The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  “Erin,” he says, his voice a block of ice. “I never gave you permission to open that drawer.”

  “Don’t blame Erin,” Katie says as her pulse quickens and sweat bubbles at her hairline. “I’m the one who asked, and she was only trying to help.” Katie clambers to put the letter back into the folder and ends up dropping the whole thing. As Katie bends down to collect them, Felix shoves her out of the way.

  “I’m really sorry,” Erin says. “I didn’t—”

  “Not your fault,” Felix says, and Erin dashes out of the room. Meanwhile, Katie is cowering, wishing she could dissolve into the floor. “Tell me, Katharine,” he says, “are you in cahoots with Simon Bailey?”

  “I wouldn’t use the word cahoots,” Katie says. “We’re...friendly.”

  “Be careful not to get too friendly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Felix stands, and socks the folder into his chest. “Has Mister Bailey revealed to you why he’s so desperate to find this alleged manuscript?” he asks.

  “Simon’s grandmother knew Nancy during the war,” Katie says. “He has some correspondence that mentions the book and wants to tie it all together. A very small family mystery, that’s all.” Katie leaves out the part about Simon’s mom because repeating it would feel like a betrayal.

  “That’s all he said, then?” Felix asks.

  “What else is there?”

  Felix sighs, and drops the letters back into the cabinet. “It seems to me Mister Bailey has left out a few key details,” he says, and locks the drawer. “I can’t go into specifics, but I say this with your best interests at heart. When it comes to Simon Bailey...better that you are wary...better that you proceed with caution.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Katie says, then slaps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry about the swearing but, really, that’s all you’re going to say? Proceed with caution?”

  “I am truly sorry, Katharine. I wish I could give you more, but it wouldn’t be appropriate. Now. If you’re finished rummaging through our files...” Felix offers an arm. “Allow me to show you outside.”

  December 1942

  G. Heywood Hill Ltd.

  “Goodness, what happened here?” Nancy said, gaping at the Christmas cards strewn across the floor.

  One of their longtime customers, Missus Falziel, simpered nearby. “I upset Anne again,” she said. “It seems to be a daily occurrence. My little enemy.”

  “My deepest apologies,” Nancy said as she began scooping up the cards. “Anne is a perfect demon lately. I do hope this baby is worth all the angst.”

  Anne Hill had at last gotten pregnant, and in the nick of time, as Heywood was due to ship out. He’d been called up months ago, but they’d granted him a deferral because one-third of the shop’s sales occurred in December, and he was a “one-man show.”

  “One-man show?” Nancy balked when he delivered the news. “What am I, a ghost?”

  “You are not a ghost, but you are also not a man,” Heywood had replied, sounding ever like Farve.

  “Anne hates everyone and everything right now,” Nancy told Missus Falziel as she finished corralling the mess. “Don’t take it personally. The holiday madness has frayed all of our nerves.”

  They were mere days from Christmas, which meant a constantly ringing phone and a line of customers snaked out the door. There was scarcely a gift left to be bought, and the shop was barren, downright bleak, without books and Victorian curiosities lying about. Nancy couldn’t wait for the season to end, especially with her small Christmas miracle still ahead. Heywood promised a two-week holiday for all the hours she’d put in. Finally, a chance to focus on her book.

  Between work and the Colonel, and her newly implemented blackout salons, Nancy hadn’t come close to the thirty thousand words she’d hoped to have by now, but the upcoming mini holiday gave her a shot at a new goal, which was to finish before the release of any book written by Hester Griffin, or Angela Thirkell.

  “Were you planning to buy these?” Nancy asked Missus Falziel, about the cards. “We only have a few packs left, and I suspect they’ll be gone by closing.”

  “Yes!” She swiped them from Nancy’s hand. “That’s the whole problem! When I inquired about whether there might be a second box in the back, Anne threw these at my head.”

  “Luckily for everyone, she does not have the best aim.”

  Nor Heywood, Nancy thought, which was doubtless why it took Anne so long to get pigged.

