The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(28)

“I hope 1940 brings us an end to the war.” She bound together another bundle of silver tissue. One more and she’d have all she needed.

“You’re two-thirds of the way through your six months here.” He regarded the ledger before letting it fall closed.

“I am.” She studied him and found his face impassive.

He opened his mouth as if he meant to say something further when a tall, slender man with a heavy mustache entered the shop and set the small bell jingling. Mr. Evans gave a soul-deep exhale. “Good afternoon, Mr. Stokes. Have we suffered an infraction?”

The man’s name was familiar, but Grace couldn’t place it.

“I’m not on duty.” There was an authority to his tone that tugged harder at Grace’s memory, and it struck her at once.

Mr. Stokes was the local ARP warden.

“I confess, it’s been rather dull of late.” Mr. Stokes scanned the rows of books, his brow furrowed. The lines creased his forehead, indicating it was an expression he wore often. “I could use a book to get me through the night. My partner is little more than a lad and not much of a conversationalist. You would think with Christmas festivities, there would be more lights visible, but...nothing.” The corner of his lip tucked downward in apparent disappointment at not having more opportunities for rebuke.

“Perhaps a nice mystery, eh?” Mr. Evans waved the other man to follow him.

That was where Mr. Evans excelled. And where Grace failed. She had focused for so long on the setup of the store that she had not had time to read its wares, especially not to the point of being able to recommend a book. Was that what Mr. Evans had planned to tell her when he mentioned her time at Primrose Hill Books would soon come to an end?

She never had the opportunity to find out. The rest of that afternoon became impossibly busy, and Mr. Evans hadn’t brought it up again. With the new year soon upon them, she had it set in her mind that she would take the time to read the books they sold. Then perhaps she could finally offer proper recommendations rather than merely suggesting books based on what seemed most popular.

Christmas was a solemn affair without Colin. Mrs. Weatherford had put together a feast in light of the impending ration, which was rumored to begin in January. She’d found a plump turkey to roast for their dinner along with parsnips, potatoes and brussels sprouts. They’d exchanged gifts in an attempt to lighten the heavy mood, though it only helped a little. The house was not the same without Colin’s goodness to make it glow with warmth.

Grace had given book tokens to Mrs. Weatherford—they truly were handy gifts—and a fashionable new hat for Viv who had sewn new dresses for Mrs. Weatherford and Grace. Mrs. Weatherford had purchased both girls a handbag fitted for gas masks.

It was a curious thing with a rounded bottom for the canister to go inside and a pocket to fit the bulk of the mask. The handbags were fashionable black leather with gold snaps at their tops. Certainly a handbag any lady would carry proudly.

“So you won’t be leaving them behind when you go out.” Mrs. Weatherford had made the declaration with a note of finality that told them she’d take no more excuses at leaving their masks home going forward.

Not only did Christmas passing not bring an end to the war as many had optimistically predicted, but it brought the implementation of the threatened ration. The limits to bacon, butter and sugar only served to make one of the coldest winters in London all the more bitter.

Each person in England, including the king and queen, were given a small book of stamps to limit the amount of rationed goods they could purchase. Somehow, even with Mrs. Weatherford’s stockpile of sugar she’d held under lock and key in the previous months, Grace and Viv found the sugar caddy often sparse.

It was in that dull gray world where Grace discovered an unexpected ray of sunshine.

One afternoon, on a particularly icy day after she’d been given leave from Primrose Hill Books, she found herself in the very peculiar position of having free time. And she knew exactly how to spend it. She made herself a cup of tea, snuggled into the Morris chair with a thick blanket over her legs and settled under the weight of The Count of Monte Cristo on her lap.

She ran her fingers over the worn cover and thought of George Anderson. Not only him, but all the men who had been called up.

Where were they? Was it as drearily dull for them?

She truly hoped so. Better to be bored than in danger.

Slowly, she opened the book, noting how the old spine didn’t bother to creak, as though it had been oiled by age, and began to read.

What she found within was nothing like the texts she’d read in school that offered dry accounts of maths or broken down sentence structures and word formation. No, this book, when finally given the proper attention it deserved, somehow locked her in its grasp and did not once let go.

What started as an accusation in the beginning spiraled into treachery before tailspinning into the greatest betrayal. Word after word, page after page, she was pulled deeper into a place she had never experienced and walked in the footsteps of a person she’d never been.

She was emotionally invested in the tale, her eyes darting faster and faster across the page to devour every word, desperate to know what would become of Edmond—

“Grace?” Mrs. Weatherford’s voice broke into the story, shattering the scene playing out in Grace’s mind.

She startled and looked up at Mrs. Weatherford.