THE NIGHT SWEPT Emma away as she tipped into the story that had always been the cornerstone of literature for her. Emma’s protagonist was a young woman who’d grown up without a mother, with a father who bestowed every affection upon her. Was it any wonder such a heroine had appealed so greatly to a young Emmaline?
The book was an altogether different read now, through the lens of a parent rather than a girl. The fascination of her new understanding of the tale combined with the familiarity of a story Emma could once recite by heart, kept her turning the pages until her eyes could no longer remain open.
Which had been the precise goal—to be so tired she wouldn’t notice Olivia was not there with her. But when the lights clicked out and the Regency world of Highbury village filled her thoughts, they were crowded out by concern for Olivia.
Was she sleeping well in her new home? Was she terribly lonely? Perhaps she was given a grand billeting location where the beds were comfortable and she was happy. The latter thought was the one Emma clung to so that sleep could finally claim her.
She woke at her usual time the next morning with gritty eyes and a mental fog of exhaustion. Olivia’s pillow was in her arms, a sad substitute for her daughter.
As Emma readied for work, her thoughts were fixed once more on her daughter. On where in all of England she might be. And for how long.
Emma sucked in a pained breath, the sound audible in the unnatural quiet of the flat. That was the thing—without her daughter, everything was too large, too quiet. Dare she say it...too clean.
There was no trail leading from the front door to the table where Olivia stripped off her shoes and jumper and bag. No errant socks strewn on the chair or shoved between the cushions of the sofa. No dishes flecked with crumbs left on the counter.
Emma had spent much of her life chasing after Olivia’s messiness, and wondering at a house that would one day be neat and orderly when Olivia was older.
Now Emma would give anything to trip over a hastily removed shoe.
The silence, the immaculate flat, the intense absence of Olivia, was more than Emma could bear. She shoved her feet into her shoes and donned her jacket before rushing from the flat, unable to stand another second of loneliness.
She arrived at work nearly an hour early that day.
Miss Bainbridge lifted her brows when Emma entered the small back room for the Booklover’s Library employees. “I told you not to be late, but I didn’t mean you had to arrive quite this early.”
“I needed a distraction.” Emma hung her handbag and gas mask on the hook and swapped out her jacket for the green employee overalls, tying the coat-like covering over her plain yellow dress with care.
Miss Bainbridge lifted a blue teapot into view. “Would you like some tea?”
The scent of brewing tea leaves filled the air, the spiced fragrance humid and pleasant. And with Miss Bainbridge’s mention, Emma acknowledged that she had left the flat in such a hurry, she hadn’t even thought of tea. “Yes, please.”
Miss Bainbridge brought over an extra cup and set it in front of Emma. “I was thinking today would be ideal for you to start on the floor. Not simply organizing as you’ve done, but helping patrons with their selections. Getting to know them, so you can eventually move on to assist the Class A subscribers.”
Being assigned Class A subscribers was what all librarians aspired to at the Booklover’s Library. Emma knew she was being asked onto the floor as a special favor from Miss Bainbridge, another source of diverting Emma from the pain of Olivia’s absence. And Emma was markedly grateful.
Once they’d finished their tea, Miss Bainbridge went to her office and Emma assumed her usual morning routine of dusting and polishing.
Margaret came in not long after the tasks were complete, wearing a larger smile than usual. “Miss Bainbridge says I’m supposed to guide you on the floor today and introduce you to the patrons. Are you ready?” She paused and tsked. “You poor dear, you don’t look like you slept a wink. This will be good for you. Come here.”
She whipped out her trusty compact and dabbed some powder under Emma’s puffy eyes before touching a bit of lipstick on her fingertips and rubbing the waxy substance over Emma’s cheeks, explaining, “It works like rouge in a pinch.” Margaret stepped back and nodded approvingly at her handiwork.
Before the patrons could begin to arrive, Margaret showed Emma how to remain off to the side until a customer seemed to be struggling to find a book. “We’re here to answer questions and offer general suggestions to our Class B subscribers. You can tell who is a Class A by their green tags and Class B by their red ones. Or by the Class A subscriber standing about, waiting to be served.” She rolled her eyes playfully. “You won’t be tasked with this yet, but all Class A subscribers are to be greeted by name and then you are to retrieve their personal notebooks from the Class A desk where they can record the books they wish to borrow.”
The lending library opened and several people began to trickle in, perusing the shelves with interest. A gentleman in a tweed jacket with pads on the elbows walked by, his head cocked thoughtfully as he stopped beside a group of women.
“Good morning, Mr. Beard.” Margaret smiled at him and added in a quiet voice, “He’s a Class A subscriber who likes mysteries, despite his claims.”