  “Thank you for stopping past.” Nancy leaned in to give Missus Falziel a hug. “Hester will be happy to ring you up. Have a very merry holiday!”

  “You as well. By the way, when does that handsome husband of yours come home?” she asked. “I’m sure it will be such a relief to have him around, if only for a short time!”

  “Oh, I don’t expect to see Peter,” Nancy said, and put on a smile. “He’s nowhere to be found these days! Wartime makes everything so messy and unpredictable!”

  Missus Falziel cocked her head. “How odd,” she said. “I presumed all men were granted Christmas leave for a day or two, at least.”

  “Fighting never really takes a break,” Nancy said, a pleasant expression still stitched to her face. “Perhaps the powers that be deem him too valuable, or he’s more expendable than others, if you catch my drift.”

  Missus Falziel opened her mouth, only to swallow back down whatever she’d intended to say. After wishing Nancy a hasty Noël, she bumbled off. Nancy couldn’t help but chuckle. Prod might be thousands of miles away, but he was still capable of scaring a person out of a room.

  As Nancy turned toward the front window and its two remaining books, a great clatter and thump erupted from somewhere in the shop. Nancy followed the sound to the red selling room, where Anne Hill lay sprawled across the floor. Heywood was crouched beside her, fanning her face.

  “What happened?” Nancy said, and lowered beside him.

  “Anne took a tumble,” Heywood said. “Poor dear.”

  “It’s fine, it’s fine,” Anne said, waving around a hand. “Please stop making a fuss. I just plumb keeled over. Pregnancy is such a beast.”

  “Anne, darling, what can I do?” Nancy said, stroking her clammy brow.

  “You can go about your day,” Heywood said. “Nothing to worry about here.” His strained jaw belied his attempt to stay calm.

  Nancy popped to her feet. “I’ll fetch some water,” she said. “Don’t move a muscle!”

  “If only that I could!” Anne tried to joke.

  Nancy was halfway through the door when she heard Heywood declare, “That’s it. There’s no way I’m leaving.”

  “Oh, darling. The government gets very cranky when you ignore them.”

  “Then I’ll apply for another extension.”

  “Impossible,” Anne said, while Nancy remained frozen in place, the whoosh of her heart loud in her ears. “You leave in three days. The government takes that long to open an envelope.”

  “I’ll advertise in the paper tomorrow,” Heywood said. “For a part-time employee. I’ll hire the first two people who walk through the door. I don’t care who they are.”

  “You’d never find anyone suitable on the Labour Exchange,” Anne said. “They’re all too old, or too derelict, or too much of a spy. Good Lord, even I’m better than the worst of the worst. If you can go off to war, I can do this. Hester’s willing to stay on for a while. We’ll make do.”

  “I’ll close the shop before I let you put yourself or our baby at risk.”

  Nancy sighed and, though it pained her to do so, she swiveled around and returned to her boss’s side. “It seems as though everyone has forgotten about me!” she said. “I’ll be here. No need to hire any spies or invalids.”

  “But your holiday,” Heywood said.

  “Who takes a holiday with a war
on? Really, it’s too absurd.”

  “Nancy, you can’t—” Heywood began, before his wife cut in.

  “Would you really do that for me?” she said. “Oh, Nancy, you are so wonderful! There’s no way I could survive with both you and Heywood gone.” Anne looked up at her husband. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. I’m an absolute wreck.”

  “But, Nancy,” Heywood said, “you were going to finish your book.”

  “I surely wasn’t going to finish it!” Nancy laughed. “We’ll make up for it later. What’s two more weeks?”

  Thursday Evening

  Half Moon Street

  “Hello,” Katie says as she stands on Jojo’s doorstep, smiling oafishly, unsure whether she’s supposed to hug Simon, or shake his hand, or what. Ultimately, Katie pats him on the back like he’s just hit a walk-off double in a junior varsity game.

  Through it all, Jojo looms behind her, and Clive huffs with some blend of impatience and outrage. Earlier, he’d been alarmed to discover Katie was bringing a strange man into his house, and thus spent the better part of the afternoon installing a video surveillance system.

