The Last Bookshop in London Read online

  Steam huffed from Grace’s lips in white puffs, and she walked so fast that the muscles in her legs burned with the effort. Primrose Hill Books appeared before her without her realizing how quickly she’d gone.

  She shoved in the door harder than she meant to.

  Mr. Evans snapped his head up. “Miss Bennett?”

  “That woman,” Grace declared with all the vehemence she’d been swallowing. “That horrid woman.”

  “There’s no one in the store at the moment.” He came around the counter, folded his hands and rested them where the swell of his belly had once jutted. “Tell me what’s happened.”

  Grace told him what Mrs. Nesbitt had said and relayed what had happened the night before, faltering when she shared Mr. Pritchard’s passing.

  Mr. Evans exhaled thickly through his nose, his gaze distant. “He never did see the point in going to a shelter. It’s a pity how many share that opinion.” He shook his head slowly. “The poor bloke. Thank you for caring for Tabby.”

  “I think Mrs. Weatherford is glad to have him.”

  Mr. Evans gave a ghost of a smile. “He’ll do her good, I think. And as for Mrs. Nesbitt...”

  The mere mention of the woman’s name caused Grace to simmer anew with rage.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “Mrs. Nesbitt is so wounded by what’s happened to her shop that she’s lashing out at the first person she can.” Mr. Evans tilted his head in apology. “And that happened to be you.”

  “She didn’t have to be so cruel.” Grace was being petulant, she knew, but the woman was truly odious.

  Mr. Evans adjusted his thick glasses. “You recently read A Christmas Carol as I recall.”

  Grace nodded.

  “You saw how Ebenezer’s unhappy childhood made him who he was. Imagine how he might feel if his business burned to the ground.”

  It was an apt comparison between Ebenezer Scrooge and Mrs. Nesbitt to be sure. One Grace had never thought to put together before that moment. But it was true how anger could be used to mask hurt, especially when hurt was such a very vulnerable emotion.

  Even Mr. Evans had used his gruffness to mask his memories of his daughter when Grace had first started to work at the bookshop.

  Who knew what Mrs. Nesbitt had experienced in her life to make her so hard and bitter?

  It was a fresh understanding Grace had never stopped to examine before.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I never thought to consider it in that fashion.”

  Mr. Evans patted her cheek affectionately, the way a father might do. “You’ve a good soul, Grace Bennett.”

  “And you’re an excellent teacher.”

  She thought about that conversation through the day as she worked. It made her reevaluate even her own uncle. Ugliness in a person was not born, but created. Perhaps he had endured a hardship that had made him so cruel.

  Suddenly she regarded him in a different light. Not with anger, but compassion. And with the knowledge that his mistreatment had nothing to do with her, and everything to do with him.

  She mulled over all of this as she stared at the empty shelf in front of her, which had been cleared out the day before to make way for a new order expected to come in from Simpkin Marshalls. An order that would now no longer be fulfilled.

  An idea struck.

  “I wonder...” Grace said aloud. “If we might set up a small area of the shop for the booksellers of the Paternoster Row bombing.”

  Mr. Evans, who was engrossed in a book some paces away, looked up at her over the rim of his glasses. “How so?”

  “We can offer space to any of the shops who have books that weren’t burned and can keep track of whose stock they belong to when sold.” After all, she and Mr. Evans had tailored their recordkeeping into an immaculate art. “Then the owners can still generate a profit from at least some of their stock.”

  “It might be a difficult task to take on,” Mr. Evans hedged.

  “Do you doubt me?”

  “Never.” Mr. Evans’s face broke out in a grin. “Take all the shelves you need.”

  He allowed Grace to leave early that afternoon, to set off on her mission to see how best to get in touch with the owners from the bookshops on Paternoster Row. It would be Grace’s first time seeing the booksellers’ hub since the fires the night before, and her trepidation grew with every demolished building she passed. The odor of smoke preceded her arrival, and her stomach sank at what would meet her eyes.

  NINETEEN

  There was hardly anything left of Paternoster Row. Its remains lay beneath a shroud of smoke where fires still smoldered deep within the wreckage. The once busy street was nearly leveled. Buildings that had risen high on either side were now little more than bricks and dust while several single walls stood uselessly with empty squares where windows had once been.

  Grace approached a man in a suit pacing before a flattened plot of land that had once been an elegant shop with glossy green paint lettering on its sign and small newspaper birds hanging from the interior of his display windows. “Are you the owner of Smith’s?”

  He looked at her, dazed with a numb expression she saw far too often in her ARP work. His nod was almost imperceptible.

  “Smith’s was such a lovely shop. I’m so sorry.” She approached him carefully. “I’m with Primrose Hill Books on Hosier Lane.” She regarded the devastation that had most likely been the man’s livelihood. “We are setting aside shelf space to aid the bookshops impacted by the bombing. You can...” A band of emotion tightened at her throat. “You can bring any of your stock to us, and we’ll ensure you receive the profits when they’re sold.”

  She handed him a small card where she’d written the information for the bookshop.

  He accepted it wordlessly and stared.

  “I’m so sorry,” Grace said again, feeling helpless once more and hating it. “I wish there was more I could do.”

  “Thank you.” He spoke softly and turned his sad gaze from her to the rubble of his establishment.

  She saw only one other person, to whom she made the same offer and received the same bewildered response.

  Not that any of it mattered. Surely no books had survived.

  Dejected, she turned from the remains of London’s book district and made her way home to give in to the fatigue grinding at her eyes like grit. On the way to Britton Street, however, it occurred to her that she knew of exactly one bookshop owner who did have a supply of books that were unmarred by the night’s conflagration.

  Mrs. Nesbitt.

  A war played out in Grace’s mind, with one side arguing that it would be the right thing to do, fighting with the spiteful side that had been hurt by Mrs. Nesbitt’s sharp words and wanted to retaliate with more spite. Exactly as Mrs. Nesbitt had done.

  It was that final thought that made up Grace’s mind. For she would never allow herself to become so bitter. Even to the likes of Mrs. Nesbitt.

  Grace was halfway up the short steps to Mrs. Nesbitt’s townhouse when a familiar voice called out to her. “Grace, are you confused?” Mrs. Weatherford asked. “It isn’t even blackout and you’re going to the wrong home. You need more sleep, dear.”

  Mrs. Weatherford wore the gray-green uniform of the WVS, indicating she’d likely just returned from a meeting. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were bright with the spark of life.

  Grace stepped down and quickly explained what she intended to speak with Mrs. Nesbitt about. Mrs. Weatherford’s back stretched a little taller, her shoulders squared. “Then I shall go with you.” Before Grace could decline, Mrs. Weatherford shushed her. “I’ll not let you tackle that beast alone, especially not when you’re going to her with such goodness in you.”

  And so it was that Grace and Mrs. Weatherford rapped upon the brass knocker of Mrs. Nesbitt’s door.

  The woman greeted them with a loo
k about as warm as the frosty day. “Your home is next door.” She lifted one sharply arched brow. “Or have you forgotten?”

  “We’re here to see you,” Grace said.

  “And could use a bit of tea.” Mrs. Weatherford rubbed her cold hands together, not so subtly reminding Mrs. Nesbitt of her manners to guests. “We’re likely to get chilblains out here.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt sighed and opened her door. “Do come in. I’ll put the kettle on.”

  She showed them to the parlor where the plushness of the blue velvet sofa felt as though it had just been purchased. There was an austere beauty to the room, like a museum full of fragile items you weren’t allowed to touch. Everything was neat and orderly from the freshly polished end table to the many various figurines and scattered pictures of what appeared to be Mrs. Nesbitt as a young woman.

  Grace and Mrs. Weatherford both perched awkwardly at the edge of the cushioned sofa, afraid to lean back and leave an imprint in the brushed velvet. Mrs. Nesbitt arrived several minutes later with a tea tray and presented teacups made of a fine bone china so thin, Grace could see the light of the back window through it.

