The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  “This is the way of war,” the Colonel said. “My sweet silkworm, this is too much speak of dreadful things. Where is my happy girl? You must cheer me up. I demand one of your stories! Tout de suite!”

  “Surely you’ve heard them all twice by now.”

  “Then let us go a third time around,” he said. “Beginning with the child hunts.”

  “I see.” Nancy snickered. “You’re in the mood to be outraged.”

  “It makes me outraged because it is outrageous!” the Colonel said. “A respectable father dispatching bloodhounds to chase ses petites filles across the Cotswolds!”

  “Ah, but think of how the churchgoing weekenders must’ve felt,” Nancy said. “When they stepped out of the morning service in time to see four hounds in full cry sprinting after a pack of little girls.”

  “It is truly awful!”

  “But, Colonel, we adored the child hunts.”

  He slapped a hand over his face. “It is too much for me!”

  “Oh, you love it,” Nancy said, and she knew this to be true.

  The Colonel savored any and all tales of Farve, starting with how he tramped about the estate, loud and menacing, in his corduroy breeches, canvas gaiters, and jacket filled with dead hares. Muv didn’t believe in eating rabbit and so Farve stuffed the ones he shot into his pockets to pass out to villagers, most of whom hid after one glimpse of Lord Redesdale lumbering down the lane.

  “More!” the Colonel said every night. “Racontez!”

  Farve was an absolute ogre of punctuality. “In exactly six and three-quarter minutes, the damned fella will be late!” During church, he’d time the minister and complain if the sermon exceeded ten minutes.

  Farve’s rules of cleanliness were just as draconian and woe was the person who dropped a lone crumb (“Leave this table, you filthy beast!”). Meanwhile, there was not a single napkin in the house because Muv refused to iron, and paper was too expensive.

  “Pas de serviettes!” the Colonel said, his bumpy, mottled face wide with horror. “You must have been filthy beasts, after all!”

  Nancy’s stories crippled the Colonel with laughter, and she loved how much he loved them. Tonight, though, Nancy was feeling less charitable about her family.

  “I’m not in the mood for Farve,” Nancy said. “Between his atrocious financial sense and complete disregard for education, he’s half the reason I’m working in that damned bookshop. He made sure Tom was properly schooled, but my sisters and I were doomed!” Lord Redesdale saw little reason to throw money at some god-awful establishment just so a bunch of girls could learn about George III, and be made to play field hockey, and develop thick calves. All a woman really needed to learn was horseback riding and French.

  “If you are very furious with your Farve,” the Colonel said, “why do you not tell me more of his wickedness? Better yet, write it down, and publish it for all the world to see!”

  “Wouldn’t that be fun? Sadly, I vowed not to write about my family again, and it’s all too depressing to put onto paper.” Nancy turned toward the Colonel, her hair crinkling against the pink silk pillowcase. “Especially with Unity’s problems, and Muv and Farve on the brink of divorce.” Theirs had once been a strong marriage, a perfect balance of icy detachment and fiery rage, and they supported each other, follies and all. Sydney accompanied David on his fruitless Canadian mining expeditions, and he tolerated her predilection toward Christian Science. When Diana left her perfectly nice husband for a married Fascist lunatic, the first crack formed.

  From the start, Farve saw Nazis as nothing but a loathsome gang of murderous pests. Muv didn’t care for the anti-Semitism business but admired their organizational skills, and how they tidied things up after the last war. Also, Hitler was very polite all three times she met him! Farve would not be moved. He forbade all family members from visiting Germany, but Muv disobeyed. Now they had a permanent reminder of their division with the incoherent, incontinent Unity lumping about, swastika badge pinned to her chest.

  “I never imagined I’d see the day,” Nancy said. “The war has changed everything.”

  “Ah, but a divorce can sometimes be an improvement,” the Colonel said. “I did not think you would be so against one.” He wiggled his brows.

  “Ha! Yes. Sometimes it’s even a goal.”

  The Colonel rubbed her arm. “It is very obvious to me,” he said, “that even when you are angry with your father, and your sisters, memories of your family bring great joy. You could make it into a novel. You could fictionalize.”

