The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  “Ah. You’re team Étienne.”

  “Not really,” he says. “I can’t even choose a side. Neither Étienne nor the husband seems like the obvious answer. It’s a very compelling gray area.”

  “I purposefully end my books like that,” Katie says. “In a gray area, no neat bows.”

  Simon grins. “So you don’t just write. I knew it.”

  “You are very smug,” Katie says, blushing again, and deeply regretful of having saddled June with this trait.

  She is about to protest, to insist her novels aren’t that complex, and no one’s ever used one to “figure something out.” Then Katie thinks of the emails she’s received over the years, people who said her books improved a relationship, or made them see marriage in a new light. Some readers were inspired to travel, or reunite with a parent. Others started an antiques shop, or wrote their own books. It got people through hospital stays, and illnesses, and divorces. The books, and the emails, have gotten Katie through a few things, too.

  “I don’t know why June went back to New York,” Katie says. “That must sound strange, since I wrote the thing. Originally, she stayed in Paris, but that didn’t feel right, and so I went back and changed it.”

  “She probably stuck with the old,” Simon says, “because you were sticking with the old, at the time.”

  “If you’re referring to my ex-fiancé, don’t even go there.”

  “No, really? I can’t?” He affects a pout.

  “Don’t even get near it,” she says.

  Simon slings an arm around her shoulders and pulls her into his chest. “Katie Cabot, things are not so bad,” he says, his voice echoing against her head. “I know this isn’t the end for you. Every writer struggles, even the late, great Nancy Mitford.”

  “Please, tell me how her career went nowhere for fifteen years. I never tire of that old yarn.”

  “Nowhere is just a stop to someplace else. Count yourself lucky. This is not a big problem to have.”

  Katie looks up. “It’s not my only problem!” she says, and Simon laughs.

  “Do you have time for a coffee?” he asks. “Or a pint? Handy that it gets dark so early this time of year. Makes a bloke feel like less of an alcoholic.”

  “Either is great,” Katie says, and he takes her hand.

  As they walk down Curzon Street, Heywood Hill dead ahead, the questions she’d shoved down minutes before start to bubble up. How does Prod fit into Lea’s story, and how much does Simon know? Katie hesitates to ask because she doesn’t want another argument or, worse, to discover Simon’s intentions are not what he claims.

  “I hate that you’re going back to Burwash tomorrow night,” she says instead.

  “Bloody work,” Simon says. “Alas, can you imagine if the head teacher extended his pre-Christmas holiday? I shudder to think.”

  “Hey, I apologized for that!” Katie says, and lightly thwacks his arm. “Even though you’re very mean, I’m sad our literary adventure has come to an end. Not sure how many more times I can go to the shop before Felix files a restraining order. Speaking of...” She swallows and prepares for another at bat. “I was there earlier today, and he seems to think you—”

  Katie’s sentence is cut short by a figure darting into their path. She yelps in surprise and stumbles to get out of his way. The man seizes, and Katie realizes she’s staring at a familiar head. “Felix!” she says, and he remains frozen, as though stillness is the same as an invisibility cloak. “What are you doing? I can see you!”

  After several full-bodied sighs, Felix pivots around. “Goodness, Katharine,” he says. “You are very adroit at randomly encountering people outside their workplaces.”

  “This must seem very shady,” she says. “And, yes, earlier I was hanging around, hoping to run into you. But this is pure coincidence, I swear!”

  “Did you ask him?” he says, and dabs his head toward Simon. “What did he say?”

  “Ask me what?”

  “Oh, I, uh, haven’t—” Katie stammers.

  “Let me be clear,” Felix says, gaze lasered on Simon. “Being related to Peter Rodd is worth nothing. It offers no benefits, financial or otherwise, and whatever you envision gaining, you best put it out of your head.”

  “Who’s related to Peter Rodd?” Simon says. He whips to face Katie. “You? Jesus Christ. How many more secrets do you have?”

  “What? Me? No!” Katie says. “Simon, he’s referring to you!”

