“Spy mission?” Nancy said. “What are you talking about?”
“Non-cee,” he said. “Do not play these games with me. We all know about the French-speaking peeress dispatched to keep an eye on us.”
Nancy groaned and covered her face. “Fine,” she said. “I confess. The government did ask me to spy on the Free Frogs.” She dropped her hands. “For the record, I never reported on you, or much of anything. Just one suspicious couple—the Selliers—and the Green Park ticket taker. Regardless, I was finished with ‘spying’ by the time I met you. Remember, you’re the one who came into my shop.”
“Either way,” the Colonel said, and pulled her in for a kiss. “It does not matter, because you make a very bad spy.”
Nancy gave him a little shove. “According to who?” she snapped.
“You are too pretty for l’espionnage. Tu es trop charmante, trop aimante...”
“I’m ‘much too much’?” Nancy said, and put a hand to her hip. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“You are a person who is better to stand out.” He tried to pinch her side, but Nancy jumped away. “My little silkworm,” the Colonel said. “I hate to leave, but it has to be this way.”
“The problem with falling in love with a famous diplomat,” Nancy said. “You’re always busy trying to save the world. How much time do we have left?”
“I leave at daybreak.”
“Daybreak! That’s practically now!” Nancy said. “I was thinking weeks, days at least. We’ve had so little time together.”
“We have this moment,” the Colonel said, and took her hand. “Plus eight months of perfect happiness.”
“Eight and a half!” Nancy said. “I want more! I want happily-ever-after!”
“Nobody gets a fairy tale,” he said. “Don’t fret, Non-cee. There are some advantages to my departure. Regarde les choses du côté positif.”
“The bright side?” Nancy huffed. “And what is that?”
“You’ll have so many hours to write. I was a big distraction, you see.”
Nancy glowered. Like a cold she couldn’t shake, she heard Evelyn’s voice in her head. I hope you’re not letting a love affair interfere with your career. “I’ll be too depressed to write,” she said.
“Then you’ll have to find some new excuse.”
The Colonel brought her into his chest, and Nancy buried her face against his coat, taking in the scent of his cigarettes, and lavender cologne. “I hate this life,” she said.
“It will end, eventually. For now, you must hold on to what is good.”
Nancy pulled away. “What’s left to hold on to?” she said. “You’re leaving. So many of my friends and family are off fighting—getting shot, captured even. My parents aren’t on speakers, Diana’s in jail, and Decca’s practically American now. God, they’re all such Fascists over there. I do not understand the appeal.” Nancy stopped to sigh. “Though, I suppose it would be nice to see Gone with the Wind.”
The Colonel chuckled. “You see? There is always a laugh to be found.”
“There’s nothing funny about Unity,” Nancy said. “Debo remains hopelessly blithe, and Pamela can’t help but be the worst. Oh, God. Everything is such a bloody mess.”
“Non-cee,” the Colonel said, his dark eyes glistening in the low light. “Please, don’t be sad. You are breaking my heart. Whenever you feel blue, close your eyes instead and think of me.”
“That’ll only make me more upset. All I want to do from now until forever is to lie in bed and trade stories with you.”
“Then this is what you should do,” the Colonel said. “Only, you will need to write them down because I will not be there to listen. Do this, for me.” He kissed the top of her head. “La famille Mitford fait ma joie.”
“I’ll try,” Nancy said. “Do you think we’ll ever see each other again?”
“Bien sûr, mon amie. When this war is over, you will come to Paris, where we will live until I am ninety, at least. Is this ‘happily-ever-after’ enough for you?”
“It could be, if I believed it,” Nancy said.
“I have a very faithful nature.”
Nancy coughed. “I’ve heard you described many ways,” she said, “but faithful is not one of them.”
“Those other people are not you.” He kissed her again, on the lips. “We will one day be together in Paris. Forever is a very long time, much longer than a war. Until then, write your stories and send them to me. If you do this, we’ll never be far apart.”
