The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  “Why are you thanking me? It was my duty.” Prod took a step closer. “I’m not letting you go.”

  Nancy squinted at her husband, wondering whether he meant in this moment or in general. Her eyes flickered toward the door and she sighed, understanding there was no getting out of it now. “Did you read the manuscript?” Nancy asked.

  “Yes, I read the manuscript,” he said. “What choice did I have after receiving such a peculiar missive from my wife?”

  Nancy nodded, picturing the words she’d written and rewritten a dozen times.

  Prod—

  I have finished my new book, which makes two completed in the past twelve months. Before I come home, I need you to see the first. Mollie has it at the shop. You may read it there, under her supervision.

  Talk soon.

  -NR

  “I won’t ask if you enjoyed it,” she said.

  “Of course I didn’t. It’s utter bullshit,” Prod said.

  “Really.” Nancy eyed her husband, unsure what she hoped to glean from the situation she’d provoked.

  “Whose idea was it?” he asked. “This Lea person?”

  “The idea was mine,” Nancy said. “But Lea did help, if you can call it that.”

  “You didn’t give her any money, I hope.”

  “I promised her a share of royalties, if it was a success. That’s neither here nor there, as I doubt I’ll end up publish—”

  “Royalties!” Prod roared. “Are you mad? That woman scammed you!”

  “How could she have scammed me?” Nancy said. “When it was my autobiography, my version of the war? I haven’t given her a pound, and I likely never will. Really, Peter, you know how poor I am. I’m the last person anyone should bother extorting!”

  “She doesn’t know that. I’m sure she saw this house, with its ballrooms and chandeliers.” Prod waved his arms overhead. “She heard your posh accent and sensed your kind soul—”

  “That is sweet.”

  “Nancy!” he shouted. “Don’t be stupid! I’m not complimenting you! There’s no other explanation for her involvement because I did not father that child. Honestly. Do you think I’d be attracted to a teenage cockney? Give me some credit.”

  “Well, your romantic tastes are very perplexing,” Nancy said.

  “This is absurd!” He pitched forward, trying to tower over Nancy, as if he’d forgotten how tall she was. In fairness, his girlfriends were always on the miniature side. “What did she say, specifically? About me and this baby?”

  “Well, she wasn’t specific,” Nancy said. “I told her I wasn’t angry about whatever happened between the two of you, and she thanked me repeatedly but never seemed keen to discuss it in any great detail.”

  “Goddammit, Nancy!” he shouted. “So you’re the one who made it up?”

  “She was not my only source of information,” Nancy said as a departing couple shuffled into the hall. She paused, offering a somber farewell as they fetched their coats.

  “What was this source?” Prod asked, after they left.

  “A man I’ve known my entire life. He’s very high up in the government.”

  “Let me guess.” Peter rolled his eyes. “Gladwyn Jebb. I presume he came up with this yarn while getting drunk and shooting things with Lord Redesdale?”

  “This has nothing to do with Farve.”

  Peter exhaled, both hands on his hips. “It’s odd,” he said. “I’m not terribly upset. More so, I’m concerned about your mental state. A resting cure might do you some good, bring you back to your senses. Switzerland, perhaps? Shall I call Mummy’s doctor?”

  “You’re precisely as awful as everyone thinks you are,” Nancy seethed.

  “Darling, the suggestion comes from a place of great care,” Prod said. “You’ve been through a lot over the years. Your sisters’ antics, your parents’ separation, Tom’s death. With your family, nothing’s ever easy, and my sympathies run deep.”

  “That’s a fine statement, coming from you,” Nancy said. Living among the Mitfords could send almost anyone to the sanitorium, but the Rodds were no picnic themselves. At least Nancy’s family liked her, as opposed to Peter’s, who excluded him from most major holidays. “What I find deeply intriguing,” Nancy said, “is how anxious you are about a book you’ve described as utter bullshit.”