  March 1944

  The London Library

  Nancy and Jim picked through the debris of what was once the London Library. There were dozens of volunteers on-site, searching for anything salvageable among the twenty thousand volumes lost.

  “The world can do without theology,” Jim said, and chucked one such offender into the rubbish. “Mostly, I’m concerned about saving the classics and biographies.”

  “I don’t think we’re meant to be curating,” Nancy said.

  “Why not donate my knowledge, as well as my time? It’s a winning proposition for all involved.”

  Nancy rolled her eyes. Jim was more insufferable than ever, now that West Wycombe had officially been transferred to the National Trust. He’d even convinced Johnny to kick in an endowment for its upkeep. Hellbags was furious, of course, and Nancy was boggled by the whole affair. She never would’ve taken Jim for such a tricky devil.

  “Here’s another,” Jim said, and passed Nancy a coverless book—Frankenstein—with the first ten pages burnt.

  She tossed it into a keep bucket. Most of Frankenstein was better than no Frankenstein at all, and Nancy couldn’t bear to throw it out.

  “I think I see something over here!” Evelyn called, offering his help from a safe and clean distance, now that his hands were critical wartime machinery. Evelyn was supposed to have shipped out following the expiration of his military reprimand, but made a case for himself to the Secretary of State for War. Entertainment was now a legitimate contribution to the war effort, he argued, and whatever he wrote would be a salve to the troops. It really was the best place for him, given his impertinence and lack of physical agility.

  Regardless of his head start, Nancy remained committed to beating Evelyn to the punch and was making progress on the memoir, by and by. Lea was helpful, in her desultory way, and even responded to letters and queries, every now and again. The offer stands, Nancy wrote, just last week. I love the idea of a little one running around the house. We have the room, and you’ll need to leave Bucks, eventually.

  Weston Manor was up for auction now that Lady and Lord Worthington were both dead. Two weeks after she went missing, Danette’s coat was found on the bank of the Ouse, her handkerchief floating some miles away. Her body washed up several days later, confirming what they all knew. It was a devastating end, though at least she would never be unfairly accused of treason.

  “Evelyn, what were you pointing at?” Jim asked as he lifted a chunk of plaster with his foot. “We’ve been through this pile. I think we’re done for the day.”

  Nancy nodded and handed her bucket to another worker. “What time is it?” she said, wiping the dirt from her watch.

  “Time for a cocktail,” Evelyn said.

  “Not for me,” Nancy said. “I took the entire day off from the shop and need to get some writing in before I go back for fire watch.”

  “Look at you!” Evelyn said. “An industrious little bee. I’ve logged three thousand words this morning, so I’m free to get drunk. As much as I hate to say it, I think the halibut oil from Eddy’s helped. I’ve been writing like a man on fire.”

  “How lovely for you,” Nancy mumbled, wishing just one more bomb would fall, in a very specific, Evelyn-shaped place.

  “What about you, Jimmy?” he said. “Join me for a whisky?”

  “Not in the mood,” Jim answered as he batted the dust from his corduroy trou
sers. “The thought of a cocktail is depressing. What would we even discuss? Everything is so damned terrible.”

  “Gosh, Jim,” Nancy said. “I thought you’d be all smiles with West Wycombe in your clutches.”

  “You’d think, but no,” he said. “It’s all so grim. Even parties aren’t festive anymore. Nothing to drink, and everyone’s always tense. I’d rather be helping, doing something productive.”

  After Jim gave the wrecked library a final, mournful gaze, the three began marching across the detritus toward Piccadilly.

  “I’m pleased to hear you’re working on your book,” Evelyn said. “I had my doubts, as you know, but only the writer himself can ascertain if a project is coming together. Only he can feel the magic, the chill, the undeniable whisper of the muse.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Nancy said, anxious about when her magic might set in. The book still felt like a jumble of words and, though Lea added something to the story, her cooperation was hardly the golden ticket Nancy had hoped. In letters and phone calls, they danced around Prod’s involvement in their lives, but whenever Nancy inched closer, Lea pulled away. Certain questions were probably best addressed face-to-face, but with food and fuel shortages, Nancy was hesitant to waste petrol on a social call, especially as she had no faith Lea would willingly provide the answers she sought.

