The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

“The Colonel loathes them,” Nancy hissed. “They’re such Nazis and are always ordering us to get married. ‘Look at us,’ they say. ‘It’s the only means to happiness!’ Meanwhile, they’re practically ravaged by misery.”

  “Didn’t they give your Radletts to friends and family for Christmas?” he asked.

  “Yes. Lowbrow circles, to be sure,” Nancy said as she stepped out from behind him.

  Evelyn eyed her. “This is how you spend your time in Paris?” he said. “Hiding from acquaintances?”

  “Sometimes.” Nancy adjusted her skirt. “I also attend cocktail parties, meet friends for lunch, and shop.”

  Evelyn chortled. “Shopping. Yes. Hopefully not always to the extent you did today.”

  “I didn’t buy that much,” Nancy said. “Only three day dresses, one evening dress, and a coat. Oh, yes, and that wonderful printed suit. It’s heaven to have the money to accompany my taste for spending it. No more staring glumly at hundred-pound dresses at Lelong.”

  “I must hand it to you,” Evelyn said, craning, searching for a waiter with more champagne. “I knew your Radletts would do well, but I did not expect them to soar.”

  “Even Farve loved it,” Nancy said. “That he read it is a miracle. You know how he brags about never touching a book. Naturally, he did offer a few critiques and areas for improvement.”

  “He wished to be portrayed as a peck less monstrous?”

  “Oh, he didn’t mind.” Nancy flicked a hand. “His problems were more along the lines of he didn’t buy his stock whips in Canada, they were a gift, things like that. See, Evelyn? I didn’t need to make your silly edits. People adore The Pursuit of Love as is.”

  Most people, though not everyone. Some cow at the Spectator described the novel as “not great literature or great wit but otherwise all right,” and the New Statesman deemed it rewardingly funny in places, though this was “the last, and indeed the most, one can say of it.” The Hons cupboard made Cyril Connolly and his Bloomsbury group “want to vomit” and even the Colonel had a few gripes, chief among them the book’s dedication, and how it drew the notice of the press.

  HITLER’S MISTRESS’S SISTER

  DEDICATES DARING BOOK

  TO M. PALEWSKI

  Historically, the Colonel had taken most of the punches thrown at de Gaulle. The press already loved to mock him, calling him l’empereur, or la lavande, due to his lavender cologne, and the timing of the headline was not ideal. It came out right as de Gaulle and the Colonel were stepping down.

  “How could you do this to me?” the Colonel wailed.

  Nancy made a show of sympathy, but didn’t feel too badly, in the end. Never had anyone been so ruffled to have a book named in their honor.

  The Colonel’s bruised feelings aside, Nancy didn’t concern herself with criticisms or complaints. The proof was in the numbers, and the numbers were huge. More than two hundred thousand copies sold to date, and Nancy was currently negotiating film rights.

  “Take no less than two thousand,” Evelyn advised. “Five is the absolute most to expect. If you weren’t such a Socialist, I’d tell you to split it over two payments, but I know how you love giving money to the government.”

  Brideshead Revisited had sold five hundred thousand copies, so Evelyn was still the one to beat, but he had a seven-month head start and Nancy was catching up.

  “How does it feel?” Evelyn asked. “How does it feel to have everything you ever wanted?”

  “As though every day is my birthday,” Nancy said. “It’s intoxicating, a whirl of triumph! Life with the Colonel is grand, the success is thrilling, and I live in the most charming flat. All this, and I spend my days in Paris. Can’t you just?! Please, no pontificating about how much you hate it here. It’s so much better than London, which was like living in the bottom of a well.”

  Evelyn rolled his eyes. “I’ve resigned myself to the truth. Your obsession with Paris is a pathological condition.”

  “You have to admit it’s cheerier here,” Nancy said. “London is doom and gloom, while Paris is bubbles and light. And the food! The glorious food! Everything cooked in butter and meat that’s never seen a Frigidaire. It makes the Dorch and Ritz seem silly.”

  “I hate that you’re so happy,” Evelyn said, and his entire body sighed. “Heywood Hill is dull without you. I can’t even go anymore, and I spend my days drunk, languishing in hotels and clubs. I’ve been praying you’d have second thoughts, and return home.”