  “I thought you hated novels.”

  “I prefer stories that are true, unless it’s something you’ve made up specifically to amuse me,” he said, and kissed her again.

  “I’ve made progress on my autobiography,” Nancy said. “I can’t throw it all away now. Anyhow, Evelyn is always telling me to write about my childhood, and I can’t take his advice. He’d never shut up about it.”

  “Evelyn Waugh might have one small idea, but who gave you the notebook for Christmas?” the Colonel asked. “The typewriter?”

  “You, my darling man,” Nancy said. “It was the most thoughtful gift I’ve ever received. Meanwhile, Prod sent flowers I’m allergic to.”

  “This is what I mean by a good divorce.”

  Nancy shivered and pulled the blanket up to her chin. She snuggled closer to the Colonel, and closer still. It was draughty in that room, and in that world.

  “Mon coeur, tu as froid?” The Colonel wrapped his arms more tightly around her. “You really are my little silkworm.”

  “I’m so lucky you stumbled into my life,” she said. “I’ve never loved anyone half as much as I love you.”

  “I know.”

  “I wish you’d say something more reassuring, like that you’re lucky, too.”

  “You’re lucky, too.”

  Nancy elbowed him in the ribs. “You’re such a monster,” she said.

  “I do try.”

  “Oh, Colonel. I don’t know how I’m going to survive this war. I don’t know how I’m going to survive you.”

  Friday Morning

  Half Moon Street

  Simon stands in the doorway with a tray of coffee.

  “Long time no see,” Katie says.

  He holds up a bag. “I brought food.”

  Blushing, and smiling like a dope, Katie steps out of the way and motions for him to come inside.

  Since he texted an hour ago to ask if she wanted to discuss the manuscript, Katie’s stomach has been a mess of lifts and drops. They’ve kissed, and something has irrevocably changed, and Katie is proud of herself for resisting sleeping with the guy. Granted, sex wasn’t explicitly offered, but there was an undeniable hitch as they passed Heywood Hill on the way home.

  “Is the Green Drawing Room okay?” Katie asks, struggling to swallow because her mouth is so dry.

  “I do prefer my drawing rooms in blue,” Simon says. “But I suppose it’ll suffice.”

  “I know—it’s all too fancy, but Jojo’s kids are in the kitchen getting ready for school. There are four of them. Better to avoid the chaos.”

  “And the one bloke’s imperious gaze,” Simon adds.

  “Clive would have a lot of questions,” Katie agrees. “About last night, about your phone, the list doesn’t end.” She flicks on the drawing room light. “Let’s go over there.”

  Simon drops his laptop case on a cherrywood coffee table, and they sit in the pair of unexpectedly schlubby chairs facing the fireplace.

  “That was fun last night,” Katie says as she tucks herself into a cross-legged position.

  “Sure was,” Simon says, so casually it borders on rude. Without making eye contact, he pulls out his laptop and powers it on.

  Katie reaches for her coffee, but her hands are too quivery to hold her drink, and her heart is thumping so wi
ldly she might break a rib. It’s possible she’s making too much of a kiss.

  Jesus, act like you’ve done this before.

  Then again, has she done this before? In some ways, the answer is no. Katie hasn’t kissed a semi-stranger since college, and jitters don’t really factor in when you’ve known someone for thirty years, when you’ve seen him in Aquaman Underoos, or know how many times he contracted pinworms from his backyard “mud Jacuzzis.”

  “I brought you cream,” Simon says, nodding toward the bag, and Katie blinks.

  “Uh, thank you,” she says. This is not how Katie expected this to go. She expected some warmth, a sly acknowledgment of what happened last night.

  “And plenty of it,” he adds. “I know you prefer your coffee more beige than black.”

  Katie might be flattered if he wasn’t acting so frosty.

  “I was thinking about what we talked about last night,” Simon says, pulling up a document on his computer.

  Katie stares, feeling blank. They discussed many things last night, none of which she can remember now. This all feels very businesslike, and office etiquette is yet another thing at which Katie is an amateur.

