Katie frowns, wishing bookshop assistant was a way to solve her own financial mess.
“So, you’re a Nancy Mitford fan, are you?” the man says. “Unusual for an American, I’ve found.”
“No kidding!” Katie says. “When I picked Love in a Cold Climate for book club, eight out of the ten people accidentally read Cold Comfort Farm instead. Personally, I think Nancy Mitford is one of the most underrated novelists of the twentieth century. In fact, she was the subject of my senior thesis in college.”
“Now, that is something,” the man says. “What was the topic?”
“Broadly speaking, how she ‘normalized’ relationships that were at the time considered ‘other’—extramarital, same-sex, age differences, et cetera.” Katie’s cheeks flame again. “It’s cringeworthy and dated now, but I stand by Nancy Mitford being bold for her time, especially for a female writer.”
“I agree.” He bobs his head. “I’m curious, if you didn’t know Nancy Mitford worked here, what brought you into our shop?”
“I’m staying with friends nearby. Jojo and Nigel Hawkins-Whitshed?”
The man’s face brightens, and he walks around the desk. Jojo’s name has eliminated the last remaining barrier, literal and figurative.
“Good people, the Hawkins-Whitsheds,” the man says. “I enjoyed curating Jojo’s library. Predilection toward books about the moon landing and economic disasters. She also wanted an entire set of The Baby-Sitters Club? That was a first.”
“Well, it’s not 1992,” Katie says, “and you’re not a twelve-year-old girl. Basketball must’ve been a theme.”
“Special emphasis on Scottie Pippen.”
“How many titles does Jordan win without him, I ask you?” Katie says, shaking her fists at the sky.
Laughing, the man extends a hand. “Felix Assan. Head of Libraries.”
“Yes! Felix! Jojo told me to find you. I’m Katharine Cabot. Katie.”
“Wonderful to meet you, Katharine,” Felix says. “I’d love to help you with your bookish needs. Alas, if you’re interested in our Year in Books consultation, your best bet would be to return Monday, when our subscription team is in. They read five hundred titles per year, so their expertise is far greater than mine. If you’re in the market for curation, we’d need to schedule an appointment.”
“As much as I’d love a curated library,” Katie says, “that seems a bit out of reach. How much would it cost, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“So many questions about sums,” Felix teases. “It really varies. A project can run anywhere from fifty to fifty thousand volumes. In terms of price, it’s usually in the six figures. Pounds, of course.”
“Jesus,” Katie mutters.
“We have plenty of less expensive services, of course, all the way down to advisement on a single book. I have enough knowledge to assist you with that if you’d like.”
“I do need a book...” Katie says. “But I don’t want to infringe. You said you were only here to catch up on work?”
“I have time for a break,” he says. “Especially for a friend of the Hawkins-Whitsheds.”
“Don’t get excited. I don’t have their budget. Not even close.”
Felix laughs again. “Most people do not,” he says. “How about a tour instead?”
* * *
They start downstairs, in the children’s room. Although the room is empty, Katie can picture a gaggle of little ones lolling about beside the fireplace, and in the small wooden chairs, reading their Matildas and Wild Things and Hungry Caterpillars.
“We serve individuals and businesses,” Felix explains as he rescues a copy of Busy Bookshop from the blue rug. “As well as Her Majesty, the Queen.” He pushes the colorful book back into place. “When we take on a new client, the initial interview takes hours. Days. Weeks. Possibly months. It’s crucial to be precise. Books are supposed to be a pleasure, and libraries should remind people of what they love. All that to say, only serious readers need apply.”
Felix leads her into a basement office, a wide room with several desks that seem better suited to architects than literary types. On each table is a large ream of butcher paper, and ever more piles of books.
“This is where the booksellers hash things out,” Felix says. “If it were a weekday, we would’ve interrupted a heated debate about which would be the optimum book to send to Franny de Worms next February.”