  “You’re some friend!”

  “Can you blame me? Anyhow, it happened before.”

  “That was a different situation,” Nancy said. “A different world.”

  When she’d come to Paris last September, Nancy was astonished to find a city that was poor, humiliated, pared to the bone. Because she wasn’t French, or rich, Nancy couldn’t get a ration card, or a reliable place to live. For weeks she was a vagabond, moving between borrowed rooms and dodgy hotels like the sort Oscar Wilde might’ve died in. The final straw came while Nancy was renting a flat inside a gray building that could’ve been mistaken for military barracks, had it more charm. One morning, Nancy went to heat a pannikin of water, only to discover a single egg sitting on the kitchen counter. She shrieked and whipped around to find a short, fat, bald man in his underclothes. He claimed to live there, too.

  “Monsieur de Seyres is the lessee,” the landlady said, when she came to sort it out. “I am sorry. There are no flats or hotels available in Paris, unless you are very rich.”

  At the time, Nancy wasn’t even a little bit rich, having spent her advance on food and maintaining Prod at Blomfield full blast. Though she was supposed to be running Heywood Hill’s Paris operations, no one in the London branch seemed to care. Heywood never answered her letters, and Mollie complained that Nancy’s only achievement was to increase her workload. The five-thousand-pound investment felt like a farce, which just went to prove Farve’s money always had a way of wasting itself. When all of these things came to a head, the Colonel was in Brussels, and due in Rhineland the next week, and Nancy had no choice but to sheepishly return home.

  Claiming she was in London for the publication of The Pursuit of Love, Nancy went back to stocking books at Curzon Street and hanging about with Evelyn. Every once in a while, Nancy thumbed through the autobiography, pondering whether she’d have the nerve to publish it, should she need the money.

  At the end of January, Nancy received the first piece of good news—royalties for the first three weeks of Pursuit were seven-hundred-fifty pounds, which was more than she’d earned on her four previous books combined. When Hamish announced a second printing, and a third, Nancy locked up the memoir for the last time and went to Paris for good.

  After five published novels, Nancy finally figured it out. Thanks to the Colonel, she now knew to write from the heart. She knew to write her own story, instead of somebody else’s.

  “You don’t really want me in London,” Nancy said as they plucked glasses from a passing tray of champagne. “Imagine! Every day you’d be screaming at me that I can’t be a shopgirl for the rest of my life.”

  “I suppose that’s true.” Evelyn paused and screwed up his mouth. “Well, what are you going to write now that you’re a smash hit? You realize you’ve used up your two main plots in one book: Farve and Fabrice.”

  “I have more plots than that!” Nancy said, praying it was true. Half the problem with being a writer was that even once-in-a-lifetime success could feel like a failure, if enough time passed. “For now, I want to bask in the excitement. Don’t worry, I won’t let my mind decay in exile.”

  “Your mind is tops,” Evelyn said, to Nancy’s surprise. “You’ve proven me wrong and, regrettably, I have faith in you now.”

  “Aw, Evelyn, you’re going to make me cry,” Nancy said, and raised her glass. “Shall we cheer? To friendship, and love.”

  “To sellin
g a million copies.” Evelyn clinked her glass. “And writing enough books to keep you forever in charming flats and fashionable suits.”

  “Yes, cheers to all that! Vive la France! Vive la littérature!”

  Thursday Morning

  G. Heywood Hill Ltd.

  As he stares at the stack on his desk, Felix assures himself he made the right call. Though he’s no longer concerned about dodgy head teachers pulling grifts, showing Katharine Cabot this manuscript might’ve been a different strain of disaster. She is on the right track and needs to complete the story she’s begun. Everybody knows writers are easily distracted, especially excitable ones like Katharine. More importantly, Felix can’t go against the Duke’s wishes, or the Duke’s promises to Nancy. He can’t break a generations-long vow to keep the manuscript secret.

  Felix slides a rubber band around the pile. He hears footsteps as he rises to his feet.

  “Felix!” Erin calls out. “Are you back there?”

  He freezes, heart pattering. It’s not quite panic, but something close. Felix glances at the manuscript once more, then scrambles to find a place for it in his desk.

  “Yes, I’m here!” he says as the lock clicks.

  Felix strides toward the door, confident that some stories are best left untold.

  Dearest Hen

  Nancy died in her sleep at 1:30PM yesterday.

  The Colonel had been to see her in the morning & thought she recognised him.

  Thank goodness it is over, she really had the most awful time any one can ever have had.

  —Letter from Debo to Decca

  1 July 1973

  So many things come flooding to mind about her, such as Muv saying ‘Nancy is a very curious character,’ too true. The great regret being that she hadn’t the strength to do the Memoirs, where said curiosity of character wld. have come out full force, don’t you agree? But she did leave far more behind than most people, such as her smashing books & the general memorableness of her.

  —Letter from Decca to Debo

  2 July 1973

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As I write these acknowledgments in February 2021, exactly one year has passed since the idea for The Bookseller’s Secret first sparked, which means this book was sold, written, edited, and re-edited (several times over) during a raging pandemic and nonstop political turmoil. It was a haul, one of the most grueling things I’ve ever done, and I hope to never again be able to say, “glad I turned in my edits this morning, before the insurrection.”

  I gave everything to this book, but could not have done it without serious heavy-lifting from others, first and foremost Barbara Poelle, my agent of over thirteen years. Cheerleader, truth-teller, idea-generator, sounding board—there are a thousand reasons this book is dedicated to her.

  Enormous thanks to my incredibly diligent editor Melanie Fried, who put her full heart and mind into every comment. Thank you for your tireless effort, lack of sleep, and for making my day (my month, my year) one Friday in late March, when the world seemed to be falling apart. I’m so happy to be working together again after all these years! Thanks also to my brilliant copy editor, Bonnie Lo, and to Justine Sha, Pamela Osti, and Susan Swinwood for their enthusiasm and bright ideas. I’m grateful to be part of the Graydon House team (and how about this gorgeous cover?!? Thank you, Kathleen Oudit and Elita Sidiropoulou.). A million thanks must also go to my wonderful friend and Graydon House sister, Brenda Janowitz.

  Big buckets of love to my writerly support system, especially Liz Fenton. The early-in-pandemic Zoom calls with Liz, Lisa Steinke, Sue Meissner, Kate Quinn, and Kristina McMorris, got me through. Shout out also to my other San Diego sisters Shilpi Gowda and Tatjana Soli and, as always, Tammy Greenwood-Stewart.

  What would I do without Lisa Kanetake, who is some combination of friend, sister, and co-parent? Most of the best memories from the past decade star Lisa and her family (hello to Audrey, Emily, and Charles Bergan!). Make no mistake, Lisa, your generosity and friendship helped write this book, and all the ones before it.

  Thank you to Karen Landers and Lauren Gist, who’ve been propping me up since middle school. I also want to give a special mention to our fantasy football league, “Pretty in Pigskin,” led by the incomparable Renn Plsek. Kira Haley—I hope you don’t mind me using your very clever team name. Thank you also to Erin Holl, excellent tennis partner and even better friend. Could you picture yourself working at Heywood Hill?

  My hilarious and brilliant nephew Will Wheatley inspired Clive Hawkins-Whitshed’s better traits, including his technology acumen and entrepreneurial spirit. His mom, my sister Lisa Wheatley, is the original inventor of “Junk Trash Crap.” Because of her, I love writing about sisterly relationships. Though we’re not as colorful as the Mitford girls, we do have a shining favorite boy around thanks to our brother, Brian Gable. I’m so grateful for you both, and also our parents Tom and Laura Gable, who are always supportive and gave us the best possible start in life.

  To my favorite pair of sisters... Paige and Georgia Bilski. What can I say, other than you two make mothering and pandemic-surviving almost easy? Thank you for being the models for the near-perfect Dani and Clem (with their near-perfect hair), and for all the Gen Z expressions. Poggers! Paige, thank you for helping with French. Georgia, it’s because of you Jojo has such dedication to her sport. Your tenacity blows me away. Thank you to my comfort animal, my very own “Thai trash dog,” Winnie, otherwise known as my favorite child (kidding, girls!).