  “What can I do for you?” Mrs. Nesbitt asked. “Aside from deplete my tea and sugar rations in a bid to be hospitable.”

  Grace detoured the path of her hand from the sugar bowl to her cup, opting to drink her tea plain. “We’d like to offer a space for you at Primrose Hill Books to sell your books. You’ll receive your profit from them, of course, and we’ll ensure people know they are books from your store.”

  Mrs. Nesbitt’s brow crinkled upward. “Are you in earnest?”

  “Yes.” Grace sipped her tea. It was weak, of course. Most likely the leaves had already been steeped a time or two. Nothing but the best for her unwanted visitors.

  To her great surprise, Mrs. Nesbitt’s eyes filled with tears and she looked away. “This is what I deserve for never loving Mr. Nesbitt.” She dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief meant more for decoration than actual purpose. “I only ever married him for the bookshop, to have my father finally take notice of me. To—” She caught herself and regarded Mrs. Weatherford and Grace as if they were interlopers. “Do you not see? God is punishing me.”

  “Are you truly so arrogant to assume that God would have London bombed just to take a jab at you for a selfish act?” Mrs. Weatherford heaved a sigh. “Mrs. Nesbitt, I suggest you put some sense into your head and take advantage of a good offer when it’s sent your way.”

  Grace nearly choked on her tea.

  For Mrs. Nesbitt’s part, she sputtered with indignation. “How dare you come into my house and say such things.”

  “Because someone needed to.” Mrs. Weatherford plopped half a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “You need to apologize to Grace and tell her you’ll accept the generous opportunity. Then you’ll prepare yourself to come to the orphanage with me to read.”

  “The orphanage?” Mrs. Nesbitt blinked in stunned disbelief. “To read?”

  “You did daily readings at your shop, did you not?”

  Mrs. Nesbitt slid a glance toward Grace, then lifted her head and sniffed. “Yes.”

  “Your schedule appears to be clear, and there are children in sore need of books.” Mrs. Weatherford stirred her tea.

  “Well.” Mrs. Nesbitt tossed her head.

  Grace and Mrs. Weatherford looked at her expectantly.

  Mrs. Nesbitt made a show of slowly adding a bit of sugar to her tea before taking a sip with one pinky elegantly elevated from the slender handle. She set the cup onto its matching saucer with a plink and took a breath.

  “I shall take you up on your offer, Miss Bennett.” She stared at the luxurious thick pile carpet underfoot as she spoke. “Thank you.”

  “And the orphanage?” Mrs. Weatherford prompted.

  Mrs. Nesbitt lifted her gaze. “I’ll prepare to leave once we finish our tea.”

  Mrs. Weatherford gave a triumphant smile. “Smashing.”

  * * *

  1940 passed into 1941 without much fanfare on Mrs. Weatherford and Grace’s parts. There was far too much to do otherwise. Over the next month, Mrs. Weatherford had to persuade Mrs. Nesbitt to join her at the orphanage less and less, as she began to go of her own choosing. The shelf designated for Nesbitt’s Fine Reads received much attention, which pleased Mrs. Nesbitt greatly.

  She was not the only shopkeeper to have taken Primrose Hill Books up on their beneficence. With so few open buildings available in the bombed-out city, word spread among the booksellers of Paternoster Row, and five additional sellers had a shelf devoted to their store, including Smith’s. Grace fashioned small newspaper birds to adorn their designated space and rotated books from each seller along with Primrose Hill Books’ own stock for her afternoon readings. Soon the customers in the shop were not only those they knew from their own store, but from the other booksellers as well.

  Jimmy attended her readings still, the orphan well-fed now and with properly fitting, clean clothes, with little Sarah in tow, which made Mrs. Weatherford enormously happy. The people who listened to Grace read at the tube station also continued to come, along with several of their friends and the owners of other bookshops along with their patrons.

  The offer to give space to the other stores had helped not only the booksellers, but inadvertently benefited Primrose Hill Books by keeping their stock from being depleted too quickly. Not only was Simpkin Marshalls no longer able to provide books, but finding a new supplier had been difficult with the paper ration on. What’s more, customers who came in to support other sellers often purchased an item from their shop as well.