  “Back tomorrow?” Jim said as they crossed Piccadilly.

  Nancy shook her head. “There are plenty of helping hands,” she said. “And I can’t keep ignoring the shop. Anne and Heywood aren’t returning to London until an armistice is signed, and everything’s left up to Mollie and me.”

  “PUT THEM BACK!” a voice shouted.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Evelyn said, and Nancy looked up to see a group of protestors chanting and waving their all-too-familiar signs.

  “PUT THEM BACK!”

  “Everyone!” Evelyn pretended to call out. “It’s Nancy Mitford, right over here.”

  She gave him a good slap.

  “I can’t believe they’re still at it,” Jim said.

  “No kidding,” Nancy agreed. “I’d expected protests when they were first let out, but five months on? It’s not as though Diana and Mosley are free. They’re still under house arrest!”

  When news hit London that the Mosleys were released, the press swarmed the shop and hectored Nancy for a week straight. She told them only what she knew: her sister and brother-in-law had been transferred to home custody because of Oswald’s phlebitis and Diana’s weak pulse. Britons took to the streets in protest, and a large demonstration was held in Trafalgar Square. One march turned into two, and they’d been yelling ever since.

  “PUT THEM BACK!”

  Nancy glared at the rabble-rousers. “I cannot wait to leave this city,” she said. “As soon as this damned war is over, I’m boarding the next train to France.”

  “This nonsense again,” Evelyn said with a sigh. “I’ll give you this. Never in a million years could I have predicted the two of you would still be in contact.”

  “Maybe it is love, after all,” Jim said as they crossed another street.

  “Sure feels like it,” Nancy said. “I’m practically dying to be together again, and I live for the post, for the sight of an envelope from Carlton Gardens marked with the General’s stamp.”

  Although the Colonel promised he’d call—when you least expect it, the telephone will ring, and there I’ll be—they hadn’t spoken in almost a year. He wrote often, and Nancy understood Algiers to London was some hard cheese, but she missed the sound of his voice. Racontez!

  To quell her despair, Nancy wrote to the Colonel in every spare moment, starting usually with a tale of childhood adventure. In some ways, these letters were easier to get down than the book, and at times it felt like the one thing holding them together.

  “Have you informed your husband of your move to France?” Evelyn asked as they walked down Half Moon Street, a neighborhood once haven to aristocratic bachelors. Now every other house was boarded up, a note pinned to the door instructing what to do with the post. “Feels as though he should be aware.”

  “Oh, please,” Nancy said as they veered onto Curzon Street. “Peter never cared what I did. In fact, he never bothered with me at all.”

  “You always refer to him in the past tense,” Jim said.

  Evelyn nodded. “I’ve noticed that, too.”

  “What do you expect?” Nancy said. “I haven’t heard from him in three years!”

  They paused at the entrance to the shop, dusting themselves off best they could. When Nancy threw open the door, Mollie stood blocking the entrance, gawping and pale and severely out of sorts.

  “Mollie! Goodness! What’s wrong with you now? You are positively horror-struck!” Nancy said. She glanced down at her arms, and saw they were still covered in a fine layer of soot. “Oh, ducky! I’m sorry! We’re a mess. Let me grab my things, and I’ll be out of your hair. I’ll be back by eight o’clock, though! I swear on my life!”

  “It’s not the... It’s... I’m... This came for you,” Mollie said, and extended a quaking hand. “A telegram.”

  Nancy’s heart jumped, and her mind ticked through all the people who might be hurt. Tom. One of her sisters. The Colonel, of course. “I can’t look,” she said, squinting, and holding the paper at arm’s length.

  “I’ll read it for you,” Evelyn said. He reached for the paper, but Nancy was too quick.

  “Moll, give it to me straight,” Nancy said. “Who died?”

