Mr. Pritchard.
Before she could worry that he might spot her, he turned abruptly and disappeared inside a shop, Pritchard & Potts, pausing only to hold the door for Tabby to slip in behind him. The name of his establishment had been painted in a bold hand on the window that had nothing but blackness on the other side.
Tar.
Grace suddenly found herself grateful for Mrs. Weatherford’s overabundance of dark fabric and the fine curtains she’d been able to make for Primrose Hill Books.
Lining the front of Pritchard & Potts were large bins filled with books so tossed about, they weren’t even in proper stacks. Grace could only imagine the interior of the shop was just as bad.
Perhaps even worse than Mr. Evans’s shop.
She suppressed a shudder and continued down Paternoster Row. One particular storefront was painted a beautiful eye-catching red. Its large glass windows exhibited a neat arrangement of only a few choice books. The name “Nesbitt’s Fine Reads” was proudly presented in a curling script of shimmering gold and glossy black.
While Primrose Hill Books may never reach the pinnacle of such grandeur, Grace was determined to glean what she could. While bearing in mind what Mr. Anderson had said of it, of course.
She pushed into the store and immediately noted how easily the door gave on its well-oiled hinges. A delicate tinkle above her head welcomed her.
While Nesbitt’s Fine Reads had several rows of shelving, there was by far more space as well as a definitive—and well-labeled—order. The taller shelves sat on the outside perimeter with tables at the room’s center, enticing readers toward brightly colored books on small stands. A second floor above offered walls set with white imbedded shelves all filled with an array of books.
Everywhere Grace looked, the store seemed clean and new. Wood was sharp cornered and polished to a high shine, glass gleamed with the reflection of good lighting and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be found. Even the jackets of the books appeared so crisp and clean, they might have just been removed from their packing boxes moments before.
Nesbitt’s Fine Reads was exquisite.
“May I help you find something?”
Grace spun around to find a woman with a sharp nose and steel-gray hair raked back into a severe bun.
“I was simply looking,” Grace replied. “Thank you.”
The woman didn’t move. Her neat charcoal suit made her appear painfully slender, and her dark eyes fixed on Grace with intent.
“You’re one of the new tenants in Mrs. Weatherford’s little rundown townhouse, are you not?” She enunciated the hard consonants as she spoke, as though biting them off along with her insult.
It was on the tip of Grace’s tongue to stand up for the woman who had so graciously taken Grace in when she had nowhere else to go. But though Grace had only just met Mrs. Nesbitt, she knew the woman’s kind. Her type was universal whether it be a small farm town or a big city. She would take any stalwart defense and laugh about it later.
Rather than give in to the need to protect Mrs. Weatherford, Grace edged her chin a bit higher and made her back squeeze upright a little straighter. “I am,” she replied. “What of it?”
Her impudence was reflected in Mrs. Nesbitt’s narrowed eyes. “Are you here to spy on me?” the woman demanded. “I know you work in that miserable hovel of a shop owned by Percival Evans.”
“If it’s so miserable, why do you find it such a threat that I’m here?” A thrill at her own audacity raced through Grace’s veins. She’d never been one to stand up to others, but something about Mrs. Nesbitt’s nastiness had her emboldened.
Mrs. Nesbitt sniffed and tossed her head dramatically. “Don’t come in here with the intention to copy my shop.”
“I don’t intend to copy it,” Grace answered indignantly. “I intend to do far better.” With that, she swept from the shop.
Floating on her victory and eager to put some of her ideas to paper, she rushed back to the townhouse. Between what she’d seen in the large plate windows of Paternoster Row, the organization of Mrs. Nesbitt’s Fine Reads and even the elaborate detail of a reader’s mind Mr. Anderson had offered, Grace knew exactly what she wanted to do.
The thought of George Anderson sent excitement tickling through her. Viv would just die when she heard about the upcoming date.
Later that evening, Grace was in the middle of writing a meticulous catalog of what she wished to implement at Primrose Hill Books when the door to the room she shared with Viv opened and her friend swept in, bringing with her a new floral scent.
Viv had always been chic, but her sense of fashion had risen to grander levels during their brief time in London. Her blue pullover from Harrods paired beautifully with the tweed pencil skirt she’d sewn the day before, and her curls were artfully arranged so she looked like a woman on a magazine cover.
“Grace, darling. I hoped to find you in here.” A small bag dangled from the crook of her elbow.
Grace sprang up from her seat. “And I was hoping you’d return home soon. I have news.” She grinned at her friend.
Viv rubbed her hands in anticipation. “Oh, do go first.”
Grace wriggled her shoulders coyly. “I’ve been asked on a date.”
Viv gave a squeal of delight. “The gentleman from the bookshop?”
Grace had mentioned George Anderson in passing to Viv on one of their many evening chats as they fell asleep in their small separate beds. Leave it to Viv to hold on to that bit of information.
Grace nodded excitedly and went on about how he’d offered to come up with more ideas with her at the café.
“And you said yes?” Viv folded her hands over her chest, sending the bag at her arm spinning.
“Of course.”