“You’ll be in Africa!”
“Don’t worry, my love,” the Colonel said, and brushed a wisp of hair from her watery green eyes. “You’ll be always on my mind, and I on yours. When you least expect it, the telephone will ring, and there I’ll be, just as I promised I would.”
Allô! Are you up?
Alors, racontez!
Tell me everything!
Saturday Afternoon
G. Heywood Hill Ltd.
Katie runs into Felix as he’s unlocking the shop. It’s perfect timing, though Katie has increased her odds by hanging around Curzon Street for most of the day.
“Hello!” she says, popping up behind him.
“Katharine,” Felix says with an exaggerated, almost jaunty roll of the eyes. “I thought I told you we were closed on weekends.”
“You did, but I was doing a little Christmas shopping and happened to be walking by the shop. Voilà, here you are!” Katie knows she is speaking very quickly and can only hope he’s keeping up. “I wanted to apologize, again, for sneaking into your files, and also ask a few more questions, if you don’t mind? I promise not to take too much time!”
Smirking, Felix bends to retrieve a box that’d been left by the door.
“If you’re too busy,” Katie prattles on, “and want me to scram, just say the word. I’ll oblige, no questions asked!”
“I find that hard to believe.” Felix kicks open the door and leaves it ajar, which Katie takes as invitation.
She trails him inside. “I’m glad you’re not mad at me,” Katie says as Felix heaves the box onto a table and tears it open with a key. “I did love seeing the letters to Hellbags. Do you think—”
“Mind giving me a second?” Felix says. “Before you start in with the badgering?”
“Yes! Sure! No problem!” Katie chirps. As Felix sifts through the box, she wanders toward the shelves and, almost immediately, something snags her attention. There is a gap where her book used to be. “A Paris Affair!” Katie yells, and spins around. “It’s gone! Did you force someone to buy it?”
“I wasn’t here when it sold,” Felix says. “Somebody purchased it of their own free will.”
“Impossible,” Katie says, envisioning some very British type reading it with a mild-to-moderate sneer. Feeling giddy but also slightly nauseated, Katie drifts toward one of her longtime favorites, Jesmyn Ward, but this shelf also seems out of sorts. It takes her a second to notice an upside-down copy of Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh. Smiling, Katie looks at Felix, and back to the book. She wouldn’t dare mess with Nancy Mitford’s wishes, and so she leaves Evelyn alone. “You know, the letter I saw to Hellbags was written in late 1942,” she says, “and Nancy mentions writing about—”
“Katharine...” Felix answers, sternly.
“Never mind!” she says “Carry on! We’ll talk when you’re done.”
Sheepish and starting to perspire, Katie takes out her phone and opens a text sent by Simon yesterday afternoon. Maybe you were onto something, he’d written, and attached a photograph. From my mum.
17 May 1943
Dear Lea,
I’m accustomed to prison censors, but I don’t know what sort of censor you have in Danette. I can only pray this will land directly in your hands, sans intervention.
In short, I’ve heard from an incre
dibly reliable but very dull source that our Lady Worthington is in a state. My heart breaks for my friend, but it’s not healthy for you or Emma to endure the ups and downs of her personality. There is a room available for the two of you, in my house, in Maida Vale.
It makes heaps of sense. I have the space, and a housekeeper, and my overnight guest has departed for Algiers. My boss Anne Hill has given birth to baby Harriet—“a huge, hearty hockey-playing Roedean girl” (her words)—and I’ll be working a million hours at the shop. All that to say, you’d be practically living alone! When I am home, perhaps you might assist with the autobiography? I won’t ask too much—I swear on my life! Just some input, here and there. I promise to make it worth your while. Maybe we’ll both become famous, what do you think?
Let me know by post.