  “A teacher?!” he’d cried. “It’s always the people in positions of authority who become murderers and sexual predators! Haven’t you ever watched a documentary?”

  “I’m sure he’s been background checked,” Katie said, wondering what the hell kind of programs Clive sees.

  “Nice to see you again,” Simon says, with a twitchy, nervous smile. “You look nice.”

  Katie snorts. It is forty degrees and there is nothing special about Katie’s jeans and black Barbour coat. “Uh, thanks,” she says. “Same to you. These are my friends.” She looks back. “Jojo, Clive, this is Simon Bailey. Simon, Jojo and Clive.”

  “Hello, all,” Simon says, and shakes Jojo’s hand. He reaches toward Clive who responds with crossed arms and a bushy-browed scowl.

  “What sports did you play as a child?” he asks, right off the bat. His mom palpably stiffens. “I find it’s a good indication of character.”

  “Goodness, what an intriguing query,” Simon says, and glances at Katie, who shrugs.

  “You’re acting awfully dodgy,” Clive notes. “I’ll take that as none.”

  “Good grief, Clive!” Katie says. “What do you play?”

  “Youth tennis,” he sniffs. “I’m not one for team sports.”

  Katie bobs her head because Clive does seem like a kid who’d have bad sportsmanship. She pictures racquets hurled, and balls kicked at other people’s heads.

  “Ah, tennis,” Simon says. “I’m a big fan, though I’m not especially skilled. Growing up, I played football, though I wasn’t very good at that either. I was technically on a team, much to everyone else’s dismay.”

  “Football?” Clive says, and makes a face.

  “Don’t get him started,” Jojo says. “He hates it.”

  “How can a sport end in nil-nil draw?” Clive wails. “It’s maddening!”

  “Soccer does suck, I agree,” Katie says, and takes Simon’s arm. “Well, we should probably head out. Bye, you two. Thanks for vetting my date.”

  After a stilted round of handshakes, Katie drags Simon onto the street. When the door snaps shut, she feels an instant release, as though she’s escaped a major calamity by a very slim margin. “Yikes. Sorry about that. Thanks for being such a good sport, though,” Katie says. “I probably should’ve warned you about Clive.”

  “Ah, he’s a cute kid.”

  “That can’t be the first adjective that comes to mind,” Katie says. “Clive Hawkins-Whitshed is the world’s smartest and most impertinent eight-year-old.” As she begins describing his most recent internet crime, Katie veers left onto Curzon Street. She walks several yards before noticing Simon has for some reason gone right. “What are you doing?” she calls out. “Shepherd Market is the other way.”

  “I’m in the mood for a walkabout,” he says. “It’s a nice night.”

  “If you consider relentless drizzle nice,” she mumbles, and jogs to catch up.

  As they walk, Katie’s nerves build, starting in her stomach and rising to her throat. Proceed with caution, Felix warned. Of course, his word is not exactly reliable and there was more in that drawer than takeaway menus. Everything is suddenly muddled, and the only person Katie trusts at this point is Nancy Mitford, possibly Hellbags.

  “What’d you do this afternoon?” Simon asks as they turn onto Lansdowne Row, a narrow, pedestrian walkway. Small tables are set up outside, and snowflakes made of twinkling blue lights dangle overhead.

  “What? Me? Nothing? Why?” Katie says, sounding defensive, even to herself.

  “Uh...forget I asked,” Simon mutters.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Katie shakes her head. “I didn’t do much, to be honest. Caught up on some emails, squabbled with my sister. They’re having a seventieth birthday party for my dad this weekend, and I’m missing it. He’s been dead for half of that, by the way. It’s stupid.” She shakes her head again, then waits a beat before admitting, “I also swung by Heywood Hill.” Katie pauses. She’s testing the waters, seeing if she can work up the courage to mention Lea’s potential involvement with the book.

  Simon looks at her. “You did?” he says, forehead lifted.

