Grace arrived at Primrose Hill Books at ten minutes to eight the next morning with perfect curls and jangling nerves. Viv had helped set her hair the night before and rose early to wish her luck despite her own interview with Harrods not being until that afternoon.
Grace would need all the luck she could get.
Mr. Evans was behind the cluttered counter when Grace entered. He wore a tweed jacket with a collared shirt underneath and didn’t bother to look up at the ding of the bell. “Good morning, Miss Bennett,” he said in a bored drawl.
Grace smiled at him, determined for a fresh start with her best foot forward. Or her other cheek turned, depending on how one looked at it. “Good morning, Mr. Evans. I truly appreciate you giving me the opportunity to work in your shop.”
He lifted his head and regarded her through the thick glass of his spectacles. His wispy white hair and overgrown eyebrows appeared as tamed down as they might ever be. “I don’t need help, but that woman wouldn’t let me be until I finally agreed.” He wagged a stubby finger at her. “And don’t you be locking your heart into this task, Miss Bennett. It’s only for six months.”
Grace’s shoulders relaxed somewhat with her relief. At least he wouldn’t expect her to be at the shop for the rest of her life.
“I won’t become attached,” she answered truthfully. How could she possibly with a place so dusty and desolate?
She scanned the shop and was struck anew with how cramped the space seemed. Shelves were crowded against one another like big teeth in a small mouth amid errant piles of scattered books. All without any sense of rhyme or reason.
At least when Grace had begun at her uncle’s shop, there had been some semblance of order. What was she do with this haphazard chaos?
A sense of hopelessness crept in. After all, where was she even to start? Did Mr. Evans already have expectations he wanted her to meet?
She stood awkwardly in a state of uncertainty with her purse and gas mask box on her shoulder, still wearing her hat. Mr. Evans did not appear to notice as he scrawled a series of numbers into a ledger. The pencil tip was carefully pinched between the pads of his fingertips. One more sharpening and the thing would be nonexistent.
Grace cleared her throat. “Where am I to set my belongings?”
“Back room,” he muttered as his hand continued to move against the paper.
She glanced to the rear of the store and saw a door, presumably where she was being directed. “Then what would you like me to do?”
The lead of the pencil snapped, and Mr. Evans hissed out an exhale of frustration. He leveled a stare at her. “I told you, I don’t need help. You can sit in the back room and sew or settle into a corner with a book to read or file your nails. I don’t care.”
Grace nodded and slipped down the misaligned aisle of shelving toward the door he’d indicated. Above it was a dingy brass placard with “Primrose Hill Books” engraved at its top and a small line of words beneath—“where readers find love.” Hopefully it was an omen that her six months might not be all bad.
The room was narrow and dimly lit by an uncovered bulb, with a flimsy table and chair. Boxes lined every wall, sometimes layered two and three deep, minimizing the space so that one could barely move. It was far less welcoming than the shop itself, which Grace hadn’t thought possible. She located several hooks on the wall where she hung her effects and went back to the main area of the shop.
She’d never been one for sewing—that was Viv’s area of expertise—and wouldn’t know where to start with which book to read, let alone how to shelve them. A glance at her nails, however, had her lamenting having forgotten her nail file at home.
There was nothing for it but to find something to do. The thick layers of dust on the shelves begged to be wiped clean. Granted, dusting the shop hadn’t been on the list Mr. Evans had recommended, but the shop was in sore need.
Three hours later, nearly choking on dust motes in the air, she regretted her choice. Her white shirtdress with sprigs of pink flowers, one of her favorites, was streaked with grime, and Mr. Evans glared in her direction every time he coughed. Which was quite often.
Through it all, several customers had come and gone. She’d tried to linger near them as she worked, employing considerable care to not send dust clouds in their direction, but still close enough should they require help.
Not that she would know what to do if they asked her a question. Fortunately no one did, at least not until five minutes after Mr. Evans departed to a nearby café for tea.
An older woman in a checked pinafore housedress approached with her gaze fixed on Grace. “Excuse me, do you have The Black Spectacles?”
Grace smiled easily. At least this was a question she could answer. “We don’t carry spectacles here, I’m terribly sorry.”
The woman blinked her wide blue eyes. “It’s a book. By John Dickson Carr. I finished The Crooked Hinge last night and just had to find the next edition in the Gideon Falls series.”
If the earth were to open up at that moment and swallow Grace whole, she’d offer no protest.
She had two book names and a series to work with and no idea where any of them might belong. While cleaning, she’d tried to find some order to the layout of the books, to no avail.
“Oh, of course.” Grace waved for the woman to follow her in the hopes she might somehow have the dumb luck of stumbling upon the book by happenstance. Or be struck by lightning on the way. She’d accept either at that point.
“Did you find The Crooked Hinge exciting?” Grace asked tentatively in an effort to glean what type of book she was seeking.
The woman pressed her palm to her chest. “Oh, it was the best kind of mystery. I locked myself in my bedroom for the last chapter so I could finish it without the children interrupting.”
Ah, yes, a mystery. Maybe there were some located near the back where she was currently leading the woman. “I believe it will be somewhere on this wall.” Grace’s gaze skimmed over the spines of multiple books. None of which were in any order, not by title or name or even color of the book jacket.
“If I may...” A masculine voice spoke from behind Grace.
She leapt in surprise to find a tall man in a finely tailored gray jacket with his black hair combed neatly to the side. She’d noticed him earlier. After all, what woman would not when he was so handsome? But it had been rather a while ago, and she’d assumed he’d already departed.
“I believe it’s on the shelf on the far wall.” He glanced toward the opposite side of the shop.
“Yes, thank you.” Grace’s cheeks burned. No, her whole body burned, flaming with an embarrassment made all the more scorching by the man’s gaze on her. She indicated the woman follow once more. “If you’ll come this way, please.”
“If you don’t mind, miss...” The woman looked pointedly at the handsome man and blushed. “I’d rather he show me.”
His eyebrows went up with surprise, and he gave a rich chuckle. “By all means.” He offered his elbow to the older woman, who took it with a beaming smile.
Grace watched the two with amusement as the gentleman took down a black book with bold red type on the front. The woman thanked him and met Grace at the cash register on the cluttered counter.
“What a gentleman.” The woman patted her reddened cheeks before removing the payment from her purse. “If I were as young and pretty as you, I don’t think I’d let him leave without finding out his name.”
Grace flicked an anxious glance at the man to ensure he hadn’t heard the woman’s statement. He remained facing a shelf several paces away, apparently oblivious. Thank goodness.
The tension in Grace’s shoulders eased somewhat. She counted out the woman’s change, thanked her and handed her the purchased book. The housewife gave her a quick wink and exited the shop, sending the little bell chiming.
When its ring cut off, a heavy silence filled the cramped space. While Grace had been oblivious to the man’s lingering presence in the store earlier, she was keenly aware of it now. If this had been the shop in Drayton, she could offer to assist him, perhaps make a few suggestions. As it was, he appeared to know the store better than she.
She discreetly brushed as much of the lingering dust from her dress as possible and vowed not to wear anything white again until the shop had been thoroughly cleaned. In the end, she opted to tidy the bits and bobs scattered over the counter as she waited for him to make his selections. She found an old cup in one of the cabinets below, where she gathered the pencil nubs, each worn nearly to its end. Next she disposed of the scraps of rubbish, but only after confirming they were not in fact account slips, as the two often looked similar.
The gentleman was standing before the partially cleared off counter when Grace looked up. He smiled at her and met her gaze with the most striking green eyes. There was a slight cleft in his chin, which complemented the sharpness of his jaw nicely and made him as alluring as one of the actors in a cinema production.
Grace’s mind tripped over itself for something fascinating to say and quickly came up empty. “Is there something I can help you with?”
He nudged the stack of books on the counter toward her, books she’d been too lost in his beautiful eyes to notice.
“I’d like to purchase these, please.” He put his hands casually in his pockets and settled into the wide-legged stance of a man intent on conversation. “I’ve never known Mr. Evans to have a shop assistant.”
Grace punched a button on the old National cash register, and its accompanying thwack resounded in the empty shop. “It’s my first day.” She cast him a sheepish glance as she reached for the next book. “It was kind of you to help earlier. Thank you.”
His smile widened and made the smooth skin around his eyes crinkle at the corners. “It’s the least I could do. I’ve been coming regularly since I was a boy. I noticed you’ve cleaned the place up a bit. That’s quite the task to take on.”
“I’m looking forward to the challenge,” Grace replied, realizing the truth behind her words. If nothing else, putting the shop in order would help fill her time over the next six months.
“It will be a challenge indeed.” The man glanced behind him with an exaggerated grimace. “Especially if you’re a book lover. Mysteries could easily be thrillers, classics could easily be love stories, and on and on with all that.”
“I’m not,” she confessed. “A book lover, I mean. I haven’t had much time for books.”
He drew up slightly, almost as though affronted by her admission, though his smile did not waver. “Well, if you were to start with any of them, I’d suggest The Count of Monte Cristo. It’s a classic I’ve always enjoyed.” He tilted his head. “Though it could also be a love story.”
“I’ll take it into consideration.” Grace lifted the last book to ring up. “Thank you for the recommendation.”
He took out his wallet and paid for the books. “May I be so bold as to ask your name?”
“Miss Grace Bennett,” she replied.
“Miss Bennett.” He nodded politely. “I’m George Anderson. I look forward to seeing what you do to the shop.”
She nodded mutely and Mr. Anderson departed, walking backward as he did so to cast her one last devestating grin.
Heavens!
She put her hand to her chest as though she could slow its rapid beat. Just then the chime sounded at the door once more and Mr. Evans filled the shop with his cranky disposition.
His gaze scoured the organized countertop and his furry eyebrows wriggled with apparent consternation. “What the devil happened here? Have we been robbed?”
“I tidied up,” Grace replied.
Mr. Evans scowled and glared around the shop. “That’s why it’s so dusty in here.” He waved in front of him with a folded newspaper as though the air itself issued great offense.