Love from
NR
Maybe you were onto something. These words were the first and last thing Simon said to Katie since yesterday’s tense breakfast. Twenty-four hours is not a long time in general but, for them, it’s practically a month. Katie is convinced this is about the kiss, and though she didn’t anticipate winning any awards, she hadn’t expected to be shunned.
“Are you aware of any houseguests Nancy had later in the war?” Katie asks, and Felix looks up. “I know she hosted evacuees at her parents’ house during the Blitz, but is it possible some folks who’d gone out to Buckinghamshire came back to the city and stayed with Nancy?”
Felix tilts his head. “What are you really asking, Katharine?” he says.
“Well, you see,” Katie says, twisting a lock of hair around her finger, “in her published letters, Nancy wrote about a pregnant sixteen-year-old who came through Rutland Gate. It seems they had an ongoing correspondence.”
“These are questions about Simon Bailey,” he says.
“No. Well, yes and no.” Katie exhales. “This started with Simon, but now I want to know, for myself.”
“If you’re asking whether the sixteen-year-old from Nancy’s letter ever came to live at Blomfield Road,” Felix says, “the answer is no. There is undue fixation on this person. Too much is being made of the connection.”
“Nancy was writing a book about her!” Katie cries. “I saw it in Hellbags’s letter, and I find it very peculiar you won’t let me read the others.”
“Why am I obligated to show you the rest?” he asks.
“Well, you’re not, but I mean...”
Felix closes the box and sighs. “A book was started,” he says.
“I knew it!” Katie says, and marches back to Felix’s side. “Why was that so difficult to admit?”
“This is to protect you, Katharine. The less time you spend entertaining Simon Bailey’s claptrap, the better.”
“I’m trying to be open-minded,” Katie says, “but you’re making it hard. All these warnings about Simon yet you’re the most suspicious person around. I don’t mean to be insulting, but facts are facts.”
To Katie’s great fortune, Felix finds this amusing, and he lets a smile escape. “I’ll allow you this very small point,” he says. Hands on hips, he examines Katie for two, three beats. “I certainly don’t want you to be wary of me... Perhaps I have a document that might clear things up. Wait here.”
He flips around and begins striding across the room, Katie on his heels. “You’re not allowed to follow me!” he barks, thrusting a finger in her face. “I will abide no more of your shenanigans.”
After issuing a final blistering look, Felix hurries off and Katie is left to stand around pretending to read book jackets while she waits.
“Here’s a copy,” Felix says, when he returns. “It’s very short, but also quite telling. Once you read it, you’ll understand my misgivings about your new chum.”
“Thank you,” Katie says, snatching the paper from his hand. “I take back what I said about you being suspicious. Simon can be a little squirrelly, too.” She recognizes Nancy’s scrawl the second her eyes hit the page.
12 Blomfield Road, W9
20 August 1944
Dear Lea,
Lord knows if I’ll summon the nerve to send this letter, or if it’s better to discuss face-to-face. I need to know, was there ever a “Greenie,” or was this Greenie really Prod?
Nancy
“You think Simon wants the manuscript because...” Katie says, heart sprinting. She performs a mental calculation and checks her math. “Because Prod was his grandfather?”
Felix nods. “We believe this is a strong possibility. As far as we can tell,” he says, “the letter was never sent. We do know that, around this time, Nancy stopped writing her autobiography and soon thereafter came up with the idea for The Pursuit of Love. A year later, she left for Paris.”
“But Simon said she stopped writing the memoir the following April,” Katie insists. “After The Pursuit of Love was done.”
Felix arches a brow. “How lovely that he said this, but have you seen the proof?”
“Well, no. He can’t find the letter.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Felix says with a very self-satisfied nod. “I would not take Simon Bailey at face value.”
“Why would he lie?”
“There are many reasons,” Felix says. “Most likely, he’s seeking compensation.”
Head pulsing, Katie lowers onto the nearest available chair. “That can’t be,” she says. “Simon hasn’t mentioned anything about money.” Then again, there was a mention, a small one, but it was more about his grandmother than it was about him.
