The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(22)

A click of the receiver being set in its cradle indicated the call had ended. Viv breezed down the stairs as if they hadn’t just been listening in on a clandestine chat they should never had heard.

“The toad in the hole smells divine,” Viv exclaimed. “Is it nearly time to eat?”

“Is it seven in the evening?” Mrs. Weatherford smoothed the apron over her lavender housedress, as cool and collected as Viv. The prickly reply was paired with a line of worry across her brow. Clearly she had too much on her mind.

“It is exactly,” Viv replied brightly.

“Then, yes, supper is indeed ready.” Mrs. Weatherford waved them into the dining room with her.

Grace said nothing, not trusting herself to speak around the twist of guilt.

“Who were you on the phone with, Mum?” Colin asked as he set the last plate on the table. There was such innocence to his question, Grace was sure he did not suspect the call’s nature.

His gaze flicked to Viv and Grace, and his cheeks flushed as he offered a shy smile. He was a quiet young man, given often to introspection that made you wonder what went on behind his sharp blue eyes.

Knowing Colin, he was most likely devising a new way to feed a lion or mend a bird’s broken wing.

“Oh, it was just Miss Gibbons calling to complain about the grocer.” Mrs. Weatherford picked up a long knife, sliding it through the suspended sausages in their pillowy bed of pudding. “Apparently there’s nearly no sugar to be had. I tell you, these people out there buying up the shop...” She tsked. “They should be ashamed.”

She set the knife aside and smiled brightly at the three of them. “Onion gravy, anyone?”

As they ate, Grace considered Colin once more. He was a good man, polite and genuinely kind.

He performed all the tasks around the house from replacing spent bulbs to doing minor repairs. Aside from caring for the animals at Harrods, his chief concern was ensuring they were all comfortable and safe.

But given the chance, would he want to go to war?

Most men did, it seemed.

Why anyone would eagerly put themselves in a war zone where one could be shot was beyond her. But then, she’d never been brave. Not like the men willing to trade their lives for the safety of those in Britain.

Thoughts of such courage filled her mind as she crawled into the brass bed that night and pulled the quilt over her shoulders amid the blackness of the room. Compared to such heroism, she was little more than a coward.

It was a deficiency she ought to face head-on, as her mother had always encouraged her to do, by speaking up for herself, by not allowing others to bully her. And she meant to. Eventually.

Just as soon as she set Primrose Hill Books to rights.

The next morning, she arrived at the bookshop nearly ten minutes early with the list of her ideas in hand. She burst through the front door, and the bell announced her arrival with its shrill cry.

Mr. Evans lifted his head and gave her a frown.

She winced. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to open the door so abruptly.”

He continued to frown at her.

“Truly,” she said. “It’s just that I’m so excited for the ideas I...have...”

He put his hand on a brown-wrapped parcel with a note atop it and slid it toward her. “This is for you,” he said solemnly.

Grace glanced down at the envelope with “Miss Bennett” written in a scrolling hand over its cream-colored surface.

“I’m sorry.” Mr. Evans shuffled away from the counter, leaving behind a few scattered bits of paper and the nub of an abandoned pencil.

What could he possibly be sorry for?

Grace opened the top of the envelope and reached for the note within. The paper made a gentle shushing noise in the heavy silence of the shop as she removed it. She skimmed to the bottom and saw the letter had been signed by George. Not Mr. Anderson, but George.

Her pulse kicked up at the lack of formality. At least, until she read the letter where he confessed to having volunteered with the RAF. She was surprised to learn he was not just an engineer, but also had considerable flight experience. He hadn’t expected to be called up so quickly, but received the notice two days after signing.

Not only did he regret having to cancel their date, he was apologetic at his inability to assist in improving the shop, though he went on to offer several suggestions for advertising slogans. That, and he left her something that he hoped to discuss next time he saw her, something that had a great impact on his own love of reading.

Grace’s heart clenched with a mix of disappointment and alarm. Planes were often shot at in war. If he was going in as a pilot, his life would be in a constant state of danger.

She closed her eyes. No, she wouldn’t think of that. She would see him again.

But when?

She gently laid the note aside and drew the gift closer to her. The parcel was wrapped in a plain brown paper and quite obviously a book, given its shape and weight. George’s neat printing marked the center of the paper.

A classic, but also a love story.

Smiling to herself, she peeled away the wrap to reveal a leather-bound book. It had been well used, given its scuffed surface and how the once sharp corners were dulled and curled inward. She turned it to its side to reveal the spine.

The title had been nearly buffed away, but it was still there in a whisper of gold lettering. The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas.