EMMA HANDED THE copy of Anne of Green Gables to a Class A subscriber. “My daughter loves this book. I’m sure yours will too.”
The woman held it to her chest like a precious treasure to be guarded. “It was one of my favorites.”
Despite the bombs that continued to pummel Nottingham, parents were still bringing their children home from the country. Every time Emma saw another child in the library with their mother or playing in the neighborhood, she physically ached for Olivia.
That sense of loss had manifested in other ways, however, allowing Emma to find exactly the right type of book for children who were returning home and left with too much time on their hands. Her uncanny ability to encourage any child to read had made her popular with the parents and set Miss Crane’s teeth on edge.
As the subscriber walked away, Margaret breezed into the library, her lips painted in Number Seven’s Firefly in a smile that made Emma’s heart break.
A month had passed since Jeffrey’s disappearance, a topic she refused to discuss. She’d swept away inquiries about her wedding with her beringed left hand and an airy laugh about needing just a smidge more time for preparations.
But the exhaustion darkening the area under her eyes told a different story, one of sleepless nights haunted by the pain of grief and regret, the most unforgiving of all specters.
Emma went into the Bespoke Room sometime later and found Margaret staring blankly into space, her posture slumped, lifeless, like a marionette with no puppeteer. She jumped to attention when Emma entered, animatedly brought back as if someone were pulling her strings, a smile crowding onto her face. Too wide. Too bright. Too fake.
Emma sat on the stool next to her friend. The box on the floor at Margaret’s feet had not even been opened, though she’d been in the room for well over an hour.
“Talk to me.” Emma opened the box and carefully began recording the name of each title they’d received.
“Whatever about?” Margaret asked, as if reading a script.
“About how you really are.” Emma looked at her in time to see a flash of pain resonate in her large, dark brown eyes. She reached for Margaret’s hand and found it ice-cold, her fingers more bony than slender, further evidence of the weight she’d lost in the last month.
Taking a page from Mrs. Pickering’s book, Emma set her focus on the box of books and let silence coax the talking.
“He’s not coming back, Emma,” Margaret said softly. “Or at least I have to tell myself that because if he doesn’t...” She shook her head. “His mum thinks he’s coming back. She wanted to keep planning the wedding for after the war, but my heart can’t bear it.” Her voice cracked.
Emma hugged Margaret as she began to cry. The door opened and Miss Crane stepped inside. Emma tightened her arms around her friend, sheltering her from the other woman’s wrath. But Miss Crane’s hard expression unexpectedly softened and she slipped away without a word of reprimand.
There was nothing about Margaret’s position to envy.
Eventually she quieted and the shuddering sobs shifted to the deep, even breathing that so often follows a solid cry.
“It’s good to let it out.” Emma rubbed her friend’s back in small circles, the way she did with Olivia. “You can’t keep that pain inside.”
“I do feel better. A little, at least.” Margaret pulled away from Emma and wiped at her nose with a handkerchief. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to go through this alone.” Emma put a hand on Margaret’s thin shoulder. “We’re all here with you.”
She nodded, and this time the smile she gave—small and watery though it may be—was genuine.
“Take some time, I’ll make your excuses if anyone asks.” Emma gave her another hug, and then left her to her privacy.
Miss Crane and Irene were both occupied with subscribers when Emma exited. The only other patron in the library was Mrs. Chatsworth, who had recently borrowed The Secret Garden, and Emma had found herself looking forward to a good helping of loquacious feedback.
The older woman had her back to Emma, her head down so the bright blue plume of her hat pointed directly at the shelf of books in front of her.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Chatsworth.”
The woman startled and spun around so fast that Pip gave an offended growl at his mistress. “Oh, Miss Taylor.” Spots of color blossomed on her cheeks.
Emma stepped back, both from the irascible little Pip and to give the startled woman space. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Not at all.” Mrs. Chatsworth gave a nervous laugh. “Just looking for books. You know I do love my books. I always have been the most voracious reader...”
There was a frenetic quality to her rambling as she pontificated over the finer points of reading, before finishing with a prompt good-day and hastily took her leave.
Emma remained where she stood, considering the woman’s curious behavior. That’s when she noticed it—a misshelved book in the mystery section. The spine stood out of place among the titles of murder mysteries and espionage, its title printed in simple lettering, reading The Secret Garden.