“SHH, SHE’S COMING,” Mrs. Pickering said, letting the curtain flick back over the window.
Emma and Charles exchanged an eager look and shifted toward the front door.
Voices sounded at the front of the tenement house, Mr. Sanderson’s deep one humming in agreement, and the incessant chatter of Olivia’s. Only a week had passed since Olivia returned to school, but between Mr. Sanderson’s generosity in walking her to and from her lessons and the other children being so welcoming, there had been a marked change in Olivia, as though she had actually begun to enjoy her classes. Well, most of them anyway. Especially with Mr. Sanderson’s patient help with her homework in the afternoons while Emma was at work.
Francis limped over and stood by Emma. They were quite a pair—him with his broken leg and Emma with her ankle still bound from her injury.
The voices were in the stairwell now, louder, and Tubby ran back and forth between everyone in Mrs. Pickering’s flat, a live wire of excitement.
Charles opened the door and they all shouted, “Happy birthday!”
“And happy birthday to you too,” Olivia sang out to Charles. She’d been delighted to learn he shared her birthday.
And she’d been absolutely overjoyed when Charles asked how she felt about him marrying Emma.
Olivia peered up at Charles now. “How old are you?”
“Oh, Olive,” Emma chided gently. “You shouldn’t ask such things.”
But Charles didn’t seem to mind and rubbed Olivia’s head, tousling her hair. “Old enough to have cake for lunch.”
“There’s cake?” Olivia squealed and ran inside with an overly excited Tubby darting after her.
“Come on in, Mr. Sanderson.” Mrs. Pickering waved him inside.
“Did you know Mr. Sanderson is an excellent reader?” Olivia asked, settling into a kitchen chair, her eyes fixed on the cake with a single candle thrust in the frosted center.
“Oh, is he?” Emma slid a glance at Mr. Sanderson, who simply shrugged.
“I asked him to look at the paper I’d written and he said the best way to know if it was good was to read it out loud,” Olivia replied. “So he did. He was so good at it, I asked if he’d read to me sometime, the way you did with Anne of Green Gables, Mum.”
“I told her I would as long as she had good marks in school,” Mr. Sanderson added.
“Including maths.” Olivia scowled and dramatically folded her arms over her chest. “But he did say he thinks I would like Shakespeare and he’d start with that.”
“Shakespeare?” Emma cast a questioning glance at Mr. Sanderson, recalling tales of murder, vengeance and inappropriately licentious humor. “Isn’t that a bit mature?”
Before Mr. Sanderson could speak, Olivia did so for him. “Mr. Sanderson says that we children are a tough lot because we’ve grown up in a war, and that Shakespeare will teach us the things we bloody well need to learn.”
Emma gasped at the foul language coming out of her daughter’s mouth.
But Mrs. Pickering erupted into laughter, setting them all off joining in her mirth.
All except Emma. “Olivia!”
For her part, Olivia at least had the good grace to look ashamed and slapped a hand over her mouth.
Mrs. Pickering grinned at Emma. “Oh, come now, they all do it at some point.”
“And some of us need to mind what we say in front of impressionable ears.” Mr. Sanderson grimaced before shooting Emma an apologetic smile.
In that past week she’d seen him more animated than in all the years she’d known him, as if he’d been brought back to life by his time with Olivia. Emma joined in the laughter, shaking her head.
“Now, what will your wish be?” she asked Olivia, intentionally swaying the topic from inappropriate words and Shakespeare.
On cue, Mrs. Pickering rushed forward with a match and lit the candle.
Olivia bit her bottom lip, her eyes lifting toward the ceiling in thought. “I’m already home,” she said to herself. “And I’ll have a new papa soon.” She threw Charles a smile, who tossed one right back. “I think... I need a new red jumper.” Then she blew out the candle, reducing the flame to a gray wisp of smoke.
“Best dust off those knitting needles, Emma,” Mrs. Pickering teased.
“What about you?” Olivia asked Charles. “You need to make a wish too.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I know just what to wish for.”
Mrs. Pickering lit the withered black wick once more.
Charles looked at the candle. “I wish I owned a bookshop that I could fill to the brim with every book we love, and I wish to run it with Emma as my wife so she can be married and still work with readers as she so enjoys.”
Then he blew out the candle and sat upright, patting at his hip with a look of confusion on his face. “What’s this?”
“Your pocket, your pocket,” Olivia squealed.
Suddenly Emma realized that even though Olivia hadn’t known about the surprise cake, there might have been something of a rehearsal between the two of them for this birthday wish exchange.
“There is indeed something in my pocket.” Charles dug his hand into his pocket and produced a set of keys. “I guess my wish is already underway.”
Emma gasped. “Did you really buy a bookshop?”
He shook his head. “Not fully yet.” He got to his feet and set the keys in her palm, still warm from where they’d been cradled in his pocket. “It’s just a building right now. Something to clean up and design as we like. I had some money put aside from my days at Essex & Sutherland and have been living with Mum and Dad until my brothers come home so they won’t be lonely. There’s nothing I’d love more than to put it to use in a venture we embark on together, one centered around the books that brought us together. Especially when I know how much you love working at the Booklover’s Library and regret that you’d have to give that up to marry me. This lets you have it all.”
Emma’s heart swelled in her chest. For this man who knew her so completely, who went to such extremes to make her happy. “But it’s your birthday. You should be receiving gifts, not me.”
“Seeing how happy you are is all the gift I need.” He gazed at her in the way men do when truly, deeply in love, and heat rushed in Emma’s veins.
“What will we name it?” Emma asked, her mind spinning with all the possible ways they could design their bookshop.
“I thought I’d leave that to you.”
Emma touched a finger to her chin. “Then I have a lot of options to consider.”
