The Bookseller's Secret

by Michelle Gable

  * * *

  While dressing for dinner, Nancy thought nothing of the phone trilling downstairs. It rang several times a day and never portended bad news.

  Several minutes later, there was a knock at the door, though the clock indicated the party was some ways off. With a wobble in her stomach, Nancy walked cautiously across the room. Inhaling, she opened the door. Though he never entered this part of the house, Lord Berners stood before her, his face white, his eyes watery and red.

  “What happened?” Nancy said, struggling to catch her breath.

  “Oh, Nancy,” he whimpered. “The very worst.”

  As Lord Berners spoke, Nancy absorbed the information without truly hearing his words. She stared at the Bessarabian carpet, dizzying herself with its kaleidoscope of pink, red, and light blue bouquets.

  “You don’t have to come to dinner,” Berners said, when all was laid out. “I’ll have food brought up to your room.”

  Nancy was fuzzy, confused, entirely numbed. “I’ll see you in ten minutes,” she said, and closed the door.

  Heart thronging, she slathered on her face. Nancy stepped into her frock and adjusted her hair. All night long, she made steady work of being bright, while Lord Berners fretted and gaped. It was all an act, of course, the last desperate gasps of her three-month halcyon. Nancy understood she’d have to return to the real world eventually. She just didn’t expect her reentry to be so sudden, or so cruel.

  April 1945

  Rutland Gate

  As they packed into the gray-and-gold drawing room at Rutland Gate, Nancy couldn’t help but count what they’d lost. Beginning first and foremost with her brother, Tom.

  Sweet Tom, but also stupid Tom, who volunteered for the Far East, only to get shot in the neck as a result. Though initially expected to survive the attack, he caught pneumonia in the field hospital and died on Good Friday.

  The family had lost others during these past five years, among them several close cousins, Decca’s husband, and Debo’s brother-in-law, once married to the Kennedy girl. Nancy’s beloved André Roy succumbed to his own fragility weeks ago, and there were countless more friends and acquaintances who would not live to see armistice.

  On top of this were those not dead, but in some manner gone, like Unity, who was wandering Tom’s funeral luncheon, airing her grievances. “I hated all our governesses!” she cried. “They were always telling me, why don’t you have a nice walk, dear, it will do you good.”

  As Nancy observed this horror show alongside Debo and Pam, she desperately longed for the real Unity, as well as Decca, who hadn’t the money to travel all the way from California. Diana was in London, but still on house arrest.

  “Poor Bobo,” Debo said as they watched Unity assault some new guest. “Muv always says she’s improving, but that’s never the case.”

  “Of course not, because they live on Inchkenneth,” Nancy said, about the Inner Hebrides island Farve bought after he sold the family estate. “Seems to me it’s the sort of place where one develops several life-threatening ailments, instead of recovers from them.”

  “To think of Unity living there,” Debo said. “It’s unconscionable! And merely getting to London—it must’ve been so difficult for them both.”

  “Here’s where Unity’s memory problems are to her benefit,” Nancy said. “No one would willingly undergo that journey more than once.”

  Nancy had been on the island when the war broke out, and leaving the windswept, squelchy mound of moss was one of the most onerous exercises of all time, beginning with a rowboat taken to a desolate beach on the Isle of Mull, after which was a ten-mile ride to port, followed by a ferry-steamer to Oban. Nancy then spent twelve hours hanging about a station, waiting to board a sleeper train. Several more trains followed, and she was lucky to make it alive.

  “Inchkenneth is a place best forgotten,” Pamela agreed.

  “Do you know how they call a doctor?” Nancy asked, and her sisters shook their heads. “Whenever Unity requires medical attention, Muv places a black disc on the garage. Every so often, some doctor on Mull uses a pair of binoculars to scan the property. If he sees the disc, he rows over, to see what’s what.”

  “What a nightmare,” Pamela said.

  “We weren’t allowed to have people over,” Unity continued to whine nearby. “Only Nancy’s and Tom’s friends, who always came in hordes, shrieking and guzzling. Why, oh why, did Tom have to die?”

