The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  “How are you gentlemen today?” Nancy said. “I see you’ve met our loveliest customer, but is there something I can help you with? Before you ask, we’re out of For Whom the Bell Tolls. You might try Hanwell’s.” Hemingway, Nancy thought, shaking her head. Otherwise known as the biggest bore on earth. “We do have the latest Raymond Chandler,” she added, “if that appeals. I do not recommend Put Out More Flags by Evelyn Waugh. Do you like French novels? L’étranger was just published by Camus and it’s supposed to be grand. Our friend here favors Agatha Christie. Hellbags, which one do you recommend? Personally, I—”

  Nancy stopped. The front door opened with a whoosh. A stocky, middle-aged man entered the shop. One of the Free Frogs, she assumed, based on his black homburg hat. Nancy flashed a smile and turned back toward the Yanks. “By the by,” she said, “my name is Nancy Rodd, and I see you’ve met my dear friend Lady Helen Dashwood. We call her Hellbags. Perhaps, when you boys are older, you’ll find out why.”

  Nancy winked and the men began to chuckle when, suddenly, a herd of horses—or a pair of little boys—commenced a stampede. “Aunt Nancy!” Desmond yelled. “Aunt Nancy!”

  “Be quiet, snitch!”

  “Jonathan tore a page from a book!” Desmond said, beet red and heaving. “He ripped out a picture of a woman’s breast.”

  Brow lifted, Nancy met Jonathan’s eyes. He slumped his shoulders and pivoted sheepishly toward the wall. Poor boy probably just wanted to see a nipple, and Nancy didn’t have the mettle to give him the what for. “Well,” she said. “While I don’t approve of defacing books, I hope you got something out of the crime.”

  “I came to London to get away from this sort of thing,” Hellbags said, and looked at her Americans. “Whaddya say, gentlemen? Who needs a drink?” Within seconds, she was parading out of the shop, one man on each arm. Nancy gave her a quiet round of applause.

  “Now, boys,” she said to her nephews, “why don’t you tell me which book this was, and what was the cost? Your auntie isn’t exactly flush, so you’ll have to consider this an early Christmas present. I hope it was worth it.”

  The boys debated the book, nearly coming to fisticuffs over whether the title started with an “A” or “The.” Just as Nancy was about to give up, the homburg-hatted man materialized and told the boys he knew where to find a higher quality of breasts.

  “You do?!” Jonathan said, eyes wide as the moon. “Where?”

  “Are you always so frightfully helpful?” Nancy said to the man. “Well, don’t hold back now! Where is this superior example, and how do you know about it?”

  “I saw it the first time I was here,” he said.

  “You’ve been in the shop before?” Nancy felt a pop of surprise.

  “You must’ve been out.”

  “Not likely, monsieur,” Nancy said, noting that the man’s English was better than that of most Frogs. “I am in this shop twenty hours per day.”

  “Then it must have been hour twenty-one.” The man gave a simmering look and Nancy flushed to her toes. This Frog with his slicked black hair, mustache, and badly pitted skin was ugly from far away yet somehow ten times more attractive close-up. “Young men,” the Frenchman said, returning his attention to the boys, “I will tell you the location of a book, but first you must pass a quiz.”

  The boys eagerly wagged their heads and, just like that, were back on the same team.

  “Can you name the forty kings of France?” asked the Frog.

  “What?” Jonathan yelped.

  “Impossible!” Desmond cried.

  The man laughed, inwardly, as if trying to keep it contained. “Don’t worry, it’s not as difficult as it sounds. Eighteen are called Louis, ten are Charles, and I can barely remember the others myself. I suppose I should just tell you.” He glanced over his shoulder toward Nancy. “Can I reveal the secret?” he asked.

  “Oh, you must,” Nancy said, crossing her arms. “I’m absolutely eaten with curiosity.”

  “It’s called The Miracle of the Human Body,” the Frog said, and the boys sprinted off. Never had a person so rapidly dispensed of two children.

  “Likely not the smut they’re expecting,” Nancy said. “Then again, it’s probably the nearest thing we have to pornography. Were you really in the shop before?”