  “Mostly, your question about why Nancy was interested in my grandmother.” He turns toward Katie, and they lock eyes. “I sense there’s more to the question.”

  Katie struggles to think. “I told you about my ectopic pregnancy...” she says.

  “No. Not that.” Simon shakes his head and, for a second, he softens. “Is there anything else you’re not telling me? A salient piece of information you’re holding back?”

  Suddenly, it dawns on Katie that he must’ve gone to Heywood Hill after she left. He’s staying directly above the bookshop, and Erin would’ve probably taken any opportunity to assist him.

  “Oh!” Katie chirps. “Actually, yes! Those letters I mentioned? Between Nancy and Lady Dashwood? Well, I only had the chance to read one, but Nancy specifically named your grandmother, and implied that Lea might’ve helped write the memoir.” Katie pauses to catch her breath. She smiles, and Simon looks at her entirely without expression. “So, uh, I was hoping to go back, snap a few pictures, if I’m not banned from the premises. Felix pretty much escorted me out of the shop. He did NOT want me seeing those letters, that’s for damned sure, but I’m hoping to change his mind.” Katie exhales and begins fiddling with her hair.

  “That’s it, then?” Simon says. “That’s all you have to share?”

  “What else would there be? You’re being kind of—” Katie freezes. She drops the lock of hair. “Why? Do you have something to share?” she says. “Some reason I’d need to proceed with caution?”

  “Nope.” Simon pulls a pastry from the bag and leans back in the chair.

  “You’re really not the morning person I thought you were,” Katie mutters, and he shrugs and bites into an almond croissant.

  After last night, Katie decided to trust Simon and ignore Felix’s warnings. He was, after all, the only one who seemed to be hiding things. Now, though, Simon’s behaving so erratically, so unlike the person she thought he was, Katie doesn’t know who or what to believe.

  “Do you think Lea helped Nancy write the memoir?” Katie asks, and chooses a chocolate croissant from the bag. “Has your mom said anything about that before?”

  Simon shakes his head.

  “If she did help,” Katie continues, “no wonder Lea was so hurt when Nancy ghosted. A book is such a personal thing, especially a memoir.”

  “Is it, Katie? Is a book such a personal thing, like a secret, almost?”

  Katie’s face flames. She feels like she’s done something wrong but can’t figure out what. “Not sure why you’re being so salty,” she says. “I just mean, if your grandmother cowrote this memoir, I can understand why she’d be upset Nancy bailed and moved to Paris to live happily-ever-after with the Colonel.”

  Simon eyes her, chewing slowly. “That’s how you believe it ended, huh? Nancy Mitford scrapped the bad parts of her life. She put the war behind her to live out her dreams.”

  “She always said her best years were in Paris,” Katie reminds him. “And, in Pursuit, it’s clear that France was her endgame. I know it’s a novel, but the parallels are obvious.”

  “The childhood parts, yes.”

  “The whole thing!” Katie says, tossing her hands, nearly flinging her croissant across the room. “Think about it. Linda Radlett has two marriages, first to an attractive, wealthy ‘good catch’ type. A stand-in for Nancy’s former fiancé, Hamish St. Clair-Erskine, as well as Sir Hugh Smiley, who proposed to Nancy three times. Then Linda jettisons Tony for Christian, the hot-blooded idealist. Finally, a man who gets riled up about things!”

  “I must’ve missed the years when Nancy was in love with a Communist,” Simon says. “You have an unusually active imagination.”

  “Christian is obviously Prod,” Katie says. “It’s not about the Communism, but his obsession with causes—in Prod’s case, the refugees. When Linda leaves Christian for her beloved Frenchman, she breaks free from society’s shackles—and her own—and finally experiences true happiness.”

  “True happiness?” Simon snorts. “I’m starting to think you haven’t actually read the book.”

  Katie gasps. “Are you kidding me right now?” she says. “For the record, I’ve read Pursuit twice this week, and probably fifty times before that. But please, mansplain Nancy Mitford to me. I’m all ears.”