  “Only for a few minutes,” she adds. “Felix was out, but Erin told me about some letters they have between Nancy and Lady Helen Dashwood. It’s not the memoir itself but, it made me think, maybe correspondence like this—with her friends—could explain some things.”

  “What sort of things?” Simon asks.

  “Have you ever wondered why Nancy chose your grandmother to write about, out of the hundreds of evacuees who went through Rutland Gate?”

  “I have,” Simon says. “My guess is it’s probably one of those things. A strong friendship coming out of nowhere. An attraction you can’t explain.”

  “But they don’t seem very chummy in the letters,” Katie points out. “Also, why did she wait two years to start the book? Part of me thinks... I wonder... Maybe it was your mom who drew Nancy’s attention?”

  “A baby drew her interest?” Simon scoffs. “Nancy didn’t even like children.”

  “So you claim,” Katie says. “But if that’s true, why did she put herself through so much to have a child? Between the miscarriages and the full salpingectomy—that is a very rough road.”

  “The full what now?” Simon asks, and Katie winces.

  She goes to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, only to find it’s already pulled back. “Nancy’s tubes were removed,” she says. “Don’t mean to get graphic. I know men are squeamish about poorly functioning lady parts.”

  “Um, not sure that’s always true,” Simon says.

  “Maybe with Nancy,” Katie continues as they turn onto Berkeley Street, “she was living with your pregnant grandmother and there was a bit of...not envy, really, but a haunting, an idea of what could’ve been.”

  “Do you really think Nancy Mitford wanted to be a mother?” Simon asks. “Or was it simply an expectation, a thing every woman at the time thought she should do?”

  “Here we go...”

  “Think about what Nancy said in her letters, describing her nieces and nephews. Prigs and gangsters, right? And what about the way she treated children in her novels?”

  “Oh, come on.” Katie heavily rolls her eyes. “She kept them at a certain remove, admittedly, but—”

  “If by ‘remove’ you mean she abandoned them, or left them for dead, I agree.”

  “That was a form of self-protection,” Katie says. “The best way to convince yourself you never really wanted something is to decide it’s actually terrible. Plus, children make awful characters in books.”

  “You’ve spent a lot of time thinking about this,” Simon notes. “What’s that about?”

  Kat
ie hesitates before speaking, her eyes trained on the lighted sign of the Ritz ahead. Though she can’t relate to a war, or living with a pregnant evacuee, Katie understands the tendency to douse pain with jokes and mockery. She’s never fictionally killed off any kids, but Katie has excised children from her books, which she hadn’t realized until now.

  “You’re right,” Katie says. “I have spent a lot of time thinking about it. Yesterday I read about Nancy’s surgery in the book you lent me, and it struck me, probably because...” She clears her throat and tries again to fix her hair. “I, uh, experienced something similar earlier this year.”

  They turn at the Ritz, which is bedecked with ornaments, life-sized nutcrackers, and boughs of holly tied with big red bows. “My fiancé—ex-fiancé—and I were expecting,” she continues, carefully doling out each word. “I also had an ectopic pregnancy. It did not end well. Then again, I’m alive, so maybe it did.”

  “Katie, that is horrendous.”

  “Yep,” she says without glancing up. Around them, Piccadilly teems with people, which is fortunate because Katie can concentrate on the masses, instead of whatever horror-struck expression must be on Simon’s face. It takes him a long, long time to speak again.

  “The fiancé,” Simon says as they walk into Shepherd Market. “Is the pregnancy why you broke up?”

  Katie sighs. “We had plenty of other problems, too. Maybe it was the tipping point, who knows. Can we talk about something else?”

  “Absolutely.” Simon flips around to face her. “How about some beers, yeah? I’ll nip into Kings Arms. Do you want the same as before?”

  Katie nods. He doesn’t need to ask, and she’s charmed he recalls.

  As she waits in the crowd, beneath lights draped like blankets over the square, Katie takes in the people hugging, and smiling, and drinking their pints. Though she’d never say it out loud, especially not in front of her mom, Katie’s never been one for Christmas spirit. It’s too stressful, weighted by too much expectation, but London is starting to change her mind.