The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  Katie steels her jaw. “Yes, well, you’re wrong,” she says. “And wanting to see it makes all the sense in the world. I’d feel the same way. That’s why we are going to find that manuscript. We’re going to find the shit out of it.”

  Simon cocks his head. “We’re going to find the shit out of it?” he says.

  “Yes, and you’d better buckle the hell up because Katie Cabot can be relentless.”

  “Wow. Okay. I’m glad to have Katie Cabot on my side, then. For a while there, I thought maybe you were only in this because you didn’t really believe there was a manuscript, and you wanted to prove me wrong.”

  “I’ve had my doubts.” Katie sips her now-lukewarm coffee. “But I trust you for some reason, which is strange, because you’ve never told me your last name. This feels like something I should know.”

  “You’ve taken my photograph without permission but haven’t googled me yet?” Simon says. “I’m disappointed. The name is Simon Bailey. Pleased to meet you.”

  Katie takes his outstretched hand. “Katie Cabot,” she says, and they shake.

  “Yes. I know. You’ve told me, minimum, seven times.”

  “Very funny,” Katie says, and her breath catches when she realizes that he could google her. Then again, maybe he has. Katie can’t imagine there’s much to find aside from a stalled career, a defunct wedding registry, and a dozen or so innocuous posts across two social media platforms.

  “Do you know those people?” Simon asks, lowering his voice. He leans in and a shiver runs along Katie’s arms. “The older couple,” he says. “You keep staring at their food.”

  “Oh, I, uh... Those eggs look really good,” Katie mumbles. “Kind of wish I’d ordered that instead.”

  “Well, then, you’ll have to come back.”

  Katie nods. “Maybe tomorrow,” she says. “Or the day after.” Sometime before Katie returns to Washington, she’ll order a cappuccino and full breakfast plate. This all seems like a very reasonable plan until Katie remembers Friday is her last full day.

  “Katie? Hello?” Simon says. “Did you hear what I just said?”

  “Sorry. I was thinking about my...schedule. It’s Wednesday. How did that happen?” Suddenly, an idea strikes Katie. She opens her mouth, and the words tumble out in one long, ill-considered stream. “Will you go with me?” she says. “To the Christmas lighting? It sounds fun and—”

  “Are you asking me out?” Simon gawps. “On a date?”

  “Never mind!” Katie says, retracting the invitation, like a snake striking a mouse. “Forget it!” She covers her eyes with her hands. “I’ll take Jojo, or Clive. Ugh! What am I doing?”

  “This is unexpected. I don’t know what to say.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed!”

  “Katie,” Simon says, and pulls her hands from her eyes. “You took me by surprise. The answer is yes, of course. I’d love to attend the Christmas lighting with you.”

  “Don’t do me any favors, bro.”

  “Okay, bro. I’m just a bit gobsmacked, since you promised not to flirt with me.”

  “I’m not flirting!”

  “No takebacks,” Simon says. He types something into his phone. “I’m already blocking off the time. Should I pick you up at six o’clock?”

  “Pick me up?” Katie says, and she feels what might be a thrill, or maybe panic.

  “Unless you’d rather meet there?” he says. “It could be crowded, but...”

  “No, that’s fine!” Katie chirps. “Six is great! At Jojo’s place. I’ll have plenty of time to google you before then.”

  As his lips twist in preparation for some caustic remark, Katie groans from the inside out. Simon is hot, and funny, and he knows about Nancy Mitford, even if he thinks she might’ve been somewhat of a bitch. What if Katie googles him and Simon Bailey is not who he seems?

  Worse yet, what if he is?

  September 1942

  Allies’ Club

  It was a warm evening at the Allies’ Club, but goose bumps ran the length of Nancy’s arms.

  “I’m absolutely mad to have come,” she said as the mysterious Frenchman pulled out her chair. “Do you have a name, or shall I just call you Colonel?”

  “My name is Gaston Palewski,” he said. “And you are Nancy. It is a pretty name, to match your pretty face.”

  “Thank you,” Nancy said. “But please be advised that I’ve enjoyed one French lover and will not be taking another.”

  “Captain Roy. I have met him.” Smiling amiably, the Colonel opened a napkin and spread it across his lap. “With me, affairs usually last five years,” he said.

  “Well, good luck,” Nancy said. “So, you’ve come from Addis Ababa. You saw Peter?”

  The Colonel bobbed his head. “The husband I saw. We met in East Africa, during negotiations about the Djibouti-Addis Railway. There is not much to say other than you’ve not touched your menu, nor ordered a drink.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she said. “Please. Tell me more.”

  “You must love your husband very much.”

  “Not especially,” Nancy said. “The problem is that it’s been over a year since I’ve heard from him. Has he received my letters? He’s not dead, is he? The widow’s pension is very small.”

  The Colonel cackled. “For better or worse, he is alive,” he said as he scanned the menu, wondering aloud which was the best wine.

  “Peter said nothing about me, then?” Nancy asked, and her voice quivered. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m not one of those overly dependent wives. I prefer everyone to mind their own business, but we’ve been married almost ten years and...” Nancy was unable to continue.

  Despite Prod’s arrogance, and fecklessness, and his ability to put an entire party to sleep, Peter was still her husband, and she his wife, and Nancy assumed war might bring out the best in them both. If nothing else, it would’ve been nice to have been missed.

  “I am sorry I do not have more,” the Colonel said. “He told me that if I was going to London, I should locate his wife and inform her that he is fine. This was the extent of our discussion. You are better off. He is not very winsome. What do you think of the muscat?”

  Nancy let her hands fall into her lap. “At least he sent some word,” she said.

  “Your husband is not very smart.”

  “Oh, no, you’re quite off on that,” Nancy said. “Peter is extremely smart, a self-professed expert on all topics. I’m shocked you didn’t pick up on that. Within five minutes of meeting someone, he usually tells them everything he knows. Also, he’s rather handsome. On this, you must agree.”

  “What is handsome? You can see I am very ugly, and that hasn’t hindered me at all. Perhaps Peter Rodd is learned on many academic topics, but it was not clever of him to hand me his wife.”

  “I don’t know that he handed you anything,” Nancy said.

  “I will, obviously, sweep you off your feet.” He looked at the menu again. “Are we finished speaking of your husband? Excellent. Let us dine. I will not let a meal with a pretty woman go to waste.”

  Nancy flung a hand. “Choose whatever you’d like. I’ll eat a bite of anything.”

  “You are a very cheap date.”

  As the Colonel ordered, Nancy glanced around. The room was awash in military types, a parade of every imaginable Allied uniform. With her own utility wear, even Nancy fit into the milieu. She rather liked the red woolen dress, with its nipped waist, military-minded shoulders, and short, pleated skirt. At last there was a style to complement her gangly frame and lack of breasts.

  “Tell me, Gaston,” Nancy said as the waiter rushed off. “Colonel Palewski.” She crossed her long, thin legs and leaned into the glimmering candlelight. “Why did you leave your position?” she asked. “I thought East Africa was the place to be.”

  “I was tired of the squabbling,
” he said. “Running a bomber squadron was one thing—glorious—but commanding petulant soldiers was not how I wanted to spend my war. I was pleased to take an appointment to work for General Charles de Gaulle.”

  “De Gaulle,” Nancy said. “Very highbrow. And how is the new appointment so far? I’ve heard the QG is a hotbed of infighting and gossip.”

  “Knowledge gleaned courtesy of your prior French lover, no doubt,” the Colonel said. “Alas, he is correct. There is much pettiness and backstabbing at Carlton Gardens, not to mention incompetence. On the plus side, I’m no longer getting shot at, and I can spend my days ogling beautiful British women.”

  “Please,” Nancy said, and rolled her eyes. “We must seem frightfully dowdy compared to the Parisiennes.”

  “Very much so.” The Colonel took a sip of wine and Nancy blinked, surprised to learn their food had been delivered. “That’s what makes you so enigmatic,” he said. “For French women, arranging themselves is full-time work. They visit the collections, try on lingerie, have their hair set. But what must British women do all day, since you do none of these things? Cast spells? Visit an army of lovers?”

