The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  Gladwyn removed a pad of paper from his coat pocket. “My visit is a courtesy,” he said. “I’ve been transferred to the Foreign Office but, given our prior history, the old bureau asked me to stop past to discuss the Worthington situation.”

  “Honestly, Gladwyn,” Nancy said, and blew a piece of hair from her eyes. “Maybe you all should start worrying about the real enemies, what do you think? Danette can barely keep her hat on straight.”

  “Have you heard from Lady Worthington?” he asked. “Do you have any idea where she might’ve gone?”

  “Gone?” Nancy shook her head, to clear some space. “Is she not at Weston Manor?”

  “She is not.” Gladwyn paused, pen poised over pad. “You seem surprised.”

  “Of course I’m surprised!” Nancy said, her pitch sending two browsers scrambling out of the shop. “Jim Lees-Milne saw her back in May, and I’ve rung a dozen times since, but no one’s picked up. I keep meaning to go out, but I don’t have a car, and time keeps getting away from me. Plus, fuel shortages and all.”

  Sighing, Gladwyn returned the notepad to his coat pocket. “Well, then,” he said. “If you truly don’t know, I have some unfortunate news. Lady Worthington’s been reported missing.”

  “Missing!? Why? Since when?”

  “Three days ago, she left letters for her children,” Gladwyn said. “She referenced embarking upon a ‘long journey,’ and no one’s heard from her since.”

  “Dear God,” Nancy said. “You don’t think she’d commit it, do you?”

  Gladwyn leaned one ear in her direction. “Excuse me?” he said.

  “You know, suicide,” Nancy whispered. “Danette has been unwell.”

  “That’s what we’ve been told,” Gladwyn said. “Are you certain you don’t have any information? Something you might be holding back? What about the East End evacuee living at Weston Manor? I understand the two of you have an interesting connection.”

  “Lea Toporek?” Nancy said, and tossed her eyes. “There’s nothing suspicious about her, aside from the mystery of what happened to her personality. I’ve tried to contact her as well, to no avail. I understand she’s shy, but enough’s enough.”

  “You’ve tried to contact her? Would you care to elaborate?”

  “There’s nothing to say. I’ve gone out of my way with the girl, but...” Nancy flubbered her lips. “She doesn’t know how to accept charity.”

  “What do you mean by charity?” Gladwyn said, and fumbled about his jacket for his paper and pen.

  “If you must know, I invited Lea and her daughter to live with me,” Nancy said. “Here in London. There’s nothing nefarious about the offer. Did she thank me, though, or respond? No. It’s all quite galling. I’m only trying to do a good deed.”

  “You invited her to live with you? Now, that is something.” Gladwyn stared down at his pad, seemingly mystified and unable to write.

  “Why is it something?” Nancy said. “You think I don’t care for the downtrodden, is that it? Peter is not the only person in the Rodd household with a heart for the displaced.”

  “A heart for the displaced,” Gladwyn repeated, stumbling over the words. “That is one way to put it. I’m curious, Missus Rodd.”

  “Nancy. Please.”

  “Nancy. Is there a reason you’ve kept in contact with Lea Toporek, and invited her, and the child, to live in your house?”

  “There are several reasons,” Nancy said. “None of which concern you.”

  “Goodness,” Gladwyn said, adjusting his glasses. “I was told you were likely informed of the situation, but didn’t believe it until now. You are a very magnanimous and forgiving woman, Nancy. You deserve a medal, a ribbon at least.”

  “Don’t make me sound like a saint!” Nancy trilled, though she didn’t mind the compliment. “It’s what any woman would do. Why are you cackling?”

  “You’re just so, so gracious,” Gladwyn said. “I’ll tell you this much, if I had a mistress, and a love child, there is zero chance Missus Jebb would invite them into our home.”

  * * *

  Nancy didn’t know why she was in Buckinghamshire, standing in Weston Manor’s long shadow, especially when Danette Worthington was missing, and Nancy hadn’t arrived at any conclusion regarding Peter. Like most men, Prod had his foibles, but the notion of a teenage paramour was too sickening to comprehend. On the other hand, it would explain Lea’s odd reserve, and why Nancy intuited she had more to say.

