In truth, only about a quarter of the books in Primrose Hill Books were on display, for those were all she’d been able to sort through. That amount, however, was still considerable in light of Mr. Evans’s massive stock. The remaining inventory was piled in the back room, making it almost impossible to move in the already cramped space, and piled along the second floor, which had been blocked off while she sorted through the mess.
She carried a box down from the small spiral staircase one chilly morning when a ding announced a new customer. Quickly, she set the box aside in an alcove at the foot of the stairs, reattached the “Do Not Enter” sign to the railing and went to the front.
Mr. Pritchard skulked around the entryway, his head tucked low in his large jacket. Behind him, as had now become usual, was Tabby, trotting at his heels.
“Good day, Mr. Pritchard.” Grace smiled at him. “If you’re looking for Mr. Evans, he’s in the back by the history section.”
The older man scrunched his face as he read the signs. “These are new.”
“I put them up a few weeks ago.”
Mr. Pritchard scowled. “I hope they work better for you than this cat does for me.” He slid a glance toward Tabby, who was contentedly cleaning his paws. “The cat would sooner catch a nap than a mouse.”
In response to this, Tabby rubbed one tufted paw over his ear and face.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Grace said. “But he seems quite fond of you.”
“Doesn’t help my mouse problem.” Mr. Pritchard tutted. “It appears you’ve been rather busy, Miss Basset.”
She didn’t bother to correct him on her name as he squinted intently at a sign on the counter. It was one of the suggestions she’d made when speaking to George, stating “Lighten Your Blackout with a Good Book.”
She thought of him often, usually with a twinge of guilt at not having read more of The Count of Monte Cristo. In all of her wayward attempts, she had either been too distracted to concentrate, too tired to stay awake, or even a bit of both. And there it had remained on her bedside table, only several pages into the first chapter.
Except it was also next to a to-do list that seemingly had no end. She was either at the shop working or she was jotting down ideas for advertising or organizing at home. And when she finally did take a moment to catch her breath, it was to fall asleep and start over again the next day.
“I hear business has picked up for this place.” Mr. Pritchard straightened from the sign and peered down at her from his beak of a nose. “Do you think it’s these adverts?”
She lifted her shoulder in a noncommittal shrug, unsure if Mr. Evans would want any information divulged.
Mr. Pritchard stepped closer to her, bringing with him the scent of peppermint and mothballs. “I’ll pay you a shilling more an hour than what you’re currently earning if you come to Pritchard & Potts.”
“Mr. Pritchard.” Mr. Evans appeared behind them.
Before Grace could open her mouth to protest that she wouldn’t work for Mr. Pritchard for a pound more an hour, Mr. Evans continued in an even tone. “If you want to come and look at my shop, you’re welcome. Feel free even to tout your dissatisfaction with the world and make your radical claims about the war.” His blue eyes narrowed behind the thick glass of his spectacles. “But if you mean to come in here to lure away Miss Bennett, I shall ask you to take your leave.”
Elation prickled over Grace’s skin. Her uncle would have never stood up for her in such a manner.
Mr. Pritchard drew upright and clicked his tongue in annoyance, making the white wisps of hair on the top of his head tremble. “She would be better used in a book shop on Paternoster Row, a place far more prestigious than Hosier Lane.” He curled his lips at the last word. With that, he strode from the shop on his spindly legs with Tabby loping after him.
“I wasn’t going to accept,” Grace said.
“I imagine you wouldn’t.” Mr. Evans lowered his head to peer at her over the rims of his spectacles. “You’re already more than two months into your allotted time here.”
His dry wit was one of the things she’d come to appreciate about him over the last several months. She smiled in response. “Are you certain you won’t want me to stay longer?”
He waved his hand dismissively and shuffled toward the counter where he proceeded to go through the ledger she’d assembled several weeks prior. Yet another bit of organizing and tracking of sales and popular titles she’d implimented. He tended to look at it often and comment on the comparison of day-to-day sales.