  “No one’s dead, but...” Mollie said. “Well, you should probably just read...”

  Nancy exhaled. She bowed her head and skimmed the page. Nancy’s first thought: Thank God. Her second: Please, almost anything but this.

  1944.25.03

  Nancy—

  I am coming home. Build up a supply of cigarettes whisky and other delicacies there is a kind wife.

  -Prod

  Saturday Evening

  Curzon Street

  “Why are we talking about Peter Rodd?” Simon says, his gaze swinging back and forth between Katie and Felix. “What does he have to do with anything?”

  “Mister Bailey, you may drop the pretense,” Felix says. “His Grace will not entertain any shakedowns or frivolous lawsuits.”

  “Lawsuits?” Simon says. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “See? He has no idea!” Katie says to Felix, then looks at Simon. She puts the back of her hand to her forehead like an offended Victorian spinster. “Phew! Problem solved!”

  “What is happening?”

  “Folks, I really must go,” Felix says. “Can we do this another time?”

  Katie grabs Felix’s arm. “We can settle this matter quickly, and then you can go,” she says. “Simon. Do you think Peter Rodd is your grandfather?”

  “Peter Rodd?” Simon wrinkles his brow. “Who told you that?”

  “He did!” Katie says as Felix jerks out of her hold. “See, Felix? He’s not trying to trick you, or anybody else.”

  Simon rattles his head, as if trying to knock something loose. He opens his mouth once, twice before speaking. “Where is this coming from?” he says. “And what the fuck does Peter Rodd have to do with anything?”

  “That’s what you’re here for, is it not?” Felix says.

  “What? No. What I want is what I’ve told you all along. I believe there is a missing manuscript and would like to see it for myself.”

  “But why?” Felix presses. “You’ve been very focused on your grandmother’s relationship to Nancy Mitford, and her potential involvement with the unpublished autobiography. If not money, or an authorial claim to the book, what other assumption could we make?”

  “Hell if I know. All I want is to show the manuscript to my mum. I don’t even need the original copy! Just lend it to me. She’ll be dead soon, and I’ll bri
ng it right back.”

  “Dead?” Felix says, and his expression slackens.

  “Late-stage stomach cancer,” Simon says. “I’d love to give her this one last thing, before she goes. I think it’d be cool for her to see. That’s all there is to it.”

  Felix sighs. “Jesus. Well, I feel like an arse,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology unnecessary,” Simon says. “But I still don’t understand. Why would I associate Peter Rodd with any of this?”

  “Because Nancy did,” Katie pipes in. “She thought he might’ve fathered your mom. She even wrote a letter to your grandmother asking whether ‘Greenie’ was actually Prod.”

  “She did?” Simon says, jiggling his head again.

  “Felix doesn’t think she sent it, though.” Katie looks back over and directly into Felix’s cutting stare. “Either way, my guess is Nancy found her answer and stopped writing because everything became too messy.”

  “Incorrect,” Felix says. “Nancy did briefly entertain the notion of a Peter-Lea connection, but it was based on little more than paranoia, and conjecture. Peter was absent a long time, and never faithful to begin with.”

  “She was just...speculating?” Katie asks, and Felix nods.

  “Nancy let her suspicions get the best of her,” he says, “but realized she was wrong. She stopped writing because, in mid-1944, Peter returned from Africa, and Nancy decided to focus on their relationship.”

  “Their relationship?” Katie makes a face. “Why would Nancy give two shits about Prod? She was already intent on moving to France by then!” She sneaks a glance at Simon, who still seems puzzled, as if trying to work out a problem no one else can see.

  “Deep down, Nancy Mitford was a traditionalist,” Felix says. “Bred to believe that marriage was the ultimate achievement.”

  “Okay...” Katie says. There is a niggling, a thread she cannot grab. “If Nancy was such a traditionalist, why’d she beg Peter for a divorce, and why’d she go on to stay with the Colonel for thirty years? Sorry, but I don’t buy it. She didn’t even seem to enjoy Prod as...like...a person.”