“His claims?” Emma asked.
Margaret chuckled. “You’ll see once you deal with him. Just remember, he likes mysteries.”
The man pulled a notepad from his breast pocket, then removed a small pencil from inside, licked the tip and began to write.
“He’s always on with that thing, scribbling furiously like he’s recording our conversations,” she added in the same hushed tone.
“That seems rather rude,” Emma ventured.
Margaret shrugged. “He’s a Class A subscriber. They can’t get away with murder, but they can squeeze by with just about anything else.” She inclined her head toward a middle-aged woman who accepted her journal from Miss Crane and stopped to regard a section of books with a basket slung over one elbow. Inside the basket was a small black Scottie dog curled up on a cushion. “See what I mean?”
“She has her dog with her?”
“Class A subscriber,” Margaret said by way of explanation. “That’s Mrs. Chatsworth and Pip.”
“How can you remember all these names?” But even as Emma asked, she knew precisely from her memories of working at Tower Bookshop. Life had been so much simpler then, when her thoughts weren’t crowded with a mother’s ceaseless worry and an endless list of tasks to be done.
“Remembering all their names is easy. You just play on words.” Margaret’s gaze shifted to the gentleman in the tweed jacket with the notepad. “His name is Mr. Beard, but he doesn’t have a beard.”
Sure enough, despite his thick white hair slicked neatly back with pomade, his face was clean-shaven.
“And the woman with the dog?” Emma asked. “What was her name again?”
“Mrs. Chatsworth.” Margaret smiled indulgently. “Her name is easy to rememer too. You’ll see. Come with me, but don’t say anything.” She strode forward with that enviable confidence. “Good morning, Mrs. Chatsworth.” She turned toward the dog. “And Pip.”
An unfriendly growl emanated from the basket as Pip’s upper lip curled back to reveal a row of sharp teeth.
“He’s so very charming,” Margaret cooed. “Can I help you both with anything today?”
Mrs. Chatsworth tipped her chin with pleasure, making the plum-colored feather in her hat quiver. “Well, I was wondering about a new book I saw in the Class A catalog soon to be coming out, The Mask of Dimitrios...”
What started as an inquiry somehow spiraled into a lamentation about the air raid wardens and their obtuse attitudes toward fashionable window dressings, which quickly became a memory about the Goose Fair back when Mrs. Chatsworth had been a girl. This was followed by a story about the neighbor’s daughter and how children these days were so very undisciplined.
Half an hour crawled by as Mrs. Chatsworth nattered on, affording Margaret a scant moment to issue a polite hum of acknowledgment on extremely rare occasion.
Pip lay his head down five minutes into the one-sided conversation and began to quietly snore.
For Emma’s part, the exhaustion of two nights of poor sleep left her lids feeling heavy and she found herself envying the dog in his little cushioned basket.
As Mrs. Chatsworth lived up to her moniker, Emma’s thoughts drifted where they were wont to go so often these days—to Olivia. How much longer until Emma heard from her daughter?
“I’ll get that for you now.” Margaret’s smile was just as bright and genial as at the start of the conversation and melted away once she and Emma entered the Bespoke Room.
Despite the weight of her worry, Emma couldn’t help but chuckle. “I see why it’s easy to remember Mrs. Chatsworth now.”
Margaret issued an exasperated sigh. “I don’t even think she breathes between sentences.”
They both laughed quietly. Such mirth was a reprieve from Emma’s sadness, no matter how short-lived.
“But truly, she is very kind. I suspect she’s lonely.” Margaret selected the book Mrs. Chatsworth had ordered—since The Mask of Dimitrios was not yet available even to Class A subscribers—and Emma followed her back onto the main floor.
“You can practice on a Class B subscriber, if you like.” Margaret nodded to a young woman in the classics section.
“May I help you find something?” Emma asked.
The woman looked up, blinking with her mink-like lashes and wide doe-brown eyes. “I’m in the mood for a classic, but am not quite sure which one. Something gothic, perhaps. I do prefer female authors as the men can be so disparaging of their heroines. Something thrilling and...” She bit her lip, considering. “Passionate.”
With each description, the mental catalog of books in Emma’s mind filled the request, cycling out ones that no longer matched the woman’s criteria until that last word was uttered.
“How about Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights?” Even as Emma spoke, she knew the book was precisely what the woman sought.
The woman’s eyes lit with excitement. “Oh, I haven’t read that in years. Yes, that sounds perfect.”
Emma pulled the book off the shelf and handed it to the subscriber, who hugged it in her arms like a cherished gift. “I do love rereading books when it’s been a while since I last read them,” she said excitedly as she followed Emma and Margaret to the checkout desk. “Isn’t it remarkable how the same story can be so different depending on when you read it?”