A week later during her shift at the Booklover’s Library, a familiar figure caught Emma’s attention as Mrs. Chatsworth left the checkout desk with a book in hand. But she didn’t depart the lending library with her new item and instead continued to peruse the shelves. How curious.
Emma slipped into the Bespoke Room, leaving the door cracked just wide enough to watch the woman.
Mrs. Chatsworth went to an area of the library where there was no one else and looked about surreptitiously. The only other employee on the floor was Irene, who was occupied with another subscriber.
Mrs. Chatsworth reached toward Pip, going under the little blue pillow he sat upon, and drew out a book. Still looking about, not mindful at all where she inserted it, she pushed the book into a row on the bookshelf, and grabbed another which she hastily slipped under Pip’s pillow.
The swap happened in only a few seconds.
Clearly, this had been going on for some time.
Emma had at last uncovered the mystery of the misshelved books. She quickly entered the library floor and approached Mrs. Chatsworth.
“Oh, goodness, you startled me with how quiet you are.” Mrs. Chatsworth put a hand to her chest and chuckled.
“I know.”
Mrs. Chatsworth blinked her stubby little lashes. “I beg your pardon?”
“What’s under Pip’s pillow?” Emma indicated the dog, earning her an indignant growl from the ever-irascible Pip. “I know what’s there. And I know you’ve been doing this for some time now.”
“I...well...erm...that is...”
For once, Mrs. Chatsworth was entirely out of words.
She paused, sighed, then started again. “A subscription for two books is beyond my means, but I read them so fast, I need a fresh book for when I’m done with the first.” Concern pulled her brows together. “I won’t be losing my membership over this, will I?”
Her words took Emma aback. In truth, she hadn’t considered what would happen with Mrs. Chatsworth, only that the mystery of the misshelved books—and occasional missing books—had finally been solved.
Mrs. Chatsworth took Emma’s silence as confirmation of her terminated membership. “Please.” Her shoulders sagged. “My husband left me several years ago. I don’t have anyone else in my life but Pip.” She looked down at the little dog, who had readily fallen asleep once more on his pillow. “I take two books at once because, well, because I know coming here takes you from other subscribers because...” She shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, I talk too much. I know I do. I heard Miss Crane mention it once to another subscriber, saying I needed my own employee just to listen to my stories. I don’t mean to be so voluable, truly. I just...that is... I’m lonely.” She swallowed, her expression pained. “I suppose that’s terribly pathetic.”
Suddenly Emma was grateful for the many times she’d listened to Mrs. Chatsworth rather than trying to rush her from the library. “I enjoy hearing what you think of books you’ve read,” Emma said.
Mrs. Chatsworth blinked in apparent surprise. “I’m sorry?”
“You always have such lovely insights into what the author wrote.” Emma smiled at her. “We’re happy to have you here, Mrs. Chatsworth. Please know you needn’t worry about coming in too often to select new books. We would rather see you and Pip more often than have you feel like you need to secret an extra book home.”
Mrs. Chatsworth gave a tentative smile in return. “Truly?”
“Yes, of course. And I think if you’re willing to simply come in more often, and not subject Pip to the discomfort of hidden books, then perhaps we can forget this ever happened.”
“I would like that very much.” Mrs. Chatsworth tilted her head graciously.
Emma held out her hand for the book.
Mrs. Chatsworth withdrew The Mask of Dimitrios from beneath Pip’s bedding with a sheepish grin. “Do you mind holding this for me?”
Emma accepted the book. “Not at all.”
“Then I’ll see you in two days.” And with a jaunty swirl of her hat’s feather, Mrs. Chatsworth turned to exit the library with only one book—properly checked out—in hand.
As she departed, she shifted around someone. A soldier.
He strode into the library with a slight limp and looked around the room, as if searching for someone. There was an unnatural leanness to his face and his uniform hung loose on his thin frame.
Emma approached him, intending to help, when recognition dawned and she gaped in shock.
“Is Margaret here?” He glanced around the library. “Miss Avory, I mean. I...”
Just then, the Bespoke Room door opened and Margaret emerged then abruptly stopped.
The book in her hands thudded to the floor and she put her hands over her mouth. “Jeffrey?”
“Margaret.” His voice was husky with emotion, and he reached her in three long strides, pulling her into his arms.
Margaret touched his face, her eyes searching his, and Emma knew she was afraid to trust that this was real. That he was real.
“I thought you were dead,” Margaret whispered. “That I’d never see you again.”
“Captured.” Jeffrey stroked her hair, her cheek. “I thought of you every day. I think it’s what kept me alive until I could escape.”
Irene stood beside Emma, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief as Miss Crane approached with Miss Bainbridge following behind her.
Jeffrey pulled Margaret to him and kissed her. It was a hungry, desperate kiss, the kind one reads about in books, filled with passion and promise and love amid the harrowing landscape of war.
Like what Emma had shared with Charles after Coventry.
“This is unacceptable,” Miss Crane hissed. “In the middle of the library.”
“Oh, do hush, Miss Crane,” Miss Bainbridge snapped. “We could all use a little joy these days. Even you.”
And they truly did all need a little joy in the darkness of war. Whether through the return of a loved one, like Olivia and Jeffrey, or finding a new love, like with Charles. Or even in the discovery of an unexpected friend or a riveting new novel, both of which were to be found within the Booklover’s Library.
For so long, Emma had resisted the urge to ask others for help, or even to accept it when offered. For so long, she had always told herself it was just her and Olivia, the two of them against the world.
But really, they weren’t alone at all. There was also Mr. Sanderson, and Mrs. Pickering, and Charles, and Margaret, and the women of the WVS, and the subscribers and employees of the Booklover’s Library. Theirs was a community built on love and respect and a willingness to help.
That would be how they would all get through this war.
That, and, of course, the occasional distraction of a good book.