Grace froze, hands splayed on her cheeks, eyes wide. “I…I beg your pardon?” she stammered.
“I wasn’t intending to listen, but the two of you were rather loud.” Mr. Evans emerged from the other side of the shop, his arms folded over the chest of his dun-colored pullover.
She straightened quickly, dropping her hands.
Mr. Evans glanced at the pile of books they’d managed to accumulate. “You could do worse than the likes of George Anderson. He’s an engineer and most likely won’t be called up to war. But then again, he’s also just the sort of bloke who will volunteer regardless.”
The reminder of war was jarring. For that one brief moment, she had forgotten about it. As though the world had, for the span of a blink, been once more blissfully normal.
Except that it wasn’t. There were barrage balloons in the air outside to ward off bombers and children who had been carted to the country to live with strangers. Men were leaving and may never return, and at any moment, Hitler could drop his bombs.
It was like waking from a dream and realizing you were in the onset of a nightmare.
Somewhere outside, a cloud passed over the sun and cast a shadow of gray over the shop.
“I only hope you won’t be foolish about this nonsense with Mr. Anderson.” Mr. Evans gave her a stern look, the way one’s father might. “Every girl is rushing to marry before the men can be sent off to war.” His mouth flattened in a chastising gesture. “Keep your head about you.”
Grace suppressed the urge to squirm where she stood. Was he truly giving her relationship advice? “I don’t plan to wed anytime soon,” she replied slowly.
He grunted, though she couldn’t tell if that meant he believed her or not, and disappeared down the aisle. As the afternoon went on, Grace found only two more books from the list he’d given her, a search that was decidedly less enjoyable without Mr. Anderson.
When it was finally time for her to leave for the day, it wasn’t Britton Street she headed for. No, this time she was determined to find her way to Paternoster Row to see how the rest of London touted her bookshops.
SIX
All throughout Paternoster Row, wide windows peeked out from multiple shops, showcasing the books being sold within. Gilt letters adorned the glass with store names while painted posters advertised sale prices meant to lure in customers with a bargain. The front displays varied from those that were artfully arranged to piles of books stacked in no particular order, all but blocking the interior. If nothing else, perhaps the latter didn’t require blackout curtains. After all, who needed three layers of fabric when one had stacks of books five deep?
Grace strode along the raised pavement of the narrow street, pressing close to the tall buildings to avoid the black-painted bollards meant to keep vehicles from edging onto the walkway.
Between the shops, vendors were scattered about with their wheeled carts, selling everything from lemonade to sandwiches, and the greasy scent of fish and chips lingered in the air.
She had been admiring the artfully arranged display of F. G. Longman’s large square windows when a familiar face caught her attention. Standing in the doorway of a store on the opposite side of the street was a wide-shouldered, beak-nosed man with skinny legs and a tabby cat close at his heels.
Mr. Pritchard.
Before she could worry that he might spot her, he turned abruptly and disappeared inside a shop, Pritchard & Potts, pausing only to hold the door for Tabby to slip in behind him. The name of his establishment had been painted in a bold hand on the window that had nothing but blackness on the other side.
Tar.
Grace suddenly found herself grateful for Mrs. Weatherford’s overabundance of dark fabric and the fine curtains she’d been able to make for Primrose Hill Books.
Lining the front of Pritchard & Potts were large bins filled with books so tossed about, they weren’t even in proper stacks. Grace could only imagine the interior of the shop was just as bad.
Perhaps even worse than Mr. Evans’s shop.
She suppressed a shudder and continued down Paternoster Row. One particular storefront was painted a beautiful eye-catching red. Its large glass windows exhibited a neat arrangement of only a few choice books. The name “Nesbitt’s Fine Reads” was proudly presented in a curling script of shimmering gold and glossy black.
While Primrose Hill Books may never reach the pinnacle of such grandeur, Grace was determined to glean what she could. While bearing in mind what Mr. Anderson had said of it, of course.
She pushed into the store and immediately noted how easily the door gave on its well-oiled hinges. A delicate tinkle above her head welcomed her.