The day before, Emma might not have fully understood what the woman meant. But now, after having spent the entire evening before lost in her rediscovery of Jane Austen’s Emma, the woman’s words struck a special note in Emma’s heart.
“Indeed, it is remarkable,” she replied in earnest.
As the day progressed, Emma found the rhythm of interacting with the customers. Her conversations and suggestions recalled those early memories of working alongside Papa at Tower Bookshop in a way that felt like puzzle pieces fitting into place amid the chaotic jumble of her life.
The familiarity of handling readers brought a connection to her father she hadn’t experienced in far too long.
Miss Crane approached Emma, her face set in its usual pinch-lipped scowl. “I’d like to speak with you in the Bespoke Room immediately.”
She didn’t say anything until the door to the room was closed, sealing them off from customers. “The Death of the Heart was in the mystery section.”
Emma hadn’t even seen The Death of the Heart while returning the books to their shelves earlier. “I didn’t—”
“I know the title does sound like a mystery, but it is not.” There was not a shred of patience to Miss Crane’s tone.
Though Emma was well aware the book was not a mystery, she simply nodded.
“We cannot incorrectly shelve books, Miss Taylor.” Miss Crane folded her arms over her chest and straightened an inch taller, as if making Emma feel small were not enough. “This isn’t some basement lending library like W. H. Smith’s or Mudie’s. We are an elite lending library and following a strict set of guidelines is how we set ourselves apart. We are Boots’ Booklover’s Library.” The last part was hissed.
“It won’t happen again,” Emma said by way of apology.
Apparently her acquiescence was sufficient to placate Miss Crane, who gave a quiet scoff as she turned away and left the room.
At home later that afternoon, there was still no letter from Olivia. Emma sagged back against the wall with disappointment. Her gaze fell on the ball of red yarn and the old pair of knitting needles she’d procured from a knitting box abandoned long ago. So much time had passed since her last attempts at the endeavor, she couldn’t recall where to start.
Likely Mrs. Pickering would know. She might even have a design for the jumper. Emma plucked the ball and needles from the counter and exited her flat in search of Mrs. Pickering.
On the way downstairs, Emma nearly ran headlong into Mr. Sanderson, who simply gave a grunt at her hasty apology.
Emma hesitated. “Did you receive a letter for me perchance?”
Mr. Sanderson lifted a steely gray brow.
“Olivia has been sent to the country for her safety. I know it’s a bit soon, but I’d hoped maybe a letter arrived letting me know where she is. Where I can write to her.”
Mr. Sanderson’s brow crinkled, etching the grooved lines in his skin even deeper. “You sent her away?”
The response was so disarming that Emma could only stammer her reply. “For her own safety, with all of Nottingham’s factories... I did it for her.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, but whatever emotion passed there was gone in an instant, buried under his usual glower. “I didn’t receive no letter.”
Emma thanked him all the same as he brushed past her on his way up the stairs. Seconds later, she was being welcomed into Mrs. Pickering’s crowded flat.
“What is this?” The landlady indicated the yarn.
“I want to make a jumper, but it’s been so long since I last knitted, I don’t know where to start. It’s for Olivia. They didn’t have the jumper I know she wanted at Woolworths—I should have bought it when I first saw it...” Emma was rambling, her pain coming out in the rush of an overly long explanation. “I want her to have something special because...”
Her words choked off.
Because she missed her. She loved her. She wanted her daughter home desperately even though she’d really only just left. The flat wasn’t the only thing altered without Olivia. Life was not the same.
Mrs. Pickering put her hand on Emma’s shoulder. “We’ll sort it out, dear.” She welcomed Emma inside amid Tubby’s excited yips and closed the door. “And your timing couldn’t be better. I’ve just put the kettle on.”
The boxes, trunks and random pieces of furniture still cluttered every available space within. Mrs. Pickering considered the bookshelf, then shook her head, and went to a chest of drawers that she had to squeeze around a stack of boxes to get to. “I have a pattern here somewhere,” she mused to herself.
Emma saw to the tea while Mrs. Pickering unearthed a pattern exactly like what Emma was looking for.
Together they sat down on the sofa with their tea, and under the landlady’s careful guidance, Emma began knitting Olivia’s jumper.
The lovely diversion lasted an hour or so, with each stitch becoming easier and easier. Perhaps life without Olivia would be that way as well. Hard at first, but more bearable as Emma pressed on.
At least, she could only hope. For now, despite the entertainment of friends and books and—yes—even knitting, the ache of missing her daughter seemed impossibly painful.