She tensed, waiting for cutting words such as those her uncle had so often thrown at her. In all the years she’d worked for him, from the first day she’d completed the final year offered at the schoolhouse in Drayton until when she’d left for London, he had pointed out, in great detail, all of her many failures. Her work ethic was not on par with what he expected. She wasted product that could still be used. She could have sold more items with her suggestions if she’d been smarter, more intuitive, more driven. Less incompetent.
She clenched her hands into fists and squeezed, bracing herself for the emotional blows on her personal deficiencies.
“I suppose it does need a good scrubbing down,” Mr. Evans grumbled in begrudging acquiescence.
Her fists relaxed. “I beg your pardon?”
“The place is a bit dusty, and I haven’t the time to muddle with it.” He slapped the paper on the countertop and took the stack of receipts, ignoring several that fluttered free. “I’d thank you not to go looking through my accounts.”
“I’d never presume.” Grace bent to retrieve the scraps of receipts and handed them to Mr. Evans, taking care to keep her gaze averted from the neat print.
He tucked them into the pile of papers and disappeared into the little room at the back of the shop. He did not emerge for some time, and when he did, he remained at the rear, sifting through the books, more like a customer than the shop’s owner.
Grace spent the remainder of the afternoon finishing her dusting and polishing the counter. It was really quite nice underneath years of grime, with carved scrollwork at its corners and a lovely chestnut hue. Fortunately, no other patrons sought her help with their selections and her only task with the customers involved gathering their payment.
When at last it was time to take her leave, her announcement to Mr. Evans was met with a grunt of acknowledgment and little else.
Though dirty, exhausted and feeling like she hadn’t done nearly enough, Grace eagerly rushed home in anticipation of hearing how Viv’s interview went.
She flung open the front door upon her arrival. “Viv, did you—?”
The wireless was turned to full volume and a voice crackled throughout the parlor, informing listeners that a fleet had been mobilized.
A fleet of what?
Mrs. Weatherford and Viv sat before the radio, listening intently. Viv shot her a distracted glance and waved her over.
Grace quickly joined her friend on the blue mohair sofa. “What’s going on?” she whispered. “Why is the broadcast on? It’s not six.”
Viv cast her a nervous glance. “News came this afternoon. The reserves have been called. We were informed earlier that we shouldn’t conclude war is inevitable. But how can we not when they’re telling us that fleets are mobilized and all naval reservists and remaining Royal Air Force personnel should report for duty?”
Grace fell back against the couch in stunned shock. How had she heard nothing about this? But then, she’d been in her own world busily cleaning, her mind set to task with determination and her customers few and far between.
The anticipation vibrating in the air now hummed in Grace’s veins. This was it.
War.
Mrs. Weatherford said nothing, her face a stoic mask. She stood abruptly and snapped off the wireless. “That’s about enough for one day.” She drew in a deep breath and turned to Grace. “I trust your first day went well?”
“Yes, thank you,” Grace replied softly.
“Good.” Mrs. Weatherford gave a perfunctory nod. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a kidney pie to prepare or we won’t have a thing for supper.”
Without waiting for another reply, she marched out of the room, her back unnaturally straight.
Viv lowered her voice. “They’re evacuating the children tomorrow. All of them to the country. At least, the ones whose parents signed them up to go.”
The news struck Grace in the chest. Viv was right; how could they not expect war when such measures were being implemented?
Grace thought of the housewife who had been in the store earlier, selecting a book without the knowledge that her children would be leaving the following day. All the mothers of London would be losing their children due to the evacuation. And many of them would also be sending their husbands to war.
If not enough men volunteered, they might be conscripted. Grace’s stomach gave a slight flip.
Colin might be called up.
It was no wonder Mrs. Weatherford had been so disinclined to hear more.
Viv stared down at the carpet, solemn. A knot of fear tightened in Grace’s chest and she fought for some levity, lest they both give in to hopelessness. “The children will be fine as long as they don’t end up with my uncle and his family.”
Viv offered a sad smile as she played along. “Not that he’d offer them a place anyway.”
It was then Grace realized Viv was still wearing her smart navy suit. “Did you have your interview?”
Viv nodded. “I was offered a position as a shopper’s assistant. I start tomorrow, for however long it will last now.”
“It will last quite a while, I’m sure.” Grace squeezed her friend’s hand. “Everyone always needs a pair of stockings or a new blouse to make them feel fine.”
“Or an elephant?” Viv tilted her head.
“Perhaps a wombat?” Grace shrugged.
Viv’s mouth stretched in a ghost of a smile. “Maybe even a cheetah?”
“Don’t forget its lead,” Grace cautioned.
Viv’s expression turned serious. “We’ll make it through this, Grace Bennett. Just you see.”
She clasped her hand over Grace’s, a reminder of the camaraderie they’d shared since childhood. That solidarity had helped them survive the pain of Grace’s mother’s death, the drudgery of life in Drayton, Viv’s overbearing parents and even the incessant teasing of Geoffrey Simmons, the dolt.
Together, they would be able to take on anything thrown at them—whether it be a curmudgeonly shop owner or a coming war.