  “She gave up so much for that horrible Hitler,” Debo said. “And where is he now?”

  “Probably hiding out in his Führerbunker.”

  “Be serious, Nancy,” said Debo.

  “Is everything a joke with you?” Pam asked.

  “I am being serious!”

  “How could he have done this to her?” Debo said. “How can he leave her to suffer for the rest of her life?”

  Nancy raised a brow. “It’s almost as though he’s unmoved by human suffering,” she said. “But that can’t be it.”

  “Enough,” Pam sniped.

  “The papers have stopped reporting she birthed his love child, at least,” Debo said.

  For now, Nancy thought.

  “I can’t talk about her anymore,” Pam said, turning away, erasing Unity from her periphery. “Let’s discuss the good times, with Tom. Nancy, remember how we’d go to church together whenever he came home from school?”

  “How could I forget?” Nancy said, while Debo crossed her arms and scowled.

  As the youngest sister, Debo knew Tom the least and loathed being on the outside of a thousand inside jokes.

  “We were positive he was living a glamorous life of sin,” Nancy told the little one. “And were seething with jealousy.”

  “Not me!” Pamela squawked. “I was appalled.” She glanced at Debo, who was now pouting mightily. “Whenever the minister reached the ‘thou shall not commit adultery’ bit, we’d nudge each other, and poke Tom, and make such a spectacle.”

  “Inevitably, Farve would start screaming and interrupt the service.”

  “Tuddemy took it like a sport, though,” Pam said.

  “He always did,” Nancy said. “You know, I saw Tom more during the war than ever. This past year, he was in London constantly. During Christmas...” She bit her lip, tears threatening. “He was so wonderful, and gay. I’m glad he was happy, at the end.”

  “Sometimes, I wish we could go back,” Pam said. “Back to the carefree days at Asthall and Swinbrook. Reading in the cloisters, running across the fields. The Hons cupboard. Even Farve constantly gnashing his teeth. Never thought I’d long for his tantrums.”

  “Maybe we will go back,” Debo said, and threw Nancy a grin, thrilled to be back in the middle once again. “When Nancy publishes her book!”

  Pam’s blue eyes flared. “You said you were writing a new book, but I didn’t know it was a sure thing! Is this the autobiography?”

  “It’s hardly a sure thing,” Nancy said. “And it’s a novel, based on our childhoods. I have lunch with my publisher next week, so cross your fingers. Hopefully, by this time next year, we can holiday at Asthall once again.”

  “I’ve got such masses to tell you, Fanny, what we really need is hours and hours in the Hons cupboard.”

  “Heavens, should we brace ourselves?” Pam said, and feigned weakness in the knees. “Which of us will you send up this time? Whose ideologies?”

  “Don’t worry,” Nancy said. “It’s nothing like Wigs on the Green.”

  “Nancy keeps telling us not to worry,” Debo said. “But after she sells it, she’s moving to France. This feels an awful lot like an escape!”

  “Going to France is closer to a wish,” Nancy said, “than an actual plan. I’d need to make gobs of money to even consider it.”

  “France?” Pam said. “Oh, dear Lord. Tell me you’re not following the Colonel. You must
know he’ll never marry you, Nancy. Sorry if that seems harsh, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

  “Hoping for marriage?” Nancy chuckled. “Ducky, no one in her right mind would wish for that. If I go, it will be on my own.”

  “Maybe the book will be your ticket out,” Debo said. “You can make enough to invest with Heywood, and live a glamorous life in the City of Light.”

  “Sure,” Nancy said, thinly, and without much conviction. Five thousand pounds was some hard cheese, and she hadn’t made a quarter of that in all her prior books combined.

  “You’re going to be famous!” Debo said in the bright and plucky way of the youngest child who was also a duchess-in-wait. “You’d better keep a room just for me. I’ll be coming to Paris every August, when the new collections are out.”

  “Honestly, Debo,” Pam said. “Now is not the time to entertain fairy tales. You know Nancy can’t live with the Colonel while she’s still Missus Rodd. It doesn’t sit well.”