  “Just get it over with, you stupid cow,” Nancy muttered, her breath making small clouds in the air. She hadn’t taken the afternoon off from work, borrowed Hellbags’s car, or run over three chickens, only to give up and go home. It was now or never and, because never was an awfully long time, Nancy took in a drink of air and pressed the bell.

  She waited. The house felt quiet, haunted almost, and Nancy wished she’d brought Milly for moral support. She rang again and, as she began to leave, the door swung open. Nancy jumped back. “Oh! Hello!” she said, staring down into a pair of big saucer eyes. “Are toddlers working as butlers now? Start ’em young, I always say. Aren’t you an adorable creature. Emma, is it?”

  Nancy inhaled and took her in with one pass. Emma did share Peter’s blue eyes and light hair, but so did a great many tots. Was she tall for her age? Slightly dull? Gladwyn’s accusation seemed no truer, yet no less false, after seeing Emma firsthand. “I am Missus Rodd,” Nancy said. “We’ve met before, but you probably don’t remember. Is your mum at home?” Nancy peered down the long, empty hallway. There was no sign of Lea, or anyone else, and Nancy wondered about Danette’s family. Had her older children returned from school, and what about Benjamin, only eight years old? Were they on tenterhooks, waiting for news, or were they marching on?

  “I see you have your mother’s sparkling personality,” Nancy said to the girl. “Maybe you’ll end up like your father, and find yourself prattling nonstop about all manner of the arcane. Although, who’s prattling now, I ask you? Gosh, I wish I’d brought you a present. I work in a famous bookshop. Are you able to read? I don’t know when children start these sorts of things. This morning, I boxed up some Peter Rabbits for my niece in America.” Nancy made a face. “California. Isn’t it dreadful? I should’ve set some aside for you. Next time, perhaps.”

  “I like books,” the girl said, quietly. “Mum reads them to me, or sometimes Benjamin.”

  Nancy’s heart soared. “That is something I love to hear,” she said. “A person can never get lonely with a book around. You have a very lovely voice, Miss Emma.” It was light and singsong, not a monotone, like Prod’s. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”

  The girl smiled, bearing all of her tiny, adorable teeth.

  “Speaking of books,” Nancy said. “I’m writing one myself—an autobiography. Your mum will be in it, and you as well! I’m hoping she might even participate. It’d be a wonderful opportunity for everyone. After all, books are just about the only thing a person can glut themself on lately, and they’re selling like mad. We can’t let Evelyn Waugh and Hester Griffin have all the fun, or the cash! Especially when we’re starting to see a light at the end of this extremely long and dark tunnel. Who knows when it might be over?”

  Last month, Mussolini surrendered, and although Roosevelt warned the time had not yet come for celebration, it was a sign that Fascism was on the wane. People were beginning to feel optimism again, and using words like after.

  “It’s getting ever so hard to find reliably crazed dictators these days,” Nancy said with a quick laugh. “Never mind. You probably don’t stay up on politics. Anyhow. Back to my book. You wouldn’t happen to know if...?”

  “What do you want?” Lea said as she materialized behind her daughter.

  “Miss Toporek! Hello!” Nancy said. “Goodness! A full sentence from you! It is my lucky day. I was just chatting with your engaging little girl
. I see she hasn’t inherited her father’s personality. Phew!” She gave a knowing wink. “I was so sorry to hear about Lady Worthington. What do you think happened? I fear she...” Nancy went to make a telling gesture but thought better of it. “I don’t suspect Danette will be back,” she said instead. “That really affects things, doesn’t it? Did you read my letter? About staying at Blomfield Road, and assisting me with the book?”

  Lea nodded.

  “Good. Well. The offer stands. I’m sure Lady Worthington has been generous. That is her nature! But you must consider what you’ll do if she doesn’t return. Nothing lasts forever, not even in a manor built in the thirteenth century.”

  Nancy waited for a response. It took Lea several minutes of great concentration to affect a very half-hearted shrug.