Soon they are moving through a tight, musty corridor with ceilings so low Felix must duck. Katie has plenty of clearance, on account of being a shrimp.
“How long has the shop been here?” Katie asks as they pass a set of metal racks—the keep shelf—which holds orders ready to go out.
“Since 1936,” Felix says, and throws open another door.
“That’s...”
He grins over his shoulder. “Eighty-five years, yes.”
“Wow.” Katie shakes her head, amazed. “Just trying to imagine what this shop has been through... A World War. The invention of the internet. A pandemic.”
“Thankfully, we do more than peddle books,” Felix says. “We’ve changed along with people’s needs. The opposite of a computer algorithm.”
They’ve returned to the main jumble of rooms. To Katie’s left is a white-and-gold-painted fireplace, surrounded by a wooden sales counter, which is itself encased in plexiglass.
“How many libraries are you all curating now?” Katie asks.
“Why, Katharine, I can’t divulge such top secret information about the shop,” Felix says, and wiggles his brows. “As for myself, I have eight in progress.”
“All right.” Katie leans toward him, conspiratorially. “I have to ask. What’s your most annoying request?”
“I do endeavor to avoid viewing my clients as ‘annoying.’”
“Yeah, but there has to be somebody who’s giving you a hard time,” Katie insists.
Felix crosses his arms and bites his bottom lip. He appraises her for a moment before admitting, “One person does come to mind. He’s not a client but qualifies as a difficult individual with whom I’m presently dealing. Speaking of Nancy Mitford, the man is an avid collector. He’s trying to locate a lost manuscript—a memoir, no less.”
“And he wants you to find it?”
“He thinks we have it.” Felix rolls his eyes. “According to him, it was written while Nancy was employed at Heywood Hill.”
“So right before she wrote The Pursuit of Love?” Katie says.
Felix nods, and Katie thinks she’d like to see this memoir for herself. If it was the last thing Nancy Mitford wrote before the book that made her famous, she could use a few tips.
“There is no basis for this, by the way,” Felix says, and Katie feels a quick pang of disappointment. “The gentleman claims to have inside knowledge, but all he could point to was the fact Nancy’s less writerly sisters penned memoirs, so why not she?”
“Because Nancy Mitford’s novels were famously autobiographical,” Katie says. “What did she need with a memoir?”
“Precisely,” Felix agrees.
“I hadn’t known her sisters were writers, too,” Katie says. “Aside from Decca, of course. I wonder if I can remember the others.”
She pauses to think this through. The Mitford girls were so provocative, so outrageously unique, it’s almost harder to recall each on her own, like trying to remember individual fireworks in a lengthy and vibrant show.
“Deborah the Duchess,” Katie says. “Diana the Fascist, and Unity the Hitler chum. Pamela was...a farmer? A dabbler in Fascism?”
“A bit of both. A countrywoman, mostly.”
“And the great Jessica Mitford, otherwise known as Decca, the Leftist. She’s my favorite, aside from Nancy.”
“Really.” Felix cocks his head. “What is it about her you enjoy? The muckraking, or are you a budding Communist?
”
“Hey!” Katie barks. “She denounced Communism, eventually, and I’m more interested in her civil rights work. Funny story. I have a picture of us together, from when I was little.”
Felix lifts his forehead. “How’d that come about?” he asks.
“My father was a journalist with the Washington Post.”
“Ah! Decca was great friends with its publisher Katharine Graham.”
“That she was,” Katie says with a sideways smile. “And she’s the Katharine I was named after. Don’t be too impressed by the connection, though. I’d never remember if I didn’t have the photograph.” The same could be said about most things associated with her dad. “Did all of the Mitford sisters publish memoirs? Even Unity?”
“All but Pamela,” Felix says. “Unity wrote one, after her injury. It was never published, though you can find it online, and it’s as awful as you might guess. I’m surprised some creep hasn’t turned it into a manifesto.”