  “Goodness!” Nancy said. “You girls are absolutely showering the Colonel with attention! This isn’t about him, which you’d understand if either of you bothered to listen to me at all. It’s long been my dream to be a famous purveyor of highbrow Frog books. Should I manage the funds, I plan on securing a business license, and my own flat, and thus won’t be living with the Colonel at all.”

  Debo clutched her chest. “You’ll live alone?” she gasped. “Like an old, depressed spinster? Why won’t the Colonel let you live with him? Oh, I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”

  “It’s not a matter of allowing it,” Nancy said. “In France, you can’t simply move in with your lover. It’s so frightfully Catholic over there! And de Gaulle is so priggish. He almost fired the Colonel after a concierge caught me sneaking into his room at the Connaught! The world has changed, my darlings. Gone are the cheerful days when French politicians were expected to die in their mistresses’ arms. It’s really a sad state of affairs.”

  As her sisters quivered and clucked, Nancy began scouring the room, noting distant relatives, close friends, and dozens of strangers. Finally, her eyes landed on Farve, who stood in a far corner, looking hunched and forlorn as he chatted with Debo’s husband and Jim Lees-Milne.

  “If you don’t mind,” Nancy said. “I should check on Uncle Matthew.”

  “Uncle Matthew?” Pamela said, and wrinkled her nose. “Who’s that?”

  “With any luck, you—and the rest of the world—will soon find out.”

  * * *

  “The best brain of our generation,” Jim was saying as Nancy approached. “Beloved, handsome Tom, the most loyal and affectionate of friends. He should have married and had hosts of beautiful children.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” said Debo’s husband, Andrew, the future Duke of Devonshire. “England is missing something without his genes. Quite a lot of that going around. Ah! Look who it is! Our favorite authoress. Hello, Nancy.”

  “Greetings, gentlemen,” Nancy said, and passed around a sad smile. “How are you holding up, Farve?” Nancy took one of his hands in hers and gave him a squeeze. Though his cheeks were jowly, and his Redesdale blues clouded by cataracts, Nancy could still see the chiseled, hawklike features of Tom. “It’s lovely to see everyone, despite how much I hate the circumstance.” She pivoted toward her brother-in-law. “And Andrew, in person! It’s bliss having you back. I know every man dreams of heroics, of medals and parades, but you must’ve been somewhat comforted to return.”

  Andrew’s face soured and Nancy understood he was not in fact pleased to be yanked from the front thanks to his family’s wishes, and their pulling of strings. Now Andrew was home and safe, but miserable, proving once again that Nancy would never understand the will of men.

  “I miss the action,” Andrew said. “Though, it’s nice not to contemplate my mortality on a daily basis.”

  “Tom almost made it,” Farve said, his voice a toss of gravel and rocks. “He was so close.”

  The group gave their heavy nods, and Jim launched into a story about the last time he’d seen Tom. It was in December, and they’d enjoyed a drink at Brooks’s. “The fog was thick,” Jim said. “A dreary, moody night. After we parted, I walked a few blocks and bumped into a stranger, only to discover the stranger was Tom. We shared a good laugh and went to his garçonnière, where we ate scrambled eggs and drank red wine until dawn.”

  Nancy smiled at the memory and wondered what else the old friends might’ve gotten up to. It occurred to her that Jim had been at some point in love with every Mitford, aside from her, and Unity, of course.

  “I’m so tired of the damned war,” Andrew said, and slammed his drink on a nearby table. “Let’s discuss something else. Nancy, Deborah tells me you’ve written a book.”

  “That’s correct,” Nancy said. “It’s about all of us when we were little. A novel. Don’t be nervous!” She laughed, sounding more than a touch nervous herself. “It’s presently called My Cousin Linda, though I’m hopeful my publisher will come up with something better. We’re meeting next week. You’re featured prominently, Farve.” Nancy placed a hand on his arm, and he jumped. “As portrayed by the blustery but lovable Uncle Matthew. Like you, he’s full of wind and menace, and he’s ground away four pairs of dentures during his fits. But he is the most winning character in the book.” Nancy smiled to herself as she reminisced about Uncle Matthew’s attributes.

