If Grace were to leave, Mrs. Weatherford would have no one. And Grace had promised Colin she would look after his mother.
Grace shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Mrs. Weatherford,” Viv guessed.
Grace stared into the depths of her tea, just able to make out the bottom in the dark liquid. “I can’t leave her alone here. And you know I’ve never been daring like you. I’m not cut out for the ATS or any of the other lines of service.”
“You’re more daring than you think.” Viv lifted the rose-painted teacup to her lips and took a small sip.
There it was again—a pinch of guilt.
Not that Viv had intended to cause such a reaction, but Grace knew she wasn’t doing enough for the war effort. And the more they all helped, the sooner it would be over.
A curl of steam rose up in front of Viv as she lowered her cup. “I understand, Grace. Besides, imagine having our room to yourself so you can keep the light on to read at night, instead of having to constantly purchase new torches.”
Grace had to laugh at that. No. 8 size batteries were nearly impossible to locate anymore. It was far easier to purchase a new torch than find the batteries to put in it. After Viv’s confession to being hopelessly bored, Grace had dedicated her afternoons and evenings to her friend. There had been teas, cafés, cinemas and shopping during the day and the programs on the wireless in the evening.
But even as she listened to the broadcasts, Grace’s mind always crept back to whatever story she was in the middle of reading. It made for late nights buried under her covers with her newest book.
Mr. Evans had been correct. Grace had loved Jane Austen and was currently making her way through the author’s entire collection.
“It won’t be the same here without you,” Grace said to her friend.
Viv reached across the table and took Grace’s hand. “I’ll come back here every time I’m on leave.”
“What of your parents?”
“They’ll disapprove, I’m sure.” Viv rolled her eyes and drew her hand back to her teacup. “They’ve already told me I don’t need to bother returning home, and I won’t. I’d much prefer to come here to see you rather than find myself trapped in an eternal lecture on my disappointments.”
“The ATS will be all the better for having you.” Grace sat back in her chair and regarded her friend in a new, proud light. “You’ve always been so brave.”
Viv scoffed humbly at the praise and took a sip of her tea. “I’m only sorry we won’t get to work at Harrods together. I’ll ensure I put in a good word for you before I leave. How delightful would it be if they gave you my position?”
Grace simply nodded and offered what she hoped was a convincing smile. She didn’t want to work at Harrods. Especially not without Viv.
More than ever, Grace knew without a doubt that she would prefer to continue her employment at the bookshop. Now she need only convince Mr. Evans.
When Grace entered Primrose Hill Books the next morning, she found a large box sitting on the counter. Mr. Evans greeted her as he lifted a stack of books from its depths and set them aside in a neat pile.
In the time it took Grace to deposit her belongings in the back room and return to the front, he’d nearly unpacked the entire container.
“Is that the new shipment from Simpkin’s?” She kept her tone mild, but her nerves made her feel as though she was rattling inside.
He nodded and pulled out three more books.
“There’s less than a week left in my employment here,” she ventured.
“I’m already working on your letter of recommendation,” he said gruffly. “You needn’t worry after it.”
Disappointment punched into her gut. His preparation of the letter made everything so much more solid, real.
Too real.
Before she attempted a different angle, he reached into the box and withdrew a book bound in a length of canvas. He laid it on the counter with reverence and carefully withdrew the cloth.
The book inside was filthy. Dirt left brown smears over the golden yellow cover, and a rust-colored stain seeped from its worn face down into the pages beneath. Grace tilted her head to read the spine.
Quantentheorie des einatomigen idealen Gases by Albert Einstein.
She straightened as a chill prickled over her skin. “Is that German?”
“It is.” Mr. Evans lips tucked together, his brows edging together. “It was saved from the book burning the Nazis did around seven years ago. Foyle has been determined to get his hands on all of them and even made a bid to Hitler himself. Who knows why?” Mr. Evans put his hands over the cover, hovering without touching. “Knowing Foyle, he’d probably stuff them into the sandbags around his shop like he does with the rest of the old books he’s used so callously.”