  “Yes, on Tuesday, looking for Saint-Simon’s memoirs, for my boss. The owner promised to locate a copy. I’m glad to have had the chance to return.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Nancy said, and extended a hand. “Heywood isn’t here right now.”

  “That’s not really why I’m here,” he said.

  The Frog wrapped both hands around hers, and Nancy let a gasp escape. She hadn’t expected his skin to feel so warm, or so soft. “We shall meet again tonight, yes?” he said. “Eight o’clock. At the Allies’ Club.”

  “That’s rather presumptuous.” Nancy tried to laugh, but it came out all wrong, like somebody strangling a mouse. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  “I’m a colonel.”

  “Oh, well, that explains it.”

  “Newly arrived in London after spending the past six months commanding the Free French Forces in East Africa.”

  “East Africa?” Nancy said. “As in, Ethiopia?”

  “The very one. Perhaps I have some information you might want.”

  “Prod,” Nancy whispered. Sweet André Roy had come through. Fifteen months since she’d last heard from her husband and finally she’d gotten word. “Can’t you just tell me now?” she said, a bit wildly.

  “Eight o’clock,” the Colonel repeated, and released her hand. “At the Allies’ Club.”

  With a wink, he spun around and strode toward the exit.

  When the door clapped shut behind him, Nancy sprang into action. “Telephone!” she shouted, to no one in particular. “I need the telephone now!”

  Once she wrested it from Mollie, who’d been arguing about a bill, Nancy waited approximately ten forevers for the operator to place the call. “Come on...” she said, tapping her foot. “Any day now...”

  Finally, there was a connection. “Gladys!” Nancy said, when her housekeeper picked up. “Thank goodness you’re there! Run me a bath. I’m going out to dinner with a Frenchman.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Gladys said. “Who is it this time?”

  “Some colonel who’s going to tell me about Prod, I think. It doesn’t matter. Apparently, almost all of them are named Louis or Charles.”

  Wednesday Morning

  Shepherd Market

  Katie and Simon meet outside the bookshop. It’s early, not quite “half seven.”

  “Good morning!” Simon says brightly, as Katie walks up.

  She smiles with her lips closed, thinking Simon must be well versed in interacting with other humans before noon, thanks to his job. The same cannot be said for her.

  “Tired, are we?” He thumps her on the back and Katie croaks out a “Hello,” sounding like a toad, and possibly looking like one, too. She’d worn lip gloss and mascara that morning without considering how it might read in the harsh morning light. “Shall we?” he asks, tilting his head toward the road.

  Katie nods and surreptitiously rubs her mouth on the sleeve of her coat. “Why’d we meet at a closed bookshop?” she says as they cross the street and walk toward Shepherd Market. “Afraid I’ll find out where you’re staying?”

  “Why would I be worried, when you’ve made it clear you’re not hitting on me?” he says. “And what a shame. In any case, Heywood Hill is where I’m lodging this week.”

  Katie stops in the street. “You’re sleeping in a bookstore?” she says. “How is that possible?”

  A taxi zips by and Simon yanks her out of the way. “Jesus Christ!” he yells. “You’re going to get yourself killed! In London, the traffic comes from the other direction.”

  “Felix i
s letting you stay in the shop?” Katie says, still discombobulated as she stumbles back to safety.

  “Good Lord, no. Felix barely tolerates me patronizing it. There are apartments upstairs, leased by a management company. Felix has no say in the matter, and lucky for me.”

  They slip between two buildings and walk down a covered alleyway, alongside the foggy windows of closed cafés and shops. On this early morning, Shepherd Market feels like a quaint Victorian village, a world somehow apart, especially with the fairy lights and silver baubles dangling overhead.

  “This is adorable,” Katie says.

  Simon grins. “Precisely the reaction I’d expect,” he says.

  In the square, a naked fir sits beside a restaurant that sells “Traditional British Fish & Chips” and “Thai English Food.” A makeshift stage has been set up in front of a pharmacy, mailbox center, and tandoori shop.

  “The annual Christmas lighting is tomorrow night,” Simon explains. “John Cleese is flipping the switch.”

