The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  “Evelyn,” Nancy said. “I appreciate your feedback, but a Wigs reprisal is not in the cards. The book didn’t sell, and it widened the rift in my family. All these years later, Diana is barely speaking to me, and Unity won’t talk to me at all, unless she temporarily forgets who I am.”

  “Unity has never been pleasant to converse with,” Eddy said. “So you can’t be that upset.”

  “Diana is delightful company, though,” Jim said. “I adore the woman.”

  “You and the rest of the world,” Nancy said.

  “I’m confounded,” Jim said. “That you mind not getting along with Diana. I find her wonderful, of course, but if she’s in prison, doesn’t that make her an enemy in your view? How did you girls phrase it, when distinguishing the good people from the bad?”

  “Hons and Counter-Hons,” Nancy said. She smiled wistfully, her mind transported to those sunnier days. “I’m surprised you don’t remember, since you acted like such the horrible Counter-Hon when Tom brought you home for school holiday.”

  While Tom had warned his friend about the six sisters, he failed to accurately describe the extent of their pranks, not to mention all the shrieking, crying, and training of retrievers to find dead rabbits in the couch. In the end, Jim’s maiden visit would be his last, because of the unwieldy sisters, and a small fracas with Lord Redesdale. Nancy couldn’t recall the topic—something about the Germans—but tensions escalated quickly, and Jim was the sort to dig in his heels. Before long, all six Mitford girls, ages six to twenty-one, broke out into song.

  We don’t want to lose you, but we think you ought to go!

  Jim fled the next morning, and they’d not spoken of it since.

  “How could Diana not see Wigs as a parody?” Evelyn said. “She is very sharp.”

  “Nazis and Fascists don’t have the winningest senses of humor,” Nancy said. “Shocking, I know. Nonetheless, I’ll come up with something to write, something more serious than I have done before.” Though Nancy spoke with conviction, this was really more hope than a vow.

  “What about your spying?” Hellbags chirped.

  “Are we back to that nonsense?” Evelyn said.

  “It’s not nonsense,” Nancy sniffed.

  “It’s not spying if you were blabbing about it constantly.”

  “Why don’t you write a novel based on your clandestine adventures?” Hellbags said. “Everyone would read that!”

  Evelyn shuddered. “Spy novels are so démodé,” he said.

  Nancy closed her eyes to stop from crying, or shooting daggers at each of them. If her so-called friends had read Pigeon Pie, they would’ve known she’d already written a spy novel, and it was a hideous flop.

  “I have to agree with Evelyn,” Nancy said. “Spy novels are very 1940. Mollie! Mollie, what are you doing? You’ve been cowering behind that column for the past five minutes. Do you need something?”

  “Uh...er...” Mollie stuttered, looking frightened and wan.

  “Come on, spit it out.”

  “There is a man here, in a gray coat.” She audibly gulped. “I tried to make him leave but he said that, if I didn’t fetch you right away, we’d both be arrested for subversive activities.”

  Monday Afternoon

  G. Heywood Hill Ltd.

  “We’ve been over this,” Felix says as Katie lurks outside the red selling room, beneath gold letters announcing RARE BOOKS. “Mister Dunne is on holiday. You are welcome to leave a note, or try again in a week.”

  “I can’t wait that long, mate,” a man says. “I’ve read that the Duke is currently in London. Do you think you could ring him, send him a note, perhaps?”

  “I’m sorry, but no. I will not be bothering the Duke of Devonshire.”

  Katie’s jaw drops. She peers around the doorjamb to see what kind of person demands an audience with a duke. Immediately she catches Felix’s eye.

  “Katharine,” he says, and she jumps back. “What are you doing?”

  When his companion turns around, Katie sees it’s the handsome stranger from the other day. She begins choking on her own breath.

  “Are you all right?” Felix asks, forehead crinkled with concern.

  “Yes, hello, fine,” she croaks.