  Nancy couldn’t help but laugh. “But, Colonel, we do all those things, too. Rather, we did, before the war, though apparently to middling effect!” The Colonel chuckled, covering his mouth with a fist, and Nancy’s body flooded with warmth. Though she never drank on Tuesdays, Nancy poured herself a splash of wine. “Most people consider me quite stylish and attractive,” she said.

  “Well, you have your points.”

  Nancy laughed again. “Tell me, Colonel Palewski,” she said. “How are you finding London? Aside from its dowdy women. You must think it quite dreary with its sirens, and bomb craters, and abject weather. The museums have been cleared out, and all treasures evacuated to the countryside. There’s nothing pretty to look at anymore. I know the French are terribly fond of their art.”

  “Yes, we are cultured in that way. Even old military men like me can paint. I studied at the École du Louvre, along with the École Libre and the Sorbonne.”

  Nancy was a tiny bit dazzled. “Really?”

  “Really,” he said, and slurped down an oyster. “Tell me, Missus Rodd, you have children, yes? You were very patient with those boys in the shop.”

  “No children for me,” she said. “And, please, call me Nancy. Rodd is more a courtesy title than anything else. If you must use a surname, Mitford will do.”

  “No children?” he cried. “Mon dieu! What is the purpose of Peter Rodd if you do not have babies?”

  “Surely that’s not the only reason to wed,” Nancy said, and tried on a smile. “I did expect we’d have children, when we married, but that ship has since sailed.” Nancy thought about this, hand on chin. “Come to think,” she said, “that might be too peaceful a description. The ship hasn’t sailed, it’s wrecked. It hit an iceberg, like the Titanic. Ironically, my parents were supposed to be on the Titanic but changed plans at the last minute. We were all so disappointed.”

  Nancy chortled and the Colonel’s eyes widened. For a second, he resembled a child. “Non-cee!” he cried. “Surely, you don’t mean that!”

  “I very much do. My siblings and I longed to be orphans. It sounded so romantic! Whenever our parents went to their mining camp in Canada, we’d rush to the newspapers each morning, hoping to read that their ship had gone down.”

  “How ruthless,” the Colonel said. “This family, it sounds like quite the litter of vicious pups. How many children were there?”

  “Six girls and one boy,” Nancy said.

  “Mon dieu! You must tell me about it.” The Colonel scooted closer, his chair squeaking against the floor. “You must tell me right now. Racontez!”

  “There’s not much to say. You would’ve thought it all so hideously uncivilized, nothing but great shrieks of laughter and big buckets of tears.”

  “Were you wealthy? You seem very posh.”

  “Quite the opposite,” Nancy said. “My father is titled, but we lived in a state of upper-class poverty out in the Cotswolds, rattling about a big, draughty house. Though it was probably Farve’s title that saved us from being sent to an approved home.”

  “Did you have no one looking after you at all?”

  “Here and there,” Nancy said with a shrug. “It was a feral childhood, but sheltered, too. We didn’t interact with anyone else aside from our various grooms, governesses, and gamekeepers.”

  “You had no friends? Quelle tristesse!” the Colonel said, and his eyes watered in amusement, or astonishment, Nancy couldn’t decide.

  “We played with the neighbor children when we were small,” Nancy said. “But after I told them about sex, they were no longer allowed to visit. I was eight or nine at the time.”

  “Sex!?” The Colonel threw back his head and crowed. “How very avant-garde! I didn’t think any Britons knew about sex, much less a child.”

  “Don’t give me too much credit,” Nancy said. “The entirety of my knowledge was from a book called Ducks and Duck Breeding. Ducks can only copulate in running water, by the way, and good luck to them.”

  The Colonel continued to laugh, and Nancy wondered if there’d ever been a lovelier sound.

  “Little girls are so devilish,” he said. “How did your brother survive?”

  “We gave Tom such a hard time,” Nancy said. “He was thrilled to go off to school. No amount of bullying or hazing could compare to what our ‘Hon Society’ put him through.”

  “Hun? As in, the Germans?”

  “H-O-N,” Nancy said. “Everyone thought it was short for Honorable, but it comes from hen. We adored chickens and sold eggs in the village for pocket money. We loved all animals, really. There’s not a family photograph that doesn’t include a dog.”

  “This is ever so much fun,” Gaston said with a grin. “What were the rules of your Hons? What did you do? I am imagining very horrid things.”

  “Our stated purpose was to enact vengeance on the horrible Counter-Hons,” Nancy explained. “Tom was our first target, though we soon directed our ire toward our governesses.” Nancy paused, letting her joy tumble over the words. Suddenly, she couldn’t remember why she’d been so frantic to leave home.

  “How does one enter this Society of Hons?” Gaston asked.

  “First, you’d need an invitation, and then you’d be required to pass a rigorous initiation: frog-hopping across the tennis court, turning somersaults, and successfully answering a series of questions. We had badges and everything. I was in charge.”

  “Because your siblings doubtless had great sense.”

  “Ha!” Nancy barked. “Nobody would say that about the Mitford girls. I was in charge because I’m the oldest, and the most domineering, some might say.”

  “Domineering is my favorite quality in a lover.”

  Smiling, Nancy rolled her eyes again.

  “After you, who was next in age?” the Colonel asked. “Poor Tom?”

  Nancy shook her head. “Next was Pamela, but she hardly counts. She ruined my life as a cherished only child, and she’s even more boring than my husband. Tom came after Pamela. Even though he was the original Counter-Hon, he’s loved by all. Sweet Tuddemy is the only person in the family still on speakers with everyone else.” Nancy stopped to sip her win. “Tuddemy is Tom in Boudledidge, our secret language.”

  “Secret languages as well?!” the Colonel said. “This is too, too much! Who came next?”

  “Diana, the middle child,” Nancy said. “Those were her boys in the shop. Diana was the dreamiest of us all, dazzling the world from the moment she was born. She often sat gazing out the window, as if searching for a more glittering life. Ironic, given her current circumstances.” Nancy passed the Colonel a hard look. “Her married name is Diana Mosley. I’m watching her boys because their mother is incarcerated. Do you know the name?”
>
  “Bien sûr!” the Colonel said. “Everybody knows about Fascist Mosley and his terrible Fascist wife. I can’t believe someone so delightful as you could be related to somebody so villainous.”

  Nancy beamed, tickled to have met the one man who didn’t fall all over himself at the mere mention of Diana’s name.

  “Is there not another traitorous sister?” the Colonel asked. “An affair with the Führer? Un bébé, perhaps?”

  “There is no baby. That is a myth,” Nancy snapped. “You’re thinking of Unity, who came after Diana. Poor Bobo’s always had a hard time.” Thickset and goosey, Unity could never compete with her physically and intellectually gifted sisters and therefore relied on ill-advised pranks and bad jokes to stand out. She kept a live rat in her handbag and did things like eat all the strawberries before a luncheon party, and steal lav paper from Buckingham Palace.

  “Unity was lover to the Führer, no?” Gaston asked. “This is what the papers said.”

  Nancy offered a half-hearted shrug. “Probably” was the answer, but the family never spoke of it. “I believe Unity liked the idea of Hitler, and the Nazis, more than she liked the man,” Nancy said. “She only wanted to be part of something, and she’s never been known for her ability to think critically.”

  The Colonel scowled. “Is this why she shot herself in the head?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Nancy said. “When war broke out, my sister felt torn between what she viewed as her two countries, Germany and England. She thought ending it was her only option. It didn’t work, and afterward it was chaos.” The family was in hysterics, and also in the dark. For weeks, they didn’t know Unity’s location, much less that she was in a Munich clinic, under the care of Hitler’s physicians. When she tried to commit it a second time by swallowing her swastika badge, Hitler dispatched her to neutral Switzerland, where Debo and Muv picked her up. “I’m sure you saw the newsreels,” Nancy said, “and witnessed everyone boo as my father helped her out of the car.”