The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  “Okay, maybe a manuscript did exist, at some point,” Katie says as she winds a straw wrapper around her finger. “But it was a tumultuous time. They were in the middle of a war. London was repeatedly bombed.”

  “The shop wasn’t hit,” Simon reminds her. “Also, people have published full volumes of Nancy’s letters, yet almost nothing is publicly available from the years she worked at Heywood Hill. Why is that?”

  Katie continues pondering this, until the paper snaps. She balls it up and sets it down. “What are you looking for?” Katie asks as she meets Simon’s gaze. “Specifically. It feels as though you want some kind of answer?”

  Laughing, Simon shakes his head. “There are many things I want to find,” he says. “Entire gaps in my family’s story I’d like to fill in. This is, I realize, a lot to ask from a bunch of old paper. I’m sure you think I’ve lost the plot.”

  “Not at all,” Katie says, and throws back the last of her now-warm beer. “Most people want to understand their family’s story. And you definitely wouldn’t be the first person to believe one book could solve everything.”

  July 1942

  Weston Manor

  “It’s never locked,” Nancy said as she popped open the taxi door. “Won’t take but a second.”

  After scrabbling across the pebbles and rocks, Nancy hauled open the rusty gate and peered down the long, tree-lined drive toward Weston Manor, Danette Worthington’s thirty-two-bedroom, ninety-six-acre stone estate.

  “Follow this road all the way,” Nancy said, when she climbed back into the car.

  Nancy glanced behind them toward the main road. There didn’t seem to be any other automobiles, nor any discernible tails. Gladwyn Jebb expressly forbade her from coming to Buckinghamshire—don’t even consider stepping out of line—and Nancy was twelve kinds of nervous, but she had to warn her friend.

  When they reached the main house, Nancy asked the driver to wait. “I shouldn’t be long. I can’t afford to be. Ha!” She slipped out of the taxi and walked shakily toward the house.

  As Nancy pressed the bell, her body seized up. The door swung open and Nancy shrieked, nearly disengaging herself from her sensible shoes. “Oh, hello!” she yipped. The greeter wasn’t Danette, or her butler, or any one of her seven maids. The face was familiar, but Nancy couldn’t place it yet. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m a stitch addled today. Can you help me out with your name?”

  The young woman said nothing, only blinked. In this silence, Nancy found her answer. It was Lea Toporek, one of the refugees who’d come through Rutland Gate. How could Nancy have possibly forgotten? She had been drawn to the girl from the outset, compelled and repelled simultaneously. There’d been something about her that was...not quite right.

  “It’s you!” Nancy said. “Goodness, what a surprise! Aren’t you supposed to have moved on by now?”

  Lea continued on in mute determination, which was so aggravatingly in character that Nancy fought a scream. On the day they met, Nancy had just returned from soliciting extra blankets and pillows from friends to find Prod downstairs, in the kitchen, beside a waifish, black-haired girl. He smiled imploringly, and Nancy groaned. She was exhausted, and the house was bursting at the gills. Every bedroom was occupied, and twenty mattresses were spread across the ballroom floor.

  “No, Peter,” Nancy said. “No more of your refugees. We are out of room.”

  “Let’s talk this through,” Peter said, as he pulled Nancy into the larder for a more private conversation. “Please, I beg of you. Do me this one last favor.”

  “With you, one favor always turns into two or three!”

  “I promise,” he said. “No more after this. The girl’s name is Lea Toporek, and her parents were killed in last night’s raid. They refused to evacuate.”

  Lea had dutifully sheltered in a tube station, thus saving herself, which would be the first and last time the girl ever used a drop of sense.

  “It’ll be temporary,” Prod swore. “She’s engaged to one of my soldiers, Greenie.”

  “Engaged!” Nancy sniped. “Good Lord. With these East End types, there’s not a sliver of daylight between the schoolroom and marital bed.”

  Greenie was in hospital, Peter explained, due to have his leg amputated. He’d be released soon, at which point Lea would become his problem, instead of theirs. “Surely you can make room,” he said. “Or take her to Danette’s.”