Viv clapped her hands, her pretty face alight with joy. However much Grace had been looking forward to her date, she was now doubly eager after Viv’s jubilant display.
“And I have something for you too.” Viv pulled the bag from her arm and took out a little box.
Grace accepted the parcel and drew off the top to reveal a bracelet within. It was a simple thing of metal chain links with a flat white oval at its center on one side and a small medallion on the other. The card it was attached to declared it to be an ARP identification wristlet.
“I have one too.” Viv held out her wrist, proudly displaying her matching jewelry. She’d written her name and their address on it, the same as the one she’d given Grace. “I found them at Woolworths.”
Grace stared down at hers once more as a shroud of dread brushed over her. “An identification wristlet?”
“In case we get bombed.” Viv’s mouth twisted to the side and Grace knew she was biting the inside of her lip, a habit she’d had since she was a girl. “These are far sturdier than our identity cards. So they can know who we are.”
In the last year, the National Registry issued each person in Britain an identity card to carry at all times. But Viv was right; the bit of paper, no matter how thick, was fragile.
“Viv...” Grace swallowed, uncertain what to say.
“If something happens, isn’t it better that we know?” Viv set aside the bag on the table beside a pile of pale yellow chiffon she’d purchased the day before. “I can’t bear the thought of never knowing what happened to you if you didn’t come home. The other night when you became lost in the blackout...” Viv’s smooth forehead puckered with concern. “I was so worried about you.”
Grace stepped closer to her friend to embrace her, but Viv put her hand up. “No, you’ll make me cry if you do that and my makeup will run all down my face.” She pressed the back of her forefinger to the underside of her eyes to delicately dab away any moisture. “I know you probably think this is morbid.”
Grace pressed her lips together to stifle her protest. After years of friendship, they knew one another all too wel
l.
“That’s Saint Christopher at the top, the patron saint of safe travel.” Viv tapped the medallion. “You don’t have to wear it, but I shall. I’m a mess with the fear of being bombed. A bus started up this afternoon and half the people on the street jumped, thinking it was a bomb.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Including me.”
“It was considerate of you to buy this for me.” The wristlet hung heavy in Grace’s hand, weighted by the impact of its purpose—to identify someone who had been blasted beyond recognition by a bomb.
A finger of ice slid down Grace’s spine. “Perhaps I’ll wear it a bit later,” she promised.
Viv nodded with understanding. “Later.”
Grace put the wristlet in the drawer of the small table next to her bed.
Viv sniffed at a savory aroma in the air and drifted toward the bedroom door. “I heard Mrs. Weatherford is making toad in the hole tonight. With your mother’s recipe. Do you think it’s done yet?”
When Grace was a child, her mother made the meal with such regularity, Grace had grown tired of the stuff. It was a funny thought that she should crave it so much now after years of having gone without it and knowing her mother would never make it again.
“We can go down and see.” Grace shared her friend’s eagerness. “Thank you for my wristlet. And for thinking of me.”
Viv squeezed her arms around Grace. “Always, darling.” Her stomach gave a rumble, and she clapped a hand over it with a giggle.
Together, they left the room and descended the stairs, both breathing in the scent of Yorkshire pudding and browned sausage. Midway down, Mrs. Weatherford’s hushed whisper filled the stairwell. “Good evening, Mr. Simons, it’s Mrs. Weatherford.”
Viv stopped in front of Grace and mouthed, “Colin’s boss.”
“I want to ensure you’ve had success in securing Colin as an essential employee,” Mrs. Weatherford said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. Clearly she did not want Colin to hear.
This was not a conversation they ought to be listening in on.
Grace shook her head to Viv, indicating they should move on. But Viv simply waved off Grace’s concerns with her hand and stayed put.
“How long do you expect until you receive a response?” Mrs. Weatherford’s question was followed by a long pause. “I see,” she said at last. “I shall call again tomorrow to see if you’ve heard back.” Another pause, this one shorter. “Yes, tomorrow,” she said firmly. “Good evening.”
A click of the receiver being set in its cradle indicated the call had ended. Viv breezed down the stairs as if they hadn’t just been listening in on a clandestine chat they should never had heard.
“The toad in the hole smells divine,” Viv exclaimed. “Is it nearly time to eat?”
“Is it seven in the evening?” Mrs. Weatherford smoothed the apron over her lavender housedress, as cool and collected as Viv. The prickly reply was paired with a line of worry across her brow. Clearly she had too much on her mind.
“It is exactly,” Viv replied brightly.
“Then, yes, supper is indeed ready.” Mrs. Weatherford waved them into the dining room with her.
Grace said nothing, not trusting herself to speak around the twist of guilt.
“Who were you on the phone with, Mum?” Colin asked as he set the last plate on the table. There was such innocence to his question, Grace was sure he did not suspect the call’s nature.
His gaze flicked to Viv and Grace, and his cheeks flushed as he offered a shy smile. He was a quiet young man, given often to introspection that made you wonder what went on behind his sharp blue eyes.
Knowing Colin, he was most likely devising a new way to feed a lion or mend a bird’s broken wing.
