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CLARA WAS WASHING HER morning dishes when there was a rap at her door.
"Oh, do come in Abigail, it’s open.”
"Pardon Madam Pendleton, it is I, Louie La Monte." The voice said from the outside.
"Oh my yes, come in Monsieur La Monte, I'm sorry, Am I late for our appointment at the library?" She asked while opening her front door.
"No, no, it is gout. My old feet will not wish to take me down and up your hills today. I have the books here in my sac à dos." He said pulling his knapsack from his shoulders.
Monsieur La Monte was a little Frenchman dressed in warm English tweeds that he wore whenever visiting their village. He stated that they kept him from getting the sneezes while crossing the cold English Channel.
He was their French connection trading or selling, what he brought from Paris Street merchants and selling his wares along the coast of England. He was also a wine smuggler. The tax-free items along with the wine were very profitable for their small village. Today, he had a gift of books to add to their new library.
"Please sit Louie, and rest your feet while I pour us some tea,” Clara said reaching for her pot and scones she hadn't put away yet. “Would you care for some honey with your tea? Abigail's husband Anthony brought me a few jars from his brother's farm, it's quite good!"
"You are most kind Clara. I do hope the books are agreeable for your new library. I purchased them from the Bouquinistes-Book Sellers along the Seine River. One never knows what to expect on a daily basis they change from fashion, history, cinema, foreign writers—the list is, as you say, endless!"
Clara knew the book trade along the Seine had been occurring for centuries. The stands sold antiquities books from Pont Marie to the Quai du Louvre, and on the left bank from the Quai de la Tournelle to Quai Voltaire.
Louie told her the Seine is the only river in the world that runs between two bookshelves.
The vendors were a nefarious group working against the Nazis during the war, passing secret messages to the French Resistance. Monsieur La Monte was deeply involved with the underground moving coded transcripts to confuse the Germans. Clara enjoyed his visits, and the stories he could tell. His presence in the village went back long before the war. One couldn't afford such luxury if they had to pay the high taxes on the wares he sold that were brought in from Paris.
Clara still remembered the beautiful bolts of cloth. It brightened the day of a young girl to sew dresses with such fashionable materials. Especially, if it was for her wedding day. She sighed at the memory's and set a plate with scones and jam on the table "I hope you didn't carry that heavy sack of books all the way from Paris?"
"No, no, I had the broad shoulders of my young nephew; he is now going back to London to visit his lady friend. Ah, amour! He said smiling as he patted his gray mustache with a serviette. I do have one more item for you. The proceeds, from the sale of Monsieur Alex's paintings," He handed Clara the envelope he took from his suit pocket.
"Oh, dear, I almost forgot. Alex left two more.” Clara walked over to her chair where a tube was leaning against it and placed it on the table. La Monte, wiped his hands and carefully removed the canvases and unrolled them. Clara put her hands on the corners to keep them flat.
"Magnifique! He is talented, the others sold so quickly, I believe these are far better. Don't you agree?"
Monsieur La Monte had been Alex's agent since the end of the war exhibiting his paintings at galleries in Paris. Now with the improved economy, his sales picked up considerably. He was taught by his mother.
Clara knew his parents, especially his mother. She was a painter living in Vienna, Austria when she and her husband discovered Clovelly.
She and Alex spent part of their summer in a small cottage across the street where she set up a studio.
Alex lived alone in the cottage now. His mother and father were Jewish, and while Alex was away at school in America, his parents were in Vienna and disappeared into a concentration camp. Her sad thoughts were interrupted when Louie repeated. "Don't you agree, Clara?"
"Yes, indeed, his colors are so vibrant. You should have no trouble selling this lot!"
* * *
AFTER HER FRIEND, LOUIE left it started to rain, her trip down the steep hill to the library would have to wait. It was located in a small cottage overlooking the bay. Evelyn donated it after her husband passed. He used it to store fishing gear. Clara was so pleased it was being used not only by the children but other members of the community. That's why they needed more books, on a variety of subjects. Recently, they received a set of encyclopedias. They were taken out so often the library committee decided to keep them in-house, and Charle built a small reading table that fit perfectly in a cozy corner next to the potbelly stove. He was their village carpenter, keeping the old cottages in tip-top condition.
It amazed Clara how ambulatory Charlie was after losing his leg during the battle of Monte Cassino. He told everyone, his leg was lost in Italy, but his life was saved on a humanitarian Scottish hospital ship by an Italian doctor. What a small world we live in Clara thought as she started to sort the books out and catalog them.
It is good to have something to do on such a rainy day.
She paused for a moment to look at what she wrote down and picked up the book again. The title was familiar.
Of course, Sophie, it's my middle name, but there was something more about the book. The author's name was DuPont. Clara read the description on the book jacket. It depicted a love affair between a soldier, and a girl called Sophie. She nursed him after the battle of the Somme during World War One.
Clara lost her husband during that time, perhaps that's what stirred her curiosity about the book. Also, it was written in French. Nevertheless, that was not a problem. She learned the language while attending Girton College. Her husband Lance spoke it fluently and taught it to his students. She missed the times when they would spend the day chatting in French only. She sighed and turned to the first page.
* * *
IT WAS MIDNIGHT WHEN she set the book down. She was very unsettled and convinced it was written by her late husband, Lance.
Was he still alive?