  Nancy had agreed, same as before, which was to say, reluctantly and under duress. He made it sound so simple when, really, it was not.

  “You’re chatty as ever!” Nancy said as she and the girl continued to face off on Weston Manor’s front steps. “If this conversation has reached its conclusion, might you tell me if Lady Worthington is home?”

  Lea pointed listlessly toward the sunken garden, where Danette tiptoed across the grass. She wore only a nightdress, and bare feet, and a nurse and housemaid watched it all from a safe distance.

  “Oh, dear. She misses Greville terribly, doesn’t she?” Nancy said, and Lea nodded.

  Danette Worthington had always loved her husband to an absurd amount, never believing she measured up physically, what with her clam-shaped face and enormous bushel of hair. Though Nancy firmly believed Greville got the better end of the deal, Danette often trotted out their wedding photographs to poke fun at herself. “Look at this handsome swain,” she’d crow. “So gorgeous in his morning suit. But, good God, what is that beside him? A hobbit? A small bear?” Greville was six and a half feet tall, compared to Danette, who stood at only four feet, eight inches.

  “Poor thing,” Nancy said, frowning, as she watched Danette cross the lawn. “Is she always like—”

  Nancy’s query was interrupted by a joyful, high-pitched screech, and she looked over to see a tangle of limbs and white-blond hair hurtling in her direction. It was a child, a sprite of a thing, with big, blue eyes and white downy hair.

  “Is this the baby?” Nancy said, and her heart withered, the smallest bit. “She must be over a year old by now! It seems everything turned out, didn’t it? I was worried there for a second, especially when you waited so long to inform me of her impending arrival.” Nancy felt a flare of irritation about how it all went down. Sighing, she glanced back toward Danette. “I should check on my friend,” Nancy said, and turned to go.

  “Her name is Emma,” Lea said.

  Nancy startled. “Emma?” she said, still facing away. “Is that right? Well, it was nice to see you both. By the by, I know you’re prone to lingering around. It was practically impossible to get you out of my house! Despite what I’m sure will be your best efforts, you won’t be able to stay here forever, especially not with your hostess in such a state.”

  * * *

  When she spotted Nancy, Lady Worthington sprinted across the garden and locked her arms around her neck. She held tight, feet dangling inches off the ground.

  “You don’t hate me!” Danette said, snuffling against Nancy’s breast.

  “Who could hate you?” Nancy said. “Danette Worthington is one of the sweetest girls there’s ever been. All right, down we go.”

  She peeled Danette’s hands from her neck, and the woman dropped to the ground with all the weight of a feather.

  “But haven’t you heard?” Danette said. “I’m a social pariah. Greville ran off with another woman!”

  “Another woman,” Nancy repeated, adjusting her scarf. “Is that what you think the problem is? Darling, I hate to be the one to tell you, but a love nest is not where Greville’s gone.”

  “I know that, Nancy! Of course I know he’s dead!”

  “What a relief.” Nancy exhaled. “A relief that you’re aware. His death is properly awful.” She took Danette’s hands in hers. “I’m so sorry I haven’t been out to see you. I rang several times but was told you weren’t receiving calls.”

  “I can’t bear to
speak to anyone,” Danette said. She leaned in, and Nancy felt the breath hot on her face. “You need to be careful, Nancy. This could happen to you.”

  “What could happen?” Nancy said. “Peter running off with a girl? He wouldn’t have the nerve! And he’s violently opposed to divorce.”

  “I meant the shooting.”

  “Darling, you should lie down,” Nancy said, and stroked her friend’s frizzy hair. “You’re not making sense.”

  “Where is Peter? Do you know if he’s all right?”

  “Why are we talking about Prod?” Nancy said, scowling. “He’s off fighting somewhere. We haven’t spoken in a year! It’s a bit of a tetchy subject.”

  Nancy assumed the war would strengthen their bond—absence makes the heart grow fonder, all that—but such hopes had long since been quashed. She never heard from him, nor he from her, and Nancy hated the idea that people like Greville were missed, while she was not. Even Unity received flowers from Hitler while she was in hospital.