  “I’m not trying to explain anything,” he says. “We just have very different ideas about what it means to flourish.”

  “Linda got rid of Tony and Christian, who were both douchebags!” Katie says. “She met Fabrice and found true love. Isn’t that all any of us want?”

  “You don’t know that she and Fabrice would’ve been happy—”

  “It’s right there, at the end of the book.”

  “Katie,” Simon says, his face like stone. “At the end of the book, Linda is dead.”

  “Spoiler alert!”

  “And Fabrice is captured by the Gestapo and shot.”

  “They were happy before all that!” Katie says. She flops back into her chair. “Agree to disagree, I guess.”

  As she polishes off the rest of her croissant, Simon tosses his laptop onto the coffee table. “How long were you with him?” he asks. “The fiancé. You said it was a long relationship?”

  “My conclusions about Nancy have nothing to do with my personal situation,” Katie says, and wipes her mouth.

  “Of course they do. We’re human. That’s how we work.”

  “I’ve known Armie since we were five,” she says. “We were together, on and off, for about fifteen years.”

  “Holy shit.” Simon’s eyes bug. “That’s practically a lifetime.”

  “If you’re fifteen years old, sure.”

  “A decade and a half,” Simon says, and then whistles. “Do you live in a small town or something? And you’re the only two people in it? How could it possibly take you that long to figure out you weren’t right for each other?”

  “Wow. Okay. You’re really coming in hot today,” Katie says. “How nice that you are able to so deftly navigate complicated relationships. To tell you the truth, Simon...” She starts to make a joke about not wanting to leave Armie’s medical plan, but doesn’t want to seem flip. Plus, Simon probably wouldn’t understand that affordable health care is a decent reason to marry someone in the States. “It’s hard to boil down,” Katie says. “But you might say we had different ideas about what it means to flourish.”

  Simon’s mouth twitches as he tries to contain a smile. He’s working hard at being a grump today, like it’s his full-time job. “The fiancé didn’t agree that happily-ever-after included death?” he says. “That is surprising.”

  “Oh, Simon. We all die at the end.” Katie balls up her napkin and chucks it
into the Pret bag, raising her arms overhead when it lands cleanly. “All net! Suck it, Jojo. You’re not the only one with skillzzz.”

  “Am I supposed to be impressed?” Simon asks.

  “Guess you didn’t properly internalize Clive’s lecture about team sports.” Katie slumps back into her seat. “If I went through all the little problems, Armie’s and mine, we’d be here all week. The short answer is that we’ve been best friends for over thirty years. Most couples grow apart. We were too close. Like siblings, almost.”

  “Too close? I doubt that was your problem,” Simon says.

  “Are you a couple’s counselor now?” Katie says. “The fact is, we were together for so long, and are similar in so many ways, that sometimes it was hard to tell who wanted what. Like, did I really want kids, or had I just absorbed his dreams? It’s your basic can’t-see-the-forest-for-the-trees situation.”

  “I’m sorry, Katie.” Simon sighs deeply. “I didn’t mean to stir anything up. I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.”

  “It’s fine. Has anyone ever told you that you apologize up to a dozen times in one conversation? It’s kind of annoying. No offense.”

  Simon flashes a grin, and the mood in the room lightens by five to ten percent. “I’m a Brit, so that checks out,” he says. “I’m sorry. Again. Apparently, I really hate talking about this ex-boyfriend of yours.”

  “He’s a nice guy. You’d like him. Everybody does.”

  “I doubt that.” Simon stands and crams his computer back into its bag. “I should go.”

  “All right,” Katie says, though she feels there is something left between them, a stickiness unresolved.

  “So, what’s next?” he asks.

  “I’ll try to push on Felix more,” Katie says. “See the rest of the Hellbags file.”

  “Okay.” Simon zips his bag. “For the record, you’ll never convince me that The Pursuit of Love has a happy ending.”

  “Dying in childbirth, the Gestapo, I know,” Katie says.

  “I’m not talking about that. Those last few lines...” Simon says, and lays a hand on his chest. “They’re gutting, Katie.”