  Dennis, we’re on book number five and I still can’t think of a way to adequately thank you for everything you’ve done—for me, for them, for us. This has been a hard year, and living with a writer on a tight deadline is like walking into a different climate every day. I did not make things easy for you, but you somehow made things easy for me, despite your own very big job.

  Finally, I must thank the readers, who’ve kept me going, even when I wanted to give up. To everyone who’s dropped me a note, or asked when the next book comes out, thank you for reminding me I am a writer, after all.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  My interest in Nancy Mitford began twenty years ago, when I read The Sisters: The Saga of the Mitford Family by Mary S. Lovell. How could I not be compelled by that band of girls? As my fictional Nancy says, “a Nazi, a Communist, and several Fascists in one family tree.”

  The Sisters drew me into the Mitfords’ incredible world and soon I was reading everything I could about them. Of all the books I picked up, The Pursuit of Love was far and away my favorite. I felt an immediate kinship with the way Nancy wrote and thought about things. The book feels so thoroughly modern, it’s hard to believe it was written over seventy-five years ago.

  Most biographies don’t explore Nancy’s years at the bookshop in great detail, making it a juicy area to mine for fiction. This part of her life is such a unique blend of the unimaginable (staying in London during the Blitz) and the relatable (Nancy doubting herself and her career), and shows Nancy Mitford at the precipice of stardom. When The Pursuit of Love was published in December 1945, it was every bit the success she dreamed, even though, or maybe because, the novel centered on a world that was disappearing.

  In 1949, Nancy published the sequel, Love in a Cold Climate, in which Cousin Fanny narrates another family’s story. Next came The Blessing (1951), which many view as an attempt to explain Nancy’s enduring love affair with the Colonel. Five more books followed, including four biographies and one more novel—Don’t Tell Alfred (1960), the final book in the Radlett trilogy.

  Although Nancy Mitford wrote over eight thousand letters in her lifetime, there are yearlong gaps in the correspondence that has been made publicly available, including while she worked at Heywood Hill. It’s in these gaps that I let my imagination run. Nancy did host refugees at Rutland Gate, including a pregnant sixteen-year-old, and some of these refugees went to her friend Lady Diana Worthington’s home
(renamed “Danette” in the novel), Weston Manor. Though Lady Worthington and her husband died in the ways described in the book, I don’t know whether Nancy stayed in contact with the sixteen-year-old, or any other refugee. Lea and Emma are entirely fictional.

  Nancy spoke often of writing her memoirs, but there’s no evidence of a “missing manuscript” (though, as a fan, I’d like to imagine one exists). Throughout the book, I used snippets from Nancy’s many letters to mimic her language and verve, though mostly I had her speak the words instead of writing them.

  This is not a biography, and the point of a novel is to reflect the inherent truth of a situation, and not merely recite a list of facts. While the Nancy in my book does many things the real Nancy Mitford did not, I hope this novel is a reflection of the spectacular personality and wit of one of the most underrated authors of the twentieth century.

  Below are real-life epilogues for several key characters.

  NANCY (1904–1973)

  When Nancy returned to Paris for the second time, the move would prove permanent. With money in the bank, Nancy settled in a flat on rue Bonaparte and, later, rue Monsieur. She would cite these as the happiest years of her life. In 1967, Nancy moved to Versailles, where she resided until her death.

  In France, Nancy had a wide circle of friends, including intellectuals, artists, French nobility, and fellow English transplants. She relished her newfound fame and success, but this also made it more difficult to get rid of Prod. He refused a formal separation, and Nancy went on supporting him until 1957, when he finally agreed to a divorce.

  One year before her death, the French government awarded Nancy with the Légion d’Honneur and the British government appointed her a Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE). Evelyn had been offered a CBE at one time but considered it a grave insult and turned it down.

  Nancy experienced the first signs of cancer in 1968, though her doctors and sisters hid the diagnosis until the end. Around the time Nancy began feeling ill, the Colonel married Helen-Violette de Talleyrand-Périgord, thereby ending their nearly three-decade long relationship. Nancy would go on to battle cancer for many years, finally succumbing in 1973, at sixty-eight years old, a young age for a Mitford. Tom and Unity predeceased Nancy, but the remaining Hons outlived her by twenty to forty years. Nancy’s tombstone reads “Nancy Mitford, Authoress, wife of Peter Rodd.”