In truth, Katie doesn’t know much about this Mitford sister, other than the tragedy that made her famous. Unity was a confidante and rumored lover of Hitler’s who shot herself in the head when war broke out. She survived the accident but was mentally impaired for the rest of her short and devastating life.
“Diana also had a memoir,” Felix says, “and Debo wrote several. She was technically the most prolific of the six.”
“Debo? Really?” Katie scrunches her face. “I never got the idea she was all that intelligent, or had much to say.”
Felix flares his eyes.
“That didn’t come out right!” Katie says. “I just meant...didn’t she write about gardens and tending her castle? Real relatable stuff.”
“Goodness,” Felix says, and lets out a long whistle. “You must like your duchesses well-done.” When Katie looks at him crookedly, he adds, “You’ve just thoroughly roasted the woman.”
“You sound like my nieces, who are teenage girls.”
“Thank you,” he says. “I’m rather a fan of Gen Z. Let me ask you a question. When you came into the shop, did you happen to encounter an older gentleman? Distinguished-looking, medium height, mostly bald?”
“We practically ran into each other in the doorway,” Katie says.
“That was Peregrine, otherwise known as Stoker, otherwise known as the 12th Duke of Devonshire. Debo’s son. When his mother passed a few years back, he became executor of Nancy’s literary estate. He also owns the shop.”
“Oh, geez,” Katie groans. “Good thing I waited until he left before ‘thoroughly roasting’ his mom. Scratch what I said before. I’m sure she was brilliant, and had a million things to write about, all of which were very accessible to the average person.”
“So convincing!” Felix says with a laugh. “Gosh, that was fun! Now that we’ve gotten the faux pas out of the way, let’s find something for you to read. What are you in the mood for?”
“If only I knew,” Katie says. “I’ve been in a slump.”
“Not a problem.” Hands on hips, Felix studies the recent releases. “Who are your favorite authors?”
“John Irving,” Katie says. “A Prayer for Owen Meany is my all-time favorite. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn is up there, too. Little Women. I love Toni Morrison and James Baldwin. Hemingway, at the risk of sounding grossly anti-feminist.”
Felix chuckles as he glides from shelf to shelf.
“Nancy Mitford, obviously,” she goes on. “Though I never really cared for her buddy Evelyn Waugh.”
“Most who knew him would agree.”
Katie prattles on, flaunting her predictable English major tastes: Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, Daphne du Maurier. Anna Karenina. The Count of Monte Cristo. She also appreciates a juicy or thought-provoking memoir. “As for more contemporary work,” she says, “anything by Ann Patchett or Anne Tyler. Father of the Rain by Lily King is in my top five. Octavia Butler, Emily St. John Mandel. T. Greenwood, though I’m not sure how well-known she is here. Shirley Jackson. Donna Tartt. For historical fiction, Kate Quinn, Kristina McMorris, Susan Meissner. Beatriz Williams and Paula McLain.”
“Slow down,” Felix says as something catches his eye. He abandons the shelves and pulls something from a nearby glass case. “Ah! The answer!” He spins around, book in hand. “I’m sure you’ve read it, but might be time for a revisit.”
As Katie takes the book, she scans the cover, and a small gasp escapes her mouth. She turns to the title page.
FRANKENSTEIN;
OR,
THE MODERN PROMETHEUS
IN TWO VOLUMES
“Your taste demonstrates a predilection toward the gothic,” Felix says. “That tremor of terror tinged with romance, the beasts who seem human, and the humans who do not. Things thought dead rising up again.”
Felix glances at Katie, who stands gaping and pale.
“Uh, Frankenstein has all the hallmarks of the genre,” he says, flustered. “But it also explores more classic themes—birth and creation, fallibility, ambition. It brought to the forefront the concept of the double, the idea of man pursued by himself. Are you all right? Do you need water? To sit down?”
“No. Uh, I’m fine.”
“Are you, though?” he says.
“Ha!” Katie says, and fans her face. “That’s the question, isn’t it? It’s just... I’m a writer. Was a writer? I’m not sure. You actually have one of my books on your shelves.”