  “Nancy! Wake up!” Danette cried. “Don’t you see? The government is shooting our own men now. Peter might be dead!”

  “Don’t be silly. He’s in Ethiopia,” Nancy said. “While I don’t believe our government is shooting our men for no reason, they are up to a few things we must discuss. Inside might be best?” She peered over her shoulder toward the nurse and housemaid. Everybody was on guard these days, quick to ring the Home Office with any suspicion, large or small, and Nancy had enough problems without members of Danette’s staff accusing her of treason.

  “Can we finish my walk?” Danette said. “Greville wanted me to get more exercise.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake. The best part of being husbandless is doing what you please. Nonetheless, if you want to walk, let’s walk.” Nancy took Danette by the arm, guiding her away from curious ears. “I don’t want to alarm you,” she began, “but certain folks within the government suspect Greville of collaborating with the Nazis.”

  “Inconceivable!” Danette gasped. “He’s the truest man I’ve ever known!”

  “I’m not sure about that...”

  “Even if he did commit such horrors,” Danette said, “what does it matter? What does anything matter? He’s dead.”

  “The problem is that you, my darling, are not.”

  As Nancy said the words, Danette’s mouth formed into a perfect “O” of dismay. Though her friend took a moment to process the information, Nancy was reassured to find Danette still capable of coherent thought. “I couldn’t get in trouble, could I?” Danette asked.

  Nancy shrugged. “With Regulation 18B, anything goes. If they decide he was involved and you knew about it, you wouldn’t even get a trial.”

  “No...” Danette said. “That can’t be.”

  “They carted my sister off to Holloway when her baby was only six weeks old,” Nancy said. “You haven’t publicly advocated for the downfall of Britain, as far as I know, but there’s no longer a distinction between a person who is fairly and unfairly accused.”

  “But...” Danette jostled her head. “I didn’t do anything! I swear!”

  “I’m not the one you need to convince.”

  “I’m tired,” Danette said. “I think I need a nap.”

  “Brilliant. You should get as much rest as possible.” Nancy took Danette by the arm and steered her back around, slowly, firmly, as though she were an ill-behaved horse. As they neared the house, Nancy spotted Lea by the front door. “What is she still doing here?” she asked.

  “No one’s sent for them,” Danette said. “I don’t think they have anywhere to go. Why? You seem concerned.”

  “Just...be careful,” she said. “I adored all of the refugees who came through Rutland Gate...but there was something about Lea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her general insouciance, for one,” Nancy said. “I had fifty, sixty people at any one time, and everyone was anxious to help—not just me, but one another. Lea, on the other hand, was there for months, far longer than the others, and never lifted a finger. It’s as though she was always waiting for something to happen. Part of me believes she wouldn’t have acknowledged the baby until it came out of her wailing!”

  “Well, I like having them here,” Danette sniffed. “Emma is a delight, and Lea’s been such help with Benjamin on the days I can’t get out of bed. Honestly, I think you’re letting your writerly imagination get the best of you. It’s like you’re turning them into a set of characters.”

  Nancy offered a light chuckle. “There’s an idea,” she said. “Maybe I should just write about them. They’d offer plenty of intrigue, to be sure.” Though Nancy meant it as a tease, she felt the undeniable flicker of her own imagination, the churning of her brain. The men had their war memoirs, why not she?

  “Oh, look!” Danette said, pointing, as Emma poked up from a hedge. “Isn’t the little one precious?”

  “So sweet,” Nancy said. She looked back at Danette. “I must be off. Please, if you need anything, ring immediately. If I’m not at Blomfield Road, try Heywood Hill. I’m working there now.”

  “At a bookshop!?” Danette yelped, her brows shooting up into her hairline. The poor girl had almost no forehead to speak of. “Nancy! You’re supposed to write books, not sell them!”

  Nancy laughed. “Well, my dear,” she said, “the goal is to do a little bit of both.”