  Somehow, the man is even hotter than she remembered, so good-looking that it feels contrived. He’s unnecessarily tall, for one, and his cheekbones are overly defined. His eyes are bluer than blue, his hair a rich brownish black, and the overall effect is that of someone abusing an Instagram filter.

  “You look peaked,” Felix notes.

  Katie unwinds her scarf and unbuttons her coat. “Just a little hot,” she says.

  “Excuse me,” Felix says as he steps around the visitor. “Katharine, your lovely hostess just rang to say you were on the way. I was seconds from stepping out, so your timing is perfect.”

  “You’re leaving?!” Katie says.

  “Only for the day. I’m off to Essex, to appraise the library of an estate.” Felix holds up a pair of children’s books. “Jojo had these on order. Can I pass them off to you?”

  “Of course,” Katie says.

  Felix bows in thanks, then checks his watch. “Bloody hell!” he says. “Haven’t even left and I’m already late. Thank you, again, Katharine. Okay. Cheers, thanks, goodbye!” Before Katie can respond, Felix darts off, stranding her in this bewildering space (red shelves, blue carpet) with this bewildering man. Because there’s no getting out of the situation, Katie throws on one of her bubbly smiles. “Hello!” she says, stepping down into the room, arm outstretched. “Katie Cabot.”

  “Simon,” the man responds with a nod as Katie’s hand remains dangling.

  “All righty,” she mumbles, and lets her arm drop, thinking that this Simon character is awfully rude for someone dressed like he’s about to sit for a Catholic school portrait.

  “Interesting reading choices,” Simon says, and gestures to the books in her hand.

  Katie narrows her eyes. “They’re for my goddaughter,” she says.

  “I love Mr. Putterbee’s Jungle.”

  “Okay. Well...thanks for the information. Hope you’re able to track down your Duke.”

  * * *

  Katie slides Wigs on the Green from its shelf.

  After studying the cover, she ticks past the dedication (“To Peter”) and turns to the introduction. Published in 1935, Wigs was Nancy’s third book, and it took direct fire at the Fascist movement and two of her sisters, Unity and Diana. Nancy famously refused to rerelease it, even once she was famous, and in need of cash.

  “I was serious,” a voice says.

  Katie jolts, and Cordelia’s books plummet to the floor. “Motherfucker!” she barks, and drops to her knees. Hovering overhead is the man from before. “These books are expensive. And you really shouldn’t sneak up on people! Especially women. I don’t care how good-looking you are—”

  “Thank you!” he answers, grinning.

  “That was not a compliment!”

  “Seriously, I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He reaches out, but she refuses help.

  Katie lurches to her feet. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. Though she’s now standing, Katie must still crane to see his face. He must clear six feet by three or four inches, at least. “You’re very tall,” she blurts, and Simon laughs.

  “Excellent observation,” he says as Katie looks away.

  She can already sense he’s like most of his height—cocky, insufferable, unable to understand the “little guy.” The world looks different from way up there, and thus it’s really not his fault, but this is why Katie prefers men who are shorter, more reliably compact. Men like Armie Acosta, not that he’s her “type” anymore.

  “When I said Mr. Putterbee’s Jungle is a good book,” Simon says as Katie massages the cramp in her neck, “I w
asn’t taking the piss.”

  “No worries,” Katie says. She returns Wigs and moves farther down the shelves.

  “The second book,” Simon says, trailing her, taking one step for her every two to three. “Edgar Allan Crow? I don’t know it. Mind if I have a look?”

  Katie pivots all the way around. “Why are you so interested?” she asks. “You must have a four-year-old who’s in the market for a custom library. Quite the trend. Is the local concierge out of llamas and chinstrap penguins?”

  “Not sure I follow,” he says, and laughs again, this time confusedly.

  “I mean, I get it. It must be difficult to find live Barbies or actors to do fake James Bond–style kidnappings.”

  “I’m not sure how one arrives at a kidnapping from a punny children’s book, but, if it helps, I’ve never employed a concierge service, nor do I anticipate ever being in want of one.”