  “Really? John Cleese?” Katie snickers. “‘For someone called Manuel, you’re looking terribly ill...’”

  “Big Basil Fawlty fan, are you? Your British accent is...not great.”

  Katie gives him a light punch in the arm. “Fawlty Towers was my father’s favorite. He loved that weird British humor.”

  “Some might call it smart.” Simon glances over. “Was?” he says with a wince.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Katie waves a hand. “He died forever ago.”

  “Regardless...” His eyes fall to the ground. “I’m sorry, Katie.”

  Katie tells him that it’s fine, and it is, more or less, but she hates to have made Simon uncomfortable. There is no simple way to discuss a dead dad, which is one reason Katie rarely corrects anyone when they assume she’s related to Charles.

  “The café is up ahead,” Simon says, and points to a dusky teal shop front.

  Across from the café is an auction house and a French restaurant, both closed. A “Polish-Mexican bistro” is also nearby, as well as the Kings Arms.

  “You should go,” Simon says. “To the Christmas thing. It’s good fun. Live music, carolers, mulled wine. Seems right up your alley.”

  Before Katie can ask what, exactly, he means by that, he jogs ahead and peers through the café door. A man sees him, hesitates, but gestures for them to come inside. Katie gets the sense they’re not technically open yet.

  “Sit wherever you like,” a woman tells them.

  They settle into their chairs and, as Katie peruses the menu, she feels Simon’s gaze.

  “What?” she says, looking up.

  “Aren’t you going to say it’s cute, or charming?” he says. “It really is quite precious, and it’s been nearly three minutes since you’ve said either word.”

  Katie rolls her eyes. “I was not going to say that but, now that you mention it, this café is adorable.”

  “Ah, Katie. You have such a zest for life.”

  “You don’t know me at all.”

  The waiter brings them coffee and Simon orders an avocado and toast. Katie picks a croissant but wants something else as soon as he walks off.

  “Thanks for sending the story about Lea’s pregnancy,” Katie says as an older couple sits two tables away. “Not everyone can claim their grandmother puked on one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century.”

  “Yes, it really is quite the legacy,” Simon says.

  He sips his coffee—straight black—as Katie dumps a distressing amount of cream into hers. Now that she is almost forty, Katie should probably admit to herself that she likes the idea of coffee, and its smell, more than the taste. If asked to choose, she’d pick her infamous early-morning Diet Coke.

  “Was that the first time you’d seen it?” Katie asks. “The excerpt?”

  Simon nods. “I spoke to my mum last night,” he says. “Ordinarily, I avoid the topic of Nancy Mitford, but I asked about the April 1945 letter, where she mentions finishing the book. Mum got very uptight about the whole thing and sent me that instead. I think she was trying to prove she didn’t make it up.”

  “It was fun to read, but...you’re sure she wrote that?” Katie says, eyes cast down into her light brown coffee. “I realize it came with a letter, and the writing does seem to match what I’ve seen online, but it doesn’t really sound like the Nancy Mitford I know. Especially not the Nancy who’d already written four books.”

  “Reads like the right Nancy to me,” Simon says. “Or the one I see, at least. The letter is a bit ungenerous, petty almost.”

  “In what way? Are you referring to the comment about Lea’s social skills?”

  “The whole thing,” he says. “She wrote a thoroughly damaging character study of a sixteen-year-old girl and then sent it to her.”

  “Mildly damaging, at most,” Katie says. “I’ll admit Nancy was irreverent at times, but that’s her personality. She’s way snarkier about her own shortcomings! Also, she mentions looking after her nephews. That’s nice!”

  “She called them prigs and gangsters.” Simon shakes his head. “Oh, Katie. You do know that Nancy Mitford famously hated children?”

  “All right, buddy,” Katie says, and points at him with a coffee stirrer. “Just because a woman doesn’t have children doesn’t mean she’s a misanthrope. The mere fact she’s corresponding with her former evacuees... Whatever!” She flings the stick onto the table. “Maybe when we find the rest of the manuscript, you’ll see the truth.”