  Tuesday Afternoon

  G. Heywood Hill Ltd.

  In the window next to Heywood Hill, and behind painted letters declaring, “Trumper’s: A Gentlemen’s Hairdresser,” two men decorate a Christmas tree. Though the bookshop doesn’t yet have any outward signs of the upcoming holiday, its window also casts an undeniably warm glow.

  Katie steps inside, and the bell jangles its familiar tune. The floorboards groan as Katie skirts the crowded tables, which are more organized than she’d first assumed. There is some order here—perhaps by genre, or by subject—but mainly the shop feels laid out to encourage browsing, and general hanging around. When Felix’s voice rings in the distance, Katie follows the sound until she finds him sifting through a cardboard box as his associate Erin stands nearby.

  “Hi, all,” Katie says.

  Felix’s face brightens. “Ah, Katharine! Hello!”

  “Hi, Katie,” Erin says. After telling Felix she’ll follow up with a customer, she scurries off.

  “Back for more?” Felix says, and rises to his feet.

  “I can’t help myself, apparently. How was the library from yesterday?”

  “Pretty fair,” Felix says with a double bounce of his head. “The family won’t get what they think, but I saw some gems. The Rare Books head and I are returning Thursday afternoon.” He tosses a clipboard into the box. “So, what are we on the hunt for today?”

  “Thanks to you, I’ve reread two of Nancy Mitford’s novels,” Katie says. “Plus one biography. I was hoping you might let me have a look in the files you mentioned?” Katie feels herself shirk, and blush a little, too. It seems like a lot to ask.

  “I love writers. Such a nosy bunch. Of course you can poke around. It’s what I promised. This way.” Felix motions for Katie to follow, and she trails him through a doorway. “I was just in the storage room myself,” he says. “Digging around for the so-called lost manuscript.”

  “Find anything good?” Katie asks, and Felix shakes his head. “If you don’t mind my asking, why are you still looking? It’s very nice of you, but you don’t seem to think it exists, and Simon isn’t a paying client.”

  Felix freezes in his tracks and slowly turns around. “Simon? Goodness, Katharine. I didn’t know you were on a first-name basis.”

  “We’re not!” Katie says, her face on fire. “Not at all! I just heard you guys...squabbling...yesterday, before you left...”

  Felix takes a very long beat. “I’d forgotten you were there,” he sa
ys at last. “Why I’m bothering is a valid question, especially considering how much of my time he’s consumed. It’s about chasing a story, I suppose. If I can find something—however small—it’d feel like a victory. Doesn’t take much to please us bookish types.” Felix flips around and they continue down the hall. “Are you looking for anything specific?” he asks as they turn a corner and greet two passing employees.

  “When it comes to Nancy Mitford, it’s hard to narrow it down,” Katie says. “But I’m most curious about the years she worked at the shop. She had so much going on. The war. Her job. Problems with her family. On top of all that, Prod was gone.”

  “Which made way for Colonel Gaston Palewski,” Felix says.

  “At the end of it, her crowning achievement: completing The Pursuit of Love.”

  Felix throws open the storage room door, and Katie sets down her purse. Her gaze meanders toward the metal cabinet, and she takes in a deep breath. “I’m also intrigued by her work with the refugees,” she says.

  “Refugees?” Felix repeats, and Katie can almost see a question mark form over his head.

  “The evacuees who stayed at Rutland Gate,” she continues. “During the Blitz. Do you think there’s anything in the files about them?”

  “Nope,” Felix says. He unlocks the cabinet drawers. “Anyhow, good luck. I’m off to make a call. I’ll check on you in a bit.”

  After Felix leaves, Katie approaches the cabinet cautiously, and with some degree of reverence. Katie may be here for Simon, but this is sacred property because anything inside was once graced by Nancy Mitford’s pen.

  “Here we go,” Katie whispers and, inhaling, cracks open the top drawer. She reaches in for the first set of documents.

  Ten minutes pass, and thirty, and Katie finds a whole lot of not much, aside from a few notes to and from suppliers, and hasty first drafts of magazine articles, all of it typed. At the one-hour mark, Katie has gone through two drawers. She squats beside the third and yanks on the handle, but the drawer jams.