The Last Bookshop in London: A Novel of World War II(30)

She looked down at his jerky script and ignored the ache pounding in her head from lack of sleep. “It says five copies.”

He hummed in acknowledgment and wrote something beside the note. “I don’t know how you’ve come to read my writing better than I do.”

“I think we ought to order children’s books and create a new section.” Grace set her handbag on the counter with a thunk, its weight considerable with the combination of her gas mask and book.

“They’ll all be sent back now that Christmas is over, I wager.” Mr. Evans lifted his generous brows as he wrote, as though doing so made it easier to see.

“A small section then.” Grace unbelted her coat and tugged the muffler from her neck as she scanned the shop, envisioning where a space for children’s books might go.

A center table had been prepared for the newest popular book, What Hitler Wants. The attention-grabbing orange banded dust jacket promised to delve beyond Hitler’s manifesto, Mein Kampf, to offer insight into what drove Hitler’s decisions and what he might be motivated to do going forward. It was an atrocious publication in Grace’s opinion, but the masses clearly disagreed and wanted to know more.

Maybe there was something to Mrs. Weatherford’s claim that having knowledge truly was the best way to fight off fear.

Grace indicated the table set aside for the book on Hitler. “Here.” The space would be better used for a children’s section.

Mr. Evans grunted, which she’d come to take as his form of agreement. Or at least, it wasn’t ever a no.

She set to work that afternoon, putting together a list of books for Simpkin Marshalls to fill. The wholesale book distributor was located on Paternoster Row and had an uncanny knack of prompt delivery from its massively stocked warehouse.

Yet through it all, she couldn’t dislodge The Count of Monte Cristo from her head. Edmond had only just crawled through the tunnel toward the abbé’s prison cell.

What would he find in there? What if they were caught? The very thought sent her pulse racing.

After ordering new stock for the returning children, she slipped the thick book from her handbag and snuck between two large shelves near the rear of the store. Immediately, she fell into the story and the fog of exhaustion in her brain cleared away.

“Miss Bennett.” Mr. Evans’s voice cut into the stone-walled dungeon cell and slammed her right back in the middle of the bookshop.

She leapt and slapped the book closed, immediately regretting not having noted the page number first. Never in all her time at her uncle’s shop had she taken even a moment from her tasks for herself in such a way. She slowly looked at Mr. Evans, tense with guilt.

His heavy brows crawled together as he bent to study the title on the spine. “Are you reading The Count of Monte Cristo?”

She nodded. “Yes, I...” It was on the edge of her tongue to offer a justification, but she stopped herself. Nothing could excuse what she’d done. “I’m sorry.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “I see you took Mr. Anderson’s recommendation.” He nodded to the book. “Carry on, Miss Bennett. I expect if it has captivated you so thoroughly, we can anticipate selling quite a few copies based on your recommendation.”

Relief eased the tension from her shoulders. “I’ll order more from Simpkin Marshalls.”

“See that you do.” He picked a bit of yellow lint from his tweed jacket. “And you may want to consider Jane Austen for your next book. Women seem to enjoy her protagonists.”

Curiosity piqued, she made a mental note to purchase one of Miss Austen’s books. Maybe Emma. Mrs. Weatherford appeared to have found it enjoyable.

“I’m pleased to see you’ve become a reader in your time here.” Mr. Evans drew his spectacles off to examine them. Without the magnifying effect of the glass, his eyes appeared rather small. “Even if you do have only one more month remaining in our agreement.”

Was there truly only one more month to go? How was it even a dismal Christmas season had passed with such swiftness?

Grace nodded, unsure of what to say, and realized belatedly he most likely couldn’t see her.

He drew out a handkerchief, wiped at a spot on the lens, then replaced the glasses on his face and blinked owlishly at her. “You haven’t become attached to Primrose Hill Books now, have you?”

The question took her aback, but not nearly as much as her immediate awareness that indeed, she had become attached.

She liked how customers could easily find their books in the newly organized store, she enjoyed the book jackets and how creative some publishers were with their designs. She even relished the dusty scent that lingered in the shop no matter how often she cleaned, and had come to appreciate Mr. Evans, dry humor and all.

Before she could formulate a reply, the bell dinged, announcing an incoming customer.

“Evans?” Mr. Pritchard’s voice chirped from the front of the shop. “Are you here?”

Mr. Evans rolled his eyes heavenward and shuffled out to greet the man who Grace could never tell was a friend or foe. “Good afternoon, Pritchard.”

“Have you tried the fish and chips at Warrington’s recently?” Mr. Pritchard asked. “I just had some and they’re bloody awful. It’s a shame what’s become of London when you cannot even find a decent meal of fish and chips. I know they don’t have the same fat to fry them in, but after the queue I stood in and the price I paid...”