  Much as we feared, much as we disapproved of, passionately as we sometimes hated Uncle Matthew, he still remained for us a sort of criterion of English manhood; there seemed something not quite right about any man who greatly differed from him.

  “The story came out so easily, more fountain than pen,” Nancy prattled on, then stopped to consider this. The book might’ve taken only three months to put down, but she’d been writing it for years. “I pray you’ll adore Uncle Matthew, too.”

  “Do any other Mitfords make an appearance?” Andrew asked.

  “Oh, sure. Aunt Sadie is a dead ringer for Muv. There’s a Tom character—he’s called Matt. The narrator is a mix of the Mitford girls but, mostly, she has Debo’s sweet nature.”

  “Tell us, Nancy,” Jim said. “Did you add Prod to the narrative? Where does he fit in?”

  “You know very well—”

  “Where is he this afternoon?” said Andrew as he made a show of looking around.

  Nancy shrugged, occupying herself with a loose thread on her suit jacket. “Peter might come later,” she said. “Expect him to be in a mood if he does.”

  “He’s always in a mood,” Jim griped.

  “What does he think about you moving to Paris?” Andrew asked. As he took in Nancy’s expression, his pleasant face went south. “I’m sorry. Is that not widely available information? Deborah said something. Perhaps I misunderstood?”

  “Paris?” Farve said, turning an even paler shade of gray.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Nancy said, and brushed a piece of hair from her brow. “It’s mostly talk right now. Hard to plan anything with a war still on. Goodness, it’s warm in here. Perhaps we can open a window or two?”

  “So, you’re not going?” Andrew frowned. “Or are you? I’m confused. Deborah said—”

  “I know what Debo said,” Nancy snapped. “And Paris is the idea, if I can drum up the money.”

  As Andrew again tried to interject, a commotion broke out in the reception hall. Nancy craned to see. “Oh. My. Lord,” Nancy said, and her heart seized. She looked back at Farve in time to see all emotion slide from his face. What must it be like, she wondered, to see one’s daughter for the first time in thirteen years?

  “Good God,” Andrew muttered.

  “Diana never stopped being beautiful,” said Jim.

  The room was so flooded with chatter and buzz and great gaping mouths that only Nancy noticed when one more person slipped through the door. It wa
s Prod, visibly angry but devastatingly handsome in his uniform, with his bronze skin and the gold on his jacket glistening in the chandelier light.

  “Hello, everyone,” Diana said, wafting in like a dream.

  “Absolutely gorgeous,” Jim murmured.

  “Isn’t this the most devastating thing there ever was?” She stopped to slap away her two accompanying policemen. “Can you give me a speck of space? Have some respect for my late brother!”

  A hand fell to Nancy’s waist. “Hello,” Peter whispered, and Nancy lurched so violently she almost threw up. “How do you like that? Only Diana would bring footmen to a funeral.”

  Nancy resisted a laugh. It was nice not everyone was bowled over by her sister’s beauty, but Nancy wasn’t sure how to talk to her husband, or how much he knew by now. “Did you come from Heywood Hill?” she asked, her voice sounding strangled. She squirmed to put more distance between them.

  “Yes,” he said. “I did exactly as you asked. Can we go somewhere?”

  “Not now!” she hissed, then glanced back. “I do appreciate you coming, though.”

  “Excuse me,” Farve said as he splintered from the group.

  “I’ll go with you,” Nancy said, but Farve was already off, wending through the crowd.

  “What is he doing?” Andrew said. “Should we help?”

  “He forgot his cane,” noted Jim.

  Farve walked into the reception hall, and the room held its breath. Whimpering softly, he pulled Diana into his arms. The pair wept openly, no sign anything bad had ever passed between them.

  * * *

  Peter stopped Nancy near the door.

  “You’re not trying to leave, are you?” he said, blocking the exit.

  “I am,” Nancy said, hurriedly slipping on her gloves. “My nerves are frayed, and I need fresh air. It was kind of you to pay your respects. Thank you for coming.”