  “What if you needed seven albino peacocks?”

  “I’d have to make do with the regular kind,” he says. “Or, maybe, no peacocks at all?”

  “Who would you call if you had to deflate an agitated puffer fish?”

  “Depends on why it was upset. Do you work in the exotic pet trade or something?”

  “Do I seem like someone who works in the exotic pet trade?” Katie asks, straightening her spine, trying to seem taller and take up more space.

  “You don’t appear to be covered in feathers or scratch marks.” He smiles widely, using his whole face.

  “Very funny.” Katie loops around him, allowing a berth of six feet. She returns to the Mitfords but can feel him nearby. “To answer your question, my friend uses one of those services. I guess her needs are mostly animal related. You still haven’t told me why you’re so curious about Edgar Allan Crow. Bespoke library for your kid?”

  “A far more prosaic answer, I’m afraid. I work with children.”

  Without warning or cause, Katie’s expression sours. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, or why she’s so bemused. “Children?” she says. “In what way?”

  “Wow. Okay,” Simon says. “It seems like I should be offended, but I can’t find it in me.”

  “No. Sorry.” Katie shakes her head. “I don’t know what came over me. I guess... I dunno... I thought you’d have one of those asshole jobs.”

  “What is an asshole job?” he asks, and his smile turns into a full-blown smirk.

  “You know, with money, or politicians, or suing people. Ugh! Never mind! I’m not making any sense. Jet lag!” She flips around and plucks Don’t Tell Alfred from the shelf.

  “I’m head teacher at a primary school,” Simon says. “Though I suppose it’s possible some people think I’m an asshole.”

  Katie turns back. “A head teacher?” she says. “What, is that like a principal?”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  She shudders. “What a horrible job.”

  “You are very charming.” Simon smiles, and it’s blinding. He’s a Brit with perfect teeth, which is another thing Katie finds suspicious.

  “I have a question,” she says. “This is going to sound strange.”

  “This is going to sound strange? Oh, no.”

  “It’s about the kids at your school,” Katie says. “Do they wear green velvet smoking jackets?”

  He blinks. “Blazers, do you mean?”

  “Sure,” Katie says. “I’m staying with a friend, here in Mayfair. Her kids wear these ridiculous outfits. The blazers, as I mentioned, plus polo shirts. Coordinated knee socks. Wide-brimmed boat hats. The boys wear ties. Real ties. Not clip-ons. My friend insists all children in London dress like they’ve stepped out of the pages of Wind in the Willows.”

  “Aren’t the characters in Wind in the Willows animals?”

  “Fine. Kids from Edwardian-era children’s literature,” Katie clarifies. “What I’m asking is, do the kids at your school wear velvet, plaid, and gondolier hats?”

  “That’d be a no,” Simon says with yet another laugh. “Though I work at a community school in Burwash, and it’s mostly red jumpers. We are sadly lacking in velvet, as well as albino peacocks.”

  “Excellent! I love any opportunity to prove my friend wrong. Thank you very much,” Katie says. She begins paging through Don’t Tell Alfred.

  “Are you a Nancy Mitford fan?” Simon asks. “She’s why I’m here, too.”

  Katie looks up. “It’s not for the kids at your school, is it? Aren’t they a bit young?”

  “I think Farve beating Germans about the head with an entrenching tool might be a tad much, yes. I’ve come to Heywood Hill as part of a...personal project.”

  “What’s this project?” Katie asks, and slides Don’t Tell Alfred back into its place.

  “I’m looking for an unpublished memoir Nancy Mitford wrote while working here.”

  “It’s you!” Katie says.

  “Uh-oh. Felix told you. Sang my praises, no doubt.”

  “To the high heavens,” Katie says. Her gaze sweeps his left hand, and she curses herself once for checking, and a second time for noticing the ring finger is bare. “Honestly, what’s the big deal?” she says. “Most writers have an unpublished book or two lying around. Are you related to her or something?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Then what is it? Why would you—” All at once, the truth hits Katie, and the corners of her mouth lift. “Ah. You’re a writer. You’re trying to write a book.” She taps her temple. “I get it.”