  “I’m anxious because people will think it’s true!” Prod said. “Never mind the implication that I’d impregnate a child, I come off as a heartless prick. You described me as...what was it?” He twisted his face, trying to recollect. “Something about a ship in a lonely ocean, crashing into people onshore.”

  “You don’t realize there are people onshore.”

  “Readers will think I don’t care for you at all. It’s just...not true.” Prod’s chin trembled. His shoulders slumped, and his skin seemed to lose most of his tan.

  Nancy shook her head. Speaking of maritime metaphors, she was suddenly at sea.

  “What else would I think?” she said, after several minutes passed. “You went to war for three years. You wrote me twice, sent flowers once, and visited not a single time. Everyone thought I was such a dope, insisting the Guards never gave you enough leave to come home. Of course, they all knew the truth, including me.”

  “You didn’t want me here! You were too busy with your Frogs!”

  “I needed some company!”

  “Another thank you to Gladwyn Jebb,” Peter groused. “If I were a paranoid sort, I’d think he was actively trying to ruin my life. You’re not really going to publish it, are you? This so-called autobiography?”

  Nancy closed her eyes and let Hellbags’s words run through her head. Nancy, forget your sisters. Forget your parents, Prod, Heywood, everyone else. You have to figure out what you want.

  What Nancy wanted was to live in Paris, with the Colonel, and introduce the Radletts to the world. The autobiography didn’t seem important now, and Nancy didn’t feel the same as she had back when she told Hellbags she couldn’t stomach it all going up in flames.

  You’ll figure out a way to make use of it, Hellbags had declared in her strident, raspy voice. Now, as Nancy stood in the entryway, facing off against Prod, she was struck by an idea. Maybe the memoir was the answer, albeit not in the way she’d envisioned.

  “I won’t publish it,” Nancy said, leveling her gaze on Prod’s.

  “Oh, thank God!” Peter shouted toward the ceiling, as if the good Lord himself granted this wish. “I may not have married the prettiest Mitford, but I did get the one who is least deranged.”

  “You might want to hear me out first,” Nancy said. “I won’t publish the book, but you won’t stop me from moving to Paris.”

  “Paris!?” Prod’s prior exaltation came crashing down. “No. Absolutely not.”

  “Then I’ll have to publish the book, I suppose.”

  “I’ll never agree to a divorce,” he said. “No matter how many threats you make.”

  Nancy shrugged. “I don’t need a divorce,” she said. “I only want to leave. Heywood is letting me open a shop on the Seine.”

  “In exchange for five thousand pounds,” Prod said. “Where will you get the money if you don’t publish the memoir?”

  “I wrote two books, remember?” Nancy said, starting to smile.

  “Your second book.” Prod snickered, and the hairs on Nancy’s arms rose. “You’re very amusing, darling. Very droll. But people don’t want to read about a bunch of bratty aristocrats tumbling around in some broken-down manse. Be realistic. It’s time to forget Paris, and silly books. It’s time to restart our lives as husband and wife. You really can’t afford to do anything else.”

  “How perfectly Prod,” Nancy said, and she had half a mind to laugh. “Who needs romance when you can have grim practicality? There are exactly two choices, my darling. Agree to my conditions or don’t
.”

  “It’s not going to happen like this,” Prod said as a jagged vein bulged on the left side of his head. “You are not publishing that book, and I’ll never agree to a divorce.”

  “I don’t need a divorce,” Nancy reminded him. “I only want Paris.”

  “I’ll countenance no more of this conversation,” Peter said, and put on his hat. “Poor Tom. He’d be so disappointed to see you like this.”

  “Tom couldn’t stand you!” Nancy screamed as Peter stormed out the front door. She had to admit, the red satin lining of his coat really enhanced the drama of his exit.

  “Absolute bastard,” somebody said, and Nancy whipped around.

  At the writing desk, in the alcove beneath the stairs, a lonely figure sat. A cane was propped up on the wall next to him.

  “Farve!” Nancy said, and rushed to his side. “Don’t startle me like that! I have a delicate pulse! Gosh, I hope you didn’t see that little squabble. It was just Peter being Peter. You know how he is. Such a Counter-Hon.”