Felix screws up his face. “Why, then, are you questioning whether or not you’re a writer?”
“I haven’t had a book out in three years,” Katie says. “Despite my best efforts. None of my ideas have panned out, including this.” She holds up the book. “It was a story about the writing of Frankenstein. My agent and editor both thought it was too dark.”
“Isn’t that rather the point? It was the Year Without Summer, after all. The darkness, the eerie house. The Shelleys and Lord Byron. A fantastic setting, in my estimation.”
“Yeah,” Katie says. “It was fun.”
“But not that fun, so let’s find something lighter.” Felix locks Frankenstein back in its case. “When was the last time you read Nancy Mitford?” he asks.
“So long I can’t remember.”
“There’s the answer,” Felix says, and leads her into a different room. “That was so easy, I don’t know why our sub team is always working so much.” He stops in front of a shelf packed with NANCY MITFORD spines. “Which is your favorite?”
“The Pursuit of Love, obviously.”
“I’ve heard sometimes people have alternate opinions.”
“Well, they’re wrong,” Katie says. “Speaking of human monsters, Uncle Matthew is one of the greatest in all of literature.”
“That he is,” Felix says. “Wretched Uncle Matthew, the alter ego of Nancy’s father, the famous ‘Farve.’ A looming specter of a man.”
As Felix says the words, Katie realizes she knows a little something about spectral father figures. Danny Cabot wasn’t a monster, not even close, but he remains an ever-present, slightly haunting force.
“I agree with your thesis,” Felix says.
Katie blinks, and it takes her a second to come back into the room. When she looks up, Felix is holding out a copy of Pursuit. He hands it to her, and she fans the pages beneath her nose.
“Along the lines of what you were saying earlier, the way in which Nancy Mitford debunks the idea of marriage is unique for such a deeply British author,” Felix says. “It’s more in line with the French literary tradition. Then again, the great romance of her life was French, too.”
“That’s right!” Katie says as a thick knot of previously buried knowledge works its way out. “Her Colonel, the inspiration for Fabrice.”
Felix nods and something tugs at Katie, a feeling close to sadness. Her gaze drifts back toward the shelf. “I’m hazy on her earlie
r work,” she says. “Was Pigeon Pie her debut?”
“Pigeon Pie was her fourth,” Felix says. “It came out at the start of the war, Pursuit at the end. One was a massive failure, the other made her famous.” Felix jimmies Pigeon Pie from its spot. “Alas, what’s a girl to do when her lighthearted novel about the upper crust publishes during the fall of France? Here, have a look.”
Felix pitches the novel at Katie. She ducks, and the book thumps onto the floor. They both stare for a second, before Felix leans down to rescue it.
“That was...unexpected,” he says. “I didn’t even throw it that hard.”
Katie remains crouched, and partially covering her head. “No, I know,” she says, and finally stands.
When Felix offers it again, Katie recoils.
“Are you afraid of a book?” He is, quite simply, agog.
“I told you. I’m having some...struggles...with my career. I don’t need to be—” Katie wiggles her fingers “—touching another writer’s bad sales mojo.”
“Pigeon Pie was published eighty years ago!”
“Mojo’s not really supposed to make sense, so...”
“Let me ask you something.” Felix tucks the book beneath his arm. “When did your first novel come out?”
“In 2015?”
“Six years ago.” Felix crooks a brow. “Is that all? Pursuit was published in December of 1945, so Nancy Mitford didn’t really hit her stride until 1946. Fifteen years from when she began.”
“That really doesn’t make me feel better,” Katie says. “Plus, a lot was going on during that time. Governments were collapsing, tyrants were coming into power. The world was in shambles!”
“As opposed to the current environment, in which nothing ever really happens. The point I’m trying to make is that it took Nancy Mitford fifteen years to experience a meaningful step forward in her career.”
“Again. Not helping.”
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