  “Incorrect,” he says.

  “I don’t believe you. This is too much mental energy for a random literary mystery of no ultimate importance.”

  “Not sure why you find it so unusual. Here’s a secret.” He leans in, and Katie can smell his shampoo—a dash of coconut, she thinks. “Sometimes people just want to know things,” he says. “They have intellectual curiosities not tied to concrete outcomes.”

  “No shit,” Katie says, for she is well versed in fruitless, drawn-out searches that go in circles for years. Otherwise known as the hundreds of books and thousands of articles she’s read while researching novels that don’t exist.

  “I’ve been interested in the Mitford family for ages,” Simon continues. “I read English literature at university.”

  “Same.” Katie crosses her arms. “I even wrote my senior thesis about her. That’s not why.”

  “Haven’t you ever been taken by something, or someone, for no discernible reason?” Simon asks. “A topic, or endeavor that might be categorized as a hobby? Do you have these in America?”

  “I have tons of hobbies,” Katie says, though she cannot think of one now. Walking her dog might count. Plus, writing is the type of job that can feel like a hobby, too. “At the risk of sounding very American,” she says, “I don’t think general interest is driving your quest. You called it a ‘personal project.’”

  “Everything’s personal, Katie,” Simon says with a wink.

  “But you seemed anxious when you were talking to Felix. A little too hurried for someone just exploring his hobbies. A little too desperate to meet a duke.”

  “Goodness. You are very argumentative,” Simon says. He pushes up the sleeves of his sweater. “Never has a person been subjected to such intense interrogation whilst in a bookshop. To answer your question, I don’t live in London. I am on a very brief holiday and must be back in High Weald by the weekend.”

  “A vacation?” Katie balks. “A few weeks before Christmas break? What do the parents at your school think?”

  “Not sure I need to explain my schedule to an officious American, but I customarily visit my mum during Christmas, and, on occasion, I do enjoy taking time for myself. I’m not in a position to jet off to the Algarve or some such, so London in November will have to do.”

  Even as Katie hassles him, Simon remains all chuckles an
d toothy merriment, the very embodiment of winsome, except for the fact he’s a little too jolly for Katie’s tastes.

  “Why, though?” she presses. “Why not stick with Nancy Mitford’s published work?”

  “I’m simply keen to learn more about the last book she wrote before she moved to France. Is that so strange? Wouldn’t you want to read it?”

  Katie mulls this over. An unpublished autobiography is really no different from reading letters, and she’s always interested in those. The memoir could be nothing more than the wrong words and clunky sentences, like Katie’s unseen work, or it might be instructive, evidence of a necessary detour on Nancy’s path from fledgling author to The Pursuit of Love.

  “Actually, yes,” Katie says. “I do want to read it. And I’ll help you look.”

  “Help?” Simon flinches and goes a little cross-eyed. “Why?”

  “I dunno. My curiosity is piqued, and this feels...” Katie waves around a hand. “Preordained. I know a lot about Nancy Mitford, and I have the time.”

  “I can’t accept your help,” Simon says. “Your offer is very kind but, no, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t waste your time. I don’t even know that I’ll be successful.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Katie says. “I think it’d be fun.”

  “Why would you want to, other than it feels ‘preordained’?”

  Katie shrugs. “Lots of reasons. My inherent enthusiasm for Nancy Mitford, for one. Plus, my life has been a bit up and down, and I need a distraction. Also, Felix promised me access to her personal papers. So, there’s that.”

  Simon breaks out another grin. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

  “Just so you know,” Katie says, raising a finger. “I’m not flirting with you.”

  “Absolutely no one would interpret your reaction to me as flirting.” Simon gives a very trenchant smirk. “Are you sure you don’t have better things to do? Why are you in London, anyhow? Are you on holiday?”

  “I’m staying with a friend—”

  “Chinstrap penguins and gondolier hats. Yes.”