about time to switch the lights on” he said, reaching behind the stiff sails of a model ship, strategically placed to hide the small black button-type light switches. Instantly, the room was filled with a rosy glow, as the round globes on the wall blinked to life. They were hung atop ornate brackets and had frosted glass shades that were white, but faded into pink towards the top.

Katherine turned from the shelves to admire the lights. “It’s like a timeline of lighting in here.”

The captain chuckled. “Why, I suppose it is.”

He gazed at the light fixtures as Katherine asked, “Those lights on the wall. Aren’t they old gas lights?”

“Yes, they are. You know yer lighting, Missie. And I suppose you can tell me just what kind of oil lamps we have?”

Katherine looked them over for a moment, then answered, “Are they Aladdin lamps?”

The captain seemed impressed. “Ah, but I’ll wager you don’t know what kind of lamp that is on top of my desk in the office.”

Katherine looked at the captain, her eyes alight as she took his challenge and went into the office. She examined the lamp carefully, then turned to the captain with a half-smile and a humble shrug. “Nope. You’ve got me stumped.”

The captain smiled, pleased that Katherine had admitted her defeat graciously. “Well, now, I don’t suppose you’ve run across one like it before. It’s a French pigeon lamp. It burned gasoline, but since that’s not very safe, my father had it wired for electricity. It was originally billed as a ‘non-exploding’ lamp, which I suppose means that there had been a problem with some gasoline lamps exploding.”

Katherine inspected the lamp more closely. “I never knew there was such a thing as a gasoline lamp. How fascinating!”

“The gas lights in the shop were put in during the time of the brick construction. They were the latest thing, you see. The Braddocks of the time, let me see… Edward, it was. Edward Braddock and his wife Helen. Well, they were an odd pair. He wanted everything new and fashionable, and she wanted it all to stay the same. She was great friends with her mother-in-law, you see, who of course was quite old by then.

"Helen wanted to honor her husband’s parents by keeping things the same, and he wanted to honor them by demolishing it all and rebuilding bigger and better, from the ground up, a towering legacy in Victorian brick.

"Well, the Braddock siblings—I think there were three after Edward—they all got together with Helen and decided on a plan. They would keep the shop the same and build the brick around it. They had an architect draw up the plans and everything. But Edward was a stubborn fellow and wouldn’t go along with it. The Harborside was his, he said, and he would do as he saw fit. But then, his wife grew ill—gravely so, and Edward promised to keep the original building, for she made it her dying wish.

"It was said that the gas lights were some she had picked out for her sitting room in the home he had built for her up on the cliffs, and that he installed them, saying then it was like a part of her lived on in the Harborside. Personally, I agree with the siblings’ account of it, which was that he just wanted the place brought up-to-date, and used Helen’s having picked the lamps out as a sneaky excuse to put them in.”

“And did Helen never see them?”

“No. She died the day before the work was to begin.”

“How sad.”

“Yes, Helen was a great favorite of all who knew her. She was the only one who could have saved the Harborside, and it took her dyin’ to do it.” The captain stood, gazing at the lamps, lost in thought. Katherine finally broke the silence with another question.

“And when were the lamps converted to electricity?” The captain smiled.

“That was a ruckus of a different kind. Edward, you see, never had any children, and when he died, the shop was left to his nephew Albert. Well, Albert had a wife, stylish, they say, and wanted everything fancy. When she heard her husband had inherited the shop, she was all in favor of selling it off and buying something grand with the proceeds.

"Now, Albert never had been one to put his foot down when it came to his wife, but the rest of the clan kicked up a fuss. He’d all sorts of Braddocks to deal with by now: one sister and her grown children, a younger brother and his children, also grown, and several of Albert’s own grown children and grandchildren and great-nieces and nephews who all had been brought up at the Harborside, so to speak. It was really a family business, with everyone in and out all the time—except that Albert only came rarely and his wife Lucy had never been here at all.

"Somehow, he convinced her to at least see the place. One of the youngsters later wrote in a diary about her visit. He said they drove up to the door, and he handed her out of the motorcar (which was itself quite new and fashionable at the time). She was dressed in all sorts of finery, with a big hat on her head and as much sparkle as she could find space for on her fingers and around her neck. She was quite a sight. She stepped into the shop, held her skirts to her and sneered at everyone and everything she saw. She took a particular dislike to the gas globes, saying they were dreadfully old-fashioned and outdated. She went on and on about how gas fittings were soon to be a thing of the past and how electricity was the new mode of lighting for “civilized” people.

"Albert eventually scraped together enough of a spine to stand up to his wife. He told her that he would not sell the Harborside, and that was that. Apparently she could tell this was one battle she wasn’t going to win, but by way of a parting shot, promised to say no more about it if only he would do something about those ‘horrid gas lights.’ So, he did. But much to his wife’s chagrin, what he did about them was have them converted to electricity.

"She pouted about that for some time, for not only had she not succeeded in getting rid of what by now had become a symbol of Helen Braddock and her love for the Harborside, she had actually succeeded in bringing the Harborside more up to date than her own house, for Albert didn’t have electricity installed there for a good ten years after.”

“I wonder whatever could have made her so horrid.” Pondered Katherine, gazing dreamily off into the darkness beyond the windows. Then she looked up at the captain, her curiosity freshly kindled by a new thought. “Were her children just as awful when it came time for them to inherit the Harborside?” The captain grinned and shook his head.

“No, if they’d all been as bad as her, there wouldn’t be a Harborside anymore, now would there?” Then, with a glance at the clock, he assumed a veneer of his old gruffness, saying, “But that’s enough yarnin’ for now. It’s time I was locking up and you was gettin’ home for yer supper. I won’t have that stubborn Englishwoman accusin’ me of keepin’ you past yer hours.”

Katherine smiled and took off her apron, sad to be leaving, but glad at the prospect of more Harborside generations to explore another day.

13 The Captain's Idea

The next day, Katherine bustled into the Harborside to collect Miss Harriet’s order.

It must have been a slow day, Katherine thought to herself as the Captain hurried in from the other room.

“Oh, it’s you... Hello, Katherine. I thought a customer had come in.” Katherine, not a bit offended at this odd statement, bantered back cheerfully,