“Oh, it was just Miss Gibbons calling to complain about the grocer.” Mrs. Weatherford picked up a long knife, sliding it through the suspended sausages in their pillowy bed of pudding. “Apparently there’s nearly no sugar to be had. I tell you, these people out there buying up the shop...” She tsked. “They should be ashamed.”
She set the knife aside and smiled brightly at the three of them. “Onion gravy, anyone?”
As they ate, Grace considered Colin once more. He was a good man, polite and genuinely kind.
He performed all the tasks around the house from replacing spent bulbs to doing minor repairs. Aside from caring for the animals at Harrods, his chief concern was ensuring they were all comfortable and safe.
But given the chance, would he want to go to war?
Most men did, it seemed.
Why anyone would eagerly put themselves in a war zone where one could be shot was beyond her. But then, she’d never been brave. Not like the men willing to trade their lives for the safety of those in Britain.
Thoughts of such courage filled her mind as she crawled into the brass bed that night and pulled the quilt over her shoulders amid the blackness of the room. Compared to such heroism, she was little more than a coward.
It was a deficiency she ought to face head-on, as her mother had always encouraged her to do, by speaking up for herself, by not allowing others to bully her. And she meant to. Eventually.
Just as soon as she set Primrose Hill Books to rights.
* * *
The next morning, she arrived at the bookshop nearly ten minutes early with the list of her ideas in hand. She burst through the front door, and the bell announced her arrival with its shrill cry.
Mr. Evans lifted his head and gave her a frown.
She winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to open the door so abruptly.”
He continued to frown at her.
“Truly,” she said. “It’s just that I’m so excited for the ideas I...have...”
He put his hand on a brown-wrapped parcel with a note atop it and slid it toward her. “This is for you,” he said solemnly.
Grace glanced down at the envelope with “Miss Bennett” written in a scrolling hand over its cream-colored surface.
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Evans shuffled away from the counter, leaving behind a few scattered bits of paper and the nub of an abandoned pencil.
What could he possibly be sorry for?
Grace opened the top of the envelope and reached for the note within. The paper made a gentle shushing noise in the heavy silence of the shop as she removed it. She skimmed to the bottom and saw the letter had been signed by George. Not Mr. Anderson, but George.
Her pulse kicked up at the lack of formality. At least, until she read the letter where he confessed to having volunteered with the RAF. She was surprised to learn he was not just an engineer, but also had considerable flight experience. He hadn’t expected to be called up so quickly, but received the notice two days after signing.
Not only did he regret having to cancel their date, he was apologetic at his inability to assist in improving the shop, though he went on to offer several suggestions for advertising slogans. That, and he left her something that he hoped to discuss next time he saw her, something that had a great impact on his own love of reading.
Grace’s heart clenched with a mix of disappointment and alarm. Planes were often shot at in war. If he was going in as a pilot, his life would be in a constant state of danger.
She closed her eyes. No, she wouldn’t think of that. She would see him again.
But when?
She gently laid the note aside and drew the gift closer to her. The parcel was wrapped in a plain brown paper and quite obviously a book, given its shape and weight. George’s neat printing marked the center of the paper.
A classic, but also a love story.
Smiling to herself, she peeled away the wrap to reveal a leather-bound book. It had been well used, given its scuffed surface and how the once sharp corners were dulled and curled inward. She turned it to its side to reveal the spine.
The title had been nearly buffed
away, but it was still there in a whisper of gold lettering. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas.
Not only had he gifted her a book he thought she might enjoy, it appeared he’d given her the exact one he had read in his youth. Over and over, as indicated by how well the copy had been loved.
She ran her fingers over the worn cover and imagined George as a boy, letting his mind take him to a new place. Now she would experience the adventure that had led him into a lifetime of reading. She only hoped those pages might offer her a similar passion. And she hoped even more fervently for the possibility of seeing him again to return the volume and discuss its contents.
Still, the shop would not be the same without the possibility of seeing his handsome smile.
“I told you he’d likely volunteer,” Mr. Evans called from behind the bookshelves.
Grace closed her eyes, fighting off a swell of worry. Staying busy would help get her through this. After all, she’d worked through concern and hurt before, when her mother was ill. Even after she’d died. Grace’s tasks would keep her mind occupied. She blinked her eyes open and put on a bright smile for no one in particular.
“I knew I ought to have married him first,” Grace said loudly and with a heavy flair of drama. Then waited.
Mr. Evans poked his head out from between the shelves and regarded her with waggling brows. “I do hope that was a joke.”
“I had to do something to lure you from your work.” Grace lifted the list she’d assembled. “I have some changes for the shop I’d like to discuss with you.”
“No.” He tucked himself away once more, like a turtle disinclined to face the world.
She carefully folded George’s note back into its envelope, slipped it into her purse and settled the book on the counter. “We’ll start small,” she coaxed.
“You’ve already cleaned the place and upset my piles.”
“Just have a look.” She peeked around a shelf and found him scowling at her the way a sullen child might.
Regardless, she thrust the list at him and left him with it while she put her things in the back room. When she returned, he slid her a wary look.
The Last Bookshop in London Page 7