  “That is the plan,” Simon says, as the server drops off their food. “Also, not for nothing, but Nancy was probably only watching her nephews because she felt guilty her sister was in jail.”

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Katie says. “Diana was married to Oswald Mosley. He was the head of the British Union of Fascists!”

  “True, but Nancy did report them to the government,” he says. “She even viewed herself as a kind of spy.”

  “She was probably being patriotic,” Katie says. “Doing the right thing. As much as I love my sister, I’d definitely report her if she were trying to overthrow the government.” Her eyes slide toward the couple nearby. The woman has a cappuccino, and Katie wishes she’d ordered that instead. “Did your mom say anything else?” she asks, looking back at Simon. “About the manuscript, or Nancy, or Rutland Gate?”

  “We talked about the man who got Lea pregnant,” he says. “My grandfather. He went by the nickname Greenie, though Mum doesn’t know much beyond that, other than they met while Lea was working at a mobile canteen. It was never formal. I get the sense they consummated their trysts in alleyways, stairwells, God knows where else.”

  “What do you expect?” Katie says. “They were young, and in love, and it was during a war. I’m sure everything felt rushed, very dire.”

  “Hey.” Simon puts up both hands. “I’m not judging, just relaying information. And you’re right, it was rushed. Mere weeks together before Greenie left for training at Wimbledon Common. At first, Lea made a reluctant peace with their brief affair, but then her home was bombed, and she struck out to locate the only person she had left, which was how she found herself standing before Greenie’s commanding officer, Peter Rodd. Captain Rodd took Lea to his in-laws’ house, where his wife promised to look after her until Greenie recovered.”

  “His wife, aka Nancy Mitford.”

  “The very one,” Simon says. “Sometime later, Lea moved out to Weston Manor.”

  “Did she ever reunite with Greenie?” Katie asks, and Simon shakes his head.

  “Somewhere along the way, he died from a postsurgical infection,” Simon explains. “Lea eventually married the local vicar, who raised my mum.”

  “Your grandmother went through so much,” Katie says. “And during a war, no less. Was your mom close to her stepfather?”

  “She never really talks about it
,” Simon says. “All I know is his name was Harold, and it was one of those situations that wasn’t bad, but neither was it good. Neutral, which is better than a lot of people get.”

  Katie rips off the end of her croissant and chews, all the while eyeing the old man with his soft-boiled egg, thick slab of toast, and pile of ham. Katie is not going to last all morning on one croissant.

  “I am sorry,” he says.

  Katie looks up. “What now?”

  “About your father.”

  “It’s fine. I don’t really—”

  “I can’t fathom it.” Simon pauses, and laughs glumly. “Though I’d probably better start.”

  “I don’t recommend it.”

  “My mum has stomach cancer,” he says. “She’s got about three or four months left.”

  “Simon,” Katie says. She tries to catch his gaze, but his eyes are flat, directed somewhere else. “That’s horrible. I wish I knew what to say.”

  “There’s nothing to say. You know how it is.”

  “Well, I do, and I don’t. My dad died thirty-five years ago, in a car accident. The other guy was drunk. It was jarring, but...” Katie’s voice trails off. The swiftness with which their lives changed was horrible, but to lose someone after forty years together was a whole different beast. On the one hand was more time with the person, on the other, more to miss.

  “She’s been sick,” Simon says. “On and off for years. She decided not to fight it this time, which I can appreciate. What’s the purpose of living for brief stretches, during which you feel mostly like shit?”

  Nodding, Katie bats away the building tears. Never before has she so keenly appreciated the word speechless.

  “We’ve never had the best relationship,” he says. “And though I fully support the decision, it’s still...”

  “Impossible?”

  “Exactly,” Simon says with a long exhale. “That’s why I’m so anxious to find the manuscript. Mum always viewed herself as alone in the world, with no one to look after her, no one to care. I’d love to show her she’s wrong, or that she was part of a bigger story, or something.” Simon drops his head. “God, it all sounds so foolish when I say it out loud. Even if we happen upon it, what will it get me? Nancy Mitford was not very empathetic.”