The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(29)

“Supper is nearly ready.” The older woman glanced about and tsked before rushing to the window. “You didn’t draw the curtains. I’m certain we’ll hear of it from Mr. Stokes later.”

Grace blinked, caught in a momentary state of confusion. It had grown rather dark. She’d recalled noticing it briefly and meaning to put on a light, but that had been when Mercédès and Edmond had their engagement party and the nefarious plotting had truly begun to unfold.

A light snapped on, a flash of brilliance that made the page bloom white in front of Grace’s eyes and rendered the stark black letters so much easier to see.

“What are you reading?” Mrs. Weatherford angled her face at the cover as she stepped closer.

“The Count of Monte Cristo.” Grace’s cheeks warmed. “It was the book Mr. Anderson left for me before he was called up.”

Mrs. Weatherford’s eyes dimmed. “That has always been one of Colin’s favorite books as well.”

“Have you heard from him?” Grace asked.

Mrs. Weatherford wandered aimlessly around the room, straightening an immaculate pile of magazines and plumping pillows that could truly not possibly fluff anymore. “I haven’t, though I expect I soon shall. You know how they train those boys so thoroughly before...” Her voice caught.

Before they’re sent into battle.

The words hung unsaid in the air, as well as the implication of danger.

“If you’d like to read it when I’m done, you may borrow it,” Grace offered in an attempt to change the subject.

“Thank you, but I have a lovely novel by Jane Austen from one of the book tokens you gave me. I haven’t read Emma yet.” She fidgeted with the blackout curtain, making sure it fell just so. “And I stay quite busy with the other women of the WVS, of course. Now come along before supper cools.”

The Women’s Voluntary Service had done Mrs. Weatherford a world of good in Colin’s absence. Not only did it keep her busy so she didn’t scrub the floors of the house into a carbolic oblivion, but she was in the company of other mothers in similar situations, whose sons were also at war.

Grace obediently set the book aside and went to the kitchen where they’d taken to eating their meals. The formal dining area felt far too large without Colin sitting opposite his mother.

Viv grinned at Grace as she entered. “I figured you wanted to skip our tea today considering how involved you were with George’s book.”

It was as though Grace had tipped fully into another world and was just now finding her way back into reality. She laughed, feeling somewhat foolish. “I’m so sorry I didn’t hear you come in. I didn’t even notice the room had grown dark.”

Yet even as she chatted through supper and ate the tender chicken Mrs. Weatherford roasted for their meal, Grace found her thoughts turning back to Edmond Dantés. More than that, she recalled his experiences with the same poignancy as if she herself had lived through them rather than the character in the book.

This was clearly what George had meant when he described how he felt about reading.

That night, she stayed up with the blanket covering her head and a torch illuminating the pages as she fell back into Edmond’s story. After every chapter, she swore to herself it would be the last until her eyes finally fell closed, blending the images in her mind with those of her dreams.

The next morning, she startled awake, bleary-eyed and nearly late. After a particularly unsweetened cup of tea and bite of toast with barely a scrape of butter, Grace bundled up against the harsh cold for the trek to Primrose Hill Books.

The quick walk that had seemed so brief and pleasant in the summer and fall had become grueling in the winter. The wind pushed at her, making her forward progress all the more difficult as a deep wet cold sank into her bones.

She was nearly to Farringdon Station, lost in reliving what she’d read in The Count of Monte Cristo, when a peal of laughter pulled her attention to a side street. Two children bundled against the dismal weather raced back and forth in what appeared to be a game of tag, their cheeks red from the nip in the air and their laughter fogging in front of their mouths.

Once those giggles had been ubiquitous, blending into the roar of traffic and chatter of passing people. It struck Grace suddenly how the sound of children had become foreign.

Not all mothers had sent their children away to the country, of course, but with so many who had, there were few left to be seen.

And yet, the children playing were not the only ones she spotted that morning. As she continued on toward the bookshop, she came upon several little girls whispering together with a toy pram holding their dolls.

Were children returning?

Buoyed by the possibility this might mean an end to the war, Grace pushed into the store and immediately addressed Mr. Evans. “Have you seen the children? It looks as though they’re returning.”

Mr. Evans waved emphatically, nearly upsetting a jar of sharpened pencils. “Shut the door, Miss Bennett. It’s cold as brass monkeys out there.”

Grace did as she was asked, pushing the door against a gust of wind trying to curl its icy fingers inside. Once the chill was thoroughly blocked out, the warmth of the shop tingled at her cheeks and hands, making her almost hot in the bundle of her winter clothes.

“The children have been coming back since Christmas.” Mr. Evans squinted at something in the ledger. “What does this say?” He turned it toward her.