  “A real planner type, I see,” Nancy said. She removed a stack of papers from her handbag. “Here are several chapters from my manuscript. What I ask is very little—simply read my work and tell me if I’ve missed anything, if there’s a salient detail I should add.”

  Lea remained silent, not a twitch on her face.

  “You have nothing to lose,” Nancy continued. “If the book is a failure, it’s more egg on my face. I’m used to it by now! If successful, we can...split the proceeds.”

  “Really?” Lea said, and she suddenly perked up.

  “Well, yes...” Nancy stammered, cursing her mouth for getting ahead of her brain. She was in no position to go halfsies with anyone, much less the mother of Prod’s possible illegitimate child. Alas, the horse was out of the barn, and it was gratifying to help them in a tangible way, more tangible than Prod had ever done with his refugees. “Provided you are reasonably contributive,” Nancy added, hastily. “I’d rather split it with you than my husband.”

  As Nancy babbled on, Lea’s gaze tightened on the chapters in her hand. Through it all, Emma hung like a primate from her mother’s left side.

  “Yes,” Lea said, and took the pages Nancy offered. “I’ll help with the book.”

  Nancy clapped. “This is wonderful news!” she cried. “I’ve been muddling along, writing at a snail’s pace, but you’ll be the jolt of inspiration I need. Oh, Lea, I see grand things ahead—not only financially, but because it’ll be so cathartic to get the truth on paper. I’m bubbling over with joy!”

  “I will help,” Lea said again, “but I’m not leaving here.”

  “Fine, fine,” Nancy said, and flapped a hand. “You can let me know when you change your mind. The chapters you’re holding cover our first few weeks together, and the manner in which you came to me. It was before I knew about Emma. Why don’t you go ahead and take a look...”

  Nancy watched Lea read the first page, and the second.

  “Shall we discuss this ‘Greenie’ person?” Nancy said, and Lea’s eyes shot up. “How would you like me to portray him in the book? If there is a different—” she glanced at Emma “—a different father figure you wish to mention, I am amenable to any change. I am accustomed to wayward men, and all I want is honesty.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Lea snapped.

  “Very well,” Nancy said, sliding her handbag onto her shoulder. She adjusted her scarf, shivering as the brisk wind stirred her coat. “I’ll let you absorb the information and will check back in a week, maybe two? You’re welcome to ring, or drop a letter, anytime.”

  “Thank you,” Lea said.

  As Nancy crouched to say farewell to Emma, the door slammed in her face.

  Nancy swiveled around, weighing what just transpired, and wondering why she didn’t feel more triumphant. Was this the very breakthrough of which she’d dreamed? Or was it but one victory in what would prove a long and tiresome campaign?

  Saturday Evening

  Curzon Street

  Of course Simon found out. He had access to the internet, after all, and the ability to type. As Nancy Mitford might say: “It is really too idiotic.”

  “I’m sorry,” Katie says as they push through the holiday bustle on Curzon Street. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Mostly, I wasn’t thinking. It’s like I’d forgotten that part of myself.”

  “Ridiculous,” Simon grumbles. “You had to assume it would come up.”

  Katie ponders this. “Yes and no,” she says. “It occurred to me briefly, but I guess I was relying on my lackluster career. My boring name. The fact you wouldn’t go to all that effort.”

  “Yes, yes, googling is very arduous. None of this makes sense.”

  Katie smiles weakly but does not explain that, deep down, she believed the search would reveal what she’s come to accept: though Katie was a writer at one time, she wasn’t anymore.

  “It’s hard to explain,” she says. “Katharine Cabot feels like a different persona. Some character I made up. I’m at an inflection point in my career. Calling myself a writer feels...” Katie mulls this over. “It feels like a lie, or a jinx, at the very least. Writers write, but I’m not writing a damned thing.”

  “Because you were looking for inspiration, maybe? Then you met me, saw a bigger story, and jumped on it.”

  “Okay, your family is not that exciting,” Katie says, but Simon is not cracking at her ill-timed joke. “My interest in the manuscript is genuine.” As is her interest in him, she does not add. “You know I’ve been into Nancy Mitford since college. I love research, and rabbit holes, and needed a distraction from my spiraling life. Sure, I had the vague notion that there might be a story in there somewhere, but the idea was more about the shop, and the war. I’d never write about your family. That’s not what was driving me.”

  “I understand career insecurities,” Simon says. “But I still can’t fathom how it didn’t come up. We had some fairly intimate conversations. Never mind the fact I straight asked what you did for a living.”

  “Ah, see, writing novels is not something I do for a living.”

  “Hilarious.”

  “And we haven’t known each other that long,” she says.

  They walk another minute or two without talking, the only sound the roar of cars and motorbikes. Because of Simon’s long stride, Katie is soon outpaced. She scrambles a few steps, then hiccups to a stop, and waits for him to notice.

  Donning an almost cartoonish scowl, Simon stomps back in her direction. “Here’s what I don’t understand,” he says. “You’ve gone through some tough shit in your life. I know you’re not weak. Why are you letting yourself get derailed so easily?”

  A guy walking by slaps Simon on the back. “Give her a break, mate,” he says.

  “Not everyone gets to decide how long they stay in a job,” Katie says. “That’s why the NFL doesn’t have forty-year-old running backs. I swear, I wasn’t trying to hide anything.”

  “Forget it,” Simon says, so sharply that it stings. “You’re right. We only met a week ago. Who am I to you, anyhow?”

  Katie’s bottom lip quivers. She’s never felt this miserable after someone’s told her she was right. “Here’s the thing,” she starts. Katie inhales and closes her eyes, pretending she’s about to step into the batter’s box. Though she’s no longer twelve years old, it seems appropriate given she’s going to take a huge swing on what feels like a full count. “It’s true we basically just met,” she says, speaking as slowly as she can. “But it doesn’t seem that way. Everything I’ve said these past few days is one hundred percent authentic.”

  “Career secrets notwithstanding.”

  “Please.” Katie puts up a hand. “Let me finish. I didn’t even think of myself as a ‘writer’ this week. I was just Katie, just me, and I haven’t been able to say that for a very long time.” Simon takes a step closer, and Katie glances down at the book in his hands. “It’s pretty aggravating,” she says. “If I was going to get in trouble for being an author, I wish you’d read a different book.”

  “It was the only one in stock.”

/>   “Story of my life.” Katie shakes her head. “How far did you get? Probably not very.”

  “I read the whole thing,” he says.

  “Oh, God!” Katie groans. “Ugh! You really didn’t have to do that. You shouldn’t have done that. Well, I appreciate the effort, but let’s nottalkaboutiteveragainokaythanks.”

  Simon laughs, the first spark of cheer she’s seen from him today. “I figured I’d like it well enough,” he says. “But I did not expect to love it.”

  “Come on!” Katie says as her face reddens and her heart flies. “You’re full of shit!”

  “I tried to read it objectively,” he says. “I really did. And it should’ve been easy, given how miffed I’ve been. Unfortunately, I liked every page.”

  “But why? What did you like about it?”

  “Why does a person like any book? It strikes the right note, at the right time.” Simon thinks. “The story seemed personal, like you were trying to work something out. I couldn’t help but study the protagonist, and wonder how much of her is you.”

  “Absolutely none!” Katie says. “Not one bit! And I wasn’t working anything out. My books are not that deep. I just write. Also, by the way, many readers consider June Clemente an extremely prickly character.”

  “June makes a lot of mistakes,” Simon allows. “But stories need imperfect characters. Otherwise, how does anyone relate? Anyway, June is in a tough position, caught between two worlds—not only Paris and New York, but the way she’s trying to move forward while clinging frantically to the past.”

  “That is a very...thorough analysis,” Katie says, unable to look him in the face.

  “Personally, I adored June. Of course, I’m predisposed to women with sharp wits and the tendency to blush.”

  “Oh, God, just stop.”

  “Let’s talk about the ending,” Simon says, and Katie eyes him, wary of a trap. “After the affair, June returns to her husband. She’s learned a lot but picks the safe over the new. Why’d she go home? Why didn’t she stay in Paris?”