  Grace wrote to George about Paternoster Row and how Primrose Hill Books had become such a popular place for readers to linger in discussion of literature. Hearing their conversations made her miss him terribly, to long for the ease with which he so eloquently described books and enticed her with new story plots. He expressed an eagerness to attend the shop upon his next visit to London, which he hoped would be in the next several months.

  I long to be among the familiarity of Primrose Hill Books again, he’d confessed. Where the literary conversations are ubiquitous and a particularly beautiful assistant brings stories to life with her lovely voice.

  It had warmed her heart to read those words. And yet the idea of reading in front of him made her anxious as well, the same as the first time she read aloud in the tube station.

  Viv’s letters had also been brimming with anticipation, especially since her duty station would be shifting to London in several months as she was being considered for a new assignment she couldn’t elaborate on. Her exuberance lit the entirety of the letter and had Grace eager to see her friend once more.

  One rare, quiet morning at the bookshop, Mr. Evans was at the counter tallying up a row of numbers in his ledger. “You told me once I was a good teacher.” He set the pencil in the spine and glanced up at Grace. “Well, I want you to know I’ve learned a good bit from you as well.”

  Grace tossed him a skeptical look and replaced a book from Stephens Booksellers into a gap.

  “Look what your compassion has done.” He indicated the shelves of books designated for other stores. “You give every part of yourself to help others. Not just with what you do with the ARP. But here, with the other booksellers, with the people you read to. Out there, you save lives. In here, you save souls.”

  Heat spread across Grace’s cheeks at such praise. “I think you might be exaggerating.” She murmured her reply, but truly the pleasure of his words ran through her with a glow of warmth.

  Judging from the tender smile on his face, he was well aware.

  Mrs. Nesbitt pushed through the door with her usual air of self-importance. But this time, she didn’t look herself. Gone was the dark macintosh belted at her thin waist and a pillbox hat stabbed through her hair with a wicked hat pin. In their place was a dull green WVS u
niform and cap.

  “Oh come now, don’t look at me as though you’ve never seen a woman in a WVS uniform before, Miss Bennett.” Mrs. Nesbitt strode toward her shelf of books, her sensible low-heeled shoes clicking over the floor.

  Grace said nothing as she admired the change Mrs. Weatherford had wrought in Mrs. Nesbitt.

  “I just finished the accounts if you’d like to see.” Mr. Evans lifted the ledger in preparation to show Mrs. Nesbitt the neat row of numbers she typically asked for on her visits.

  “No, thank you,” she replied airily as she lifted a bright yellow children’s book from the shelf. “I only came to collect a few things to bring for the orphanage. Their stock of books is abysmal, truly.” She selected five more, then rattled off their titles to Mr. Evans. “Have these removed from my stock. They’ll be staying with the children.”

  Mr. Evans lifted his bushy brows with incredulity at Grace. “Consider it done.” He pulled the pencil from where it lay nestled in the spine and jotted the titles across the page.

  “Thank you, Mr. Evans,” she replied in a crisp tone.

  “It isn’t me you should be thanking.” He nodded to Grace.

  Mrs. Nesbitt paused before Grace and studied her thoughtfully. Her hard features softened, if only for a moment. “Thank you, Miss Bennett. For everything.”

  With that she lifted her head, haughty once more, and departed from the shop.

  * * *

  The next month flew by in a whirl of activity with Grace’s daily readings growing in popularity along with the bookshop. Where Foyles continued to attract celebrities for their infamous teas, Primrose Hill Books had become distinguished for Grace’s readings and the many discussions about the books afterward as people clustered together to rehash what they’d heard.

  Mrs. Weatherford came every day in her WVS uniform, her sharp gaze picking out any orphans in need of care to tuck under her wing. She had once more resembled the woman she had been, albeit with more threads of silver in her neat hair. The only time Grace had seen Mrs. Weatherford truly upset was when March rolled in with a new item on the ration list: jam. To which she woefully replied, “What’s next? Cheese?”