  “Koko—”

  “Forget all that,” Nancy said. “You were absolutely wonderful with Diana, especially after all she’s put this family through. It was beautiful to witness. The living embodiment of unconditional love.”

  “Thanks,” he muttered, reaching into his desk. “On the topic of wayward daughters, I have something for you.” Farve extended an envelope toward Nancy, and she stepped back. “Due to my myriad financial follies, and your profligate spouse, you’ve had to cobble together a life without any assistance.”

  “And without a proper education,” Nancy said, because she couldn’t help herself.

  “Too true,” Farve said. “And I know you despise me for it. This won’t make up for all you’ve not had—” he flapped the envelope “—but it’s five thousand pounds. Enough for your investment in the shop.”

  “Five thousand!” Nancy cried. “You can’t possibly have that much to spare!”

  “I’m an old man,” Farve said, “with not many years left.”

  “FARVE!”

  “I’ve always regretted not being able to do more for my firstborn, my favorite child.”

  Nancy snuffled, knowing she was only his favorite now that Tom was gone.

  “Of all my children,” he said, “I’ve always enjoyed your company the most.”

  “That’s because we share the same offensive temperament, according to Evelyn Waugh.”

  “That man is a damned sewer,” Farve snapped. He scowled briefly before his face softened again. “My little Koko, my blob-nose. If you want to go to Paris, don’t wait around. Use this money and become Heywood’s partner, instead of his employee.”

  “You really wouldn’t be upset if I moved to France?”

  “Of course I’d be upset,” he said. “I loathe Frogs of every shape and stripe, but London is in shambles. It’s hollowed out, a wreck of a place. Our family, I’m afraid, is much the same.”

  Farve’s unparalleled generosity bewildered Nancy. It rendered her mute, and she worried she might not ever be able to speak without sobbing. Finally, Nancy closed her eyes and accepted the envelope.

  “Start a new life, Nancy. Go to your—” Farve made a face like he might throw up “—Colonel. Go and...be happy.”

  Nancy studied the man, the brutish “Uncle Matthew,” bludgeoner of Germans and scolder of little girls. “We probably won’t marry,” she said. “The Colonel and me. Peter will never agree to a divorce, and the French are very uptight about mistresses, and wives, and living arrangements.”

  “Everyone in France is terrible, and I’d prefer not to attend another wedding in my lifetime, so that suits me just fine. Go, Nancy. Enjoy your life.”

  “Farve. I can’t...” Nancy said.

  She tried to return the gift, but he swatted it away. “You can, and you must,” he said. “If you give a shilling of it to Peter Rodd, however, I’ll never speak to you again.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Nancy said, and put a hand to her heart.

  “Paris.” Farve grunted. “I don’t know what you see in the goddamned place. It’s filled with aesthetes and Catholics and other unsavory types. But you’ve always had your own mind. If you want to go to Paris, now is the time. There aren’t many chances in life, and you have to take them where you can.”

  Tuesday Afternoon

  G. Heywood Hill Ltd.

  Katie arrives carrying a tin of home-baked cookies, like a soccer mom or an officious lady from church.

  “I leave tomorrow night,” she says to Felix, proffering her gift. “This is a small thanks for all you’ve done.”

  Felix peeks inside. “Christmas biscuits! Excellent.”

  “In full disclosure,” Katie says, “the Hawkins-Whitsheds’ concierge made them, but only after Jojo found me pawing through her cabinets for ingredients. I did supervise, though. The guy thought he was going to make some sage-and-onion shortbread bullshit, but I stepped in.”

  Chuckling, Felix takes a stained-glass cookie. As he chews, he studies Katie with one brow perfectly raised.

  “What?” she says. “What are you looking at?”

  “This gift is a surprise,” Felix says after swallowing. He extends the tin in her direction. “I was certain you still thought I was holding back.”

  Katie chooses a ginger biscuit dipped in white chocolate, the one she’d been eyeing all day. “Not at all,” she says. “You’d have no reason to lie, especially now that we both know I was right about Simon.”

  “You love to win arguments, don’t you?”

  “Who doesn’t?” Katie says. “Plus, you helped with a whole lot more than a manuscript. You, this shop, it’s given me direction in a way I never could’ve imagined.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Felix says.

  As he sets the tin on the counter, Katie pulls a small stack of stickers from her tote. They bear her signature and the Antilles Press logo. “These are also for you,” she says. “Bookplates. I signed them in case you ever stock my novels again. No pressure, though! I won’t check or anything!”

  “I will gladly take these,” Felix says, and swipes the bookplates from her hand. “And they’ll go to terrific use. I’ve ordered multiple copies of all three of your novels from the publisher. They should arrive any day.”

  “Now I feel like I should’ve brought more cookies,” Katie says, blushing hard.

  Felix laughs again. “The real question is whether there’ll be a new Katharine Cabot book soon,” he says. “After my customers read the others, they’ll be clamoring for a fourth.”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” Katie says, offering a feeble smile.

  “Oh, dear, not a new odyssey, is it?” he says. “Should I sit down? Fetch the keys to the storage room?”

  “No. Not yet, anyway. You see, I’m working on a new idea,” she says, speaking rapidly and without taking a breath. “It’s sort of a retelling of The Pursuit of Love. I’ve written three thousand words, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s only been a day. What do you think?”

  “A modern retelling of The Pursuit of Love is brilliant,” Felix says, “and I’d love to read your version of it.”

  Katie puts her hands together as if praying. She releases a long exhale, and practically everything else she’s been holding in for a week. “I’m so relieved you approve,” she says. “Thank you.”

  “You must return to London for a signing,” Felix says. “I recognize it’s a long trip, but I hope you’ll make an exception, just for Heywood Hill.”

  He winks, and Katie’s phone buzzes in her hand. “I’ll do whatever I can to come back,” she says, her eyes skimming the screen.

  The incoming text is from Simon. It’s a picture accompanied by a message—something about “one final puzzle piece...even if a thousand more remain lost.”


  “Anyhow,” Katie says, slipping the phone into her bag. “I can’t thank you enough. Heywood Hill feels like a turning point. Jojo was right; the shop is pure magic.”

  “Even though you didn’t find Simon Bailey’s manuscript?”

  “Yes, even so,” Katie says.

  “Well, Katharine Cabot, it’s been delightful getting to know you,” Felix says. “And if I happen upon anything else you might need, I’ll contact you immediately.”

  Katie smiles, amazed to feel tears pricking her eyes. As they say goodbye, Felix does the last thing Katie would’ve expected. He throws open his arms and welcomes her into a hug.

  25 April 1945

  Dear Lea,

  First, my apologies for the long silence. I hope you didn’t think I’d fallen off my perch!

  I wanted to let you know I’ve decided not to publish my autobiography, after all. The timing doesn’t seem right, nor the subject, and the entire world has changed since I began. In fact, I plan to publish an entirely different book. Enclosed is a small thanks for your contribution, even if I had to drag it out of you.

  You’re welcome to keep the parts of the manuscript you have. Who knows, maybe my novel will be such a hit those pages will one day be worth something. A girl can dream!

  On the topic of exciting news, Charles Worthington (Danette’s eldest) tells me you’re engaged! And to a vicar—how very countrified! I send all my best wishes, and my best to Emma, too. Everything has worked out for you, and I’m thrilled.

  One last thing. Whatever mistakes you’ve made, whatever secrets you’ve kept, or lies or truths you’ve told, don’t let these drag you down. When it comes to you and me, all is forgiven.

  Love from

  Nancy

  August 1945

  G. Heywood Hill Ltd.

  Nancy bounced into the shop wearing sunglasses and an oversized hat. She was in a gay mood, even with Eddy, Evelyn, Hellbags, and Jim flanked around the fireplace looking like a klatch of malcontents waiting for an overdue train.