Promises made to your grandmother? What, like money?
Something like that...
“Shysters don’t customarily preannounce themselves,” Felix says.
“Shaking down a bookstore doesn’t seem like something he would do.” On the other hand, Katie’s been in London for one week, and all she knows of Simon is what he’s chosen to show. They have no friends in common, and she can’t even ask around.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” Felix says. His face shifts and for a moment he seems sad. “I’m not in the habit of spreading unfounded gossip. Unfortunately, in this case, the motives are quite evident.”
“But...” Katie starts.
“Once you digest the information, you’ll see why it’s the only explanation that makes sense.” Again, he frowns. “I hate that it has to be this way. I’m the last person who’d want to kill a budding romance.”
* * *
Katie rushes out of the store, nearly crashing into a postbox, several lampposts, and two or three groups of tourists. Felix has an active imagination, Katie tells herself, sounding ever like Judy Cabot-Swift. He’s reading too much into things. Despite these assurances, Katie still feels like she’s going to throw up.
Turning onto Half Moon Street, Katie spots a tall, lanky figure standing on the front steps. She freezes and considers turning around.
“Katharine Cabot,” Simon says. “Just the person I wanted to see. A few questions have been weighing on me. Perhaps you might be kind enough to entertain them.”
“What a coincidence,” Katie says, wishing she had another minute to think this through. But Simon is here now, and it’s too late to run away. “I have several questions myself.”
“This should be a lively conversation,” Simon says, and Katie wonders why he seems so pissed. “I’ll go first. I’m going to ask one more time: Why are you so interested in my family’s story? What’s the real reason you offered to help?”
“Me?” She balks. “How can you be suspicious of me? You’re the one who—” Katie stops. Her gaze falls, and her breath falters when she sees what Simon has in his hand. “Fuck,” she says, and looks up. “I can explain.”
“I’m not sure that you can.”
Well, now she knows. It wasn’t a random customer who bought the last copy of A Paris Affair. It was Simon Bailey.
October 19
43
G. Heywood Hill Ltd.
Nancy studied the sheet, as though one page might morph into two or three or four. A few paragraphs was better than nothing, albeit not by much. It’d been five months since the Colonel left, and she’d written approximately one-quarter of a not-very-good book.
“Why is it taking so long?” Evelyn said.
“I don’t want to hear squat from a person who turned a military reprimand into government-ordered writing leave,” Nancy snapped.
Ah, to be male and so incompetent and foul tempered nobody wanted you around. What a life.
Although the Colonel was gone, and Anne was no longer monitoring her every move, Nancy was almost more distracted by the yawning gap of emptiness than she’d been when her days were filled. As for why it was taking so long, Nancy hadn’t yet heard from Lea, one way or another, and whenever she called out to Weston Manor, the phone rang and rang.
“Page two,” Nancy said aloud.
She put her pen to paper just as Mollie peeped through the storage room door.
“Sorry to interrupt,” she said. “I know you’re technically on a break right now. But there’s a man here to see you? One of those gray governmental types. Should I tell him to leave? He didn’t threaten to arrest me this time.”
“Governmental type?” Nancy’s heart gave a thump. What did they want with her now? “I’ll see what this is about,” she said, shoving her manuscript into a drawer. “I hope nobody’s been killed.”
When Nancy hustled onto the shop floor, she was astonished to find a familiar if not slightly bloated face. “Gladwyn, my goodness!” she said, and kissed him on each cheek. “How are you? It’s been a while!” Nancy hadn’t thought of him in months, almost a year and a half, and she couldn’t fathom what he wanted at this late date. Greville was long dead, and Danette half-mad, and surely the coast was clear by now. “Is this a social visit?” Nancy glanced around. There wasn’t much doing in the shop, aside from a few browsers, and Mollie lingering in the back. “Or do we need privacy?”
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