She showed them to the parlor where the plushness of the blue velvet sofa felt as though it had just been purchased. There was an austere beauty to the room, like a museum full of fragile items you weren’t allowed to touch. Everything was neat and orderly from the freshly polished end table to the many various figurines and scattered pictures of what appeared to be Mrs. Nesbitt as a young woman.
Grace and Mrs. Weatherford both perched awkwardly at the edge of the cushioned sofa, afraid to lean back and leave an imprint in the brushed velvet. Mrs. Nesbitt arrived several minutes later with a tea tray and presented teacups made of a fine bone china so thin, Grace could see the light of the back window through it.
“What can I do for you?” Mrs. Nesbitt asked. “Aside from deplete my tea and sugar rations in a bid to be hospitable.”
Grace detoured the path of her hand from the sugar bowl to her cup, opting to drink her tea plain. “We’d like to offer a space for you at Primrose Hill Books to sell your books. You’ll receive your profit from them, of course, and we’ll ensure people know they are books from your store.”
Mrs. Nesbitt’s brow crinkled upward. “Are you in earnest?”
“Yes.” Grace sipped her tea. It was weak, of course. Most likely the leaves had already been steeped a time or two. Nothing but the best for her unwanted visitors.
To her great surprise, Mrs. Nesbitt’s eyes filled with tears and she looked away. “This is what I deserve for never loving Mr. Nesbitt.” She dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief meant more for decoration than actual purpose. “I only ever married him for the bookshop, to have my father finally take notice of me. To—” She caught herself and regarded Mrs. Weatherford and Grace as if they were interlopers. “Do you not see? God is punishing me.”
“Are you truly so arrogant to assume that God would have London bombed just to take a jab at you for a selfish act?” Mrs. Weatherford heaved a sigh. “Mrs. Nesbitt, I suggest you put some sense into your head and take advantage of a good offer when it’s sent your way.”
Grace nearly choked on her tea.
For Mrs. Nesbitt’s part, she sputtered with indignation. “How dare you come into my house and say such things.”
“Because someone needed to.” Mrs. Weatherford plopped half a spoonful of sugar into her tea. “You need to apologize to Grace and tell her you’ll accept the generous opportunity. Then you’ll prepare yourself to come to the orphanage with me to read.”
“The orphanage?” Mrs. Nesbitt blinked in stunned disbelief. “To read?”
“You did daily readings at your shop, did you not?”
Mrs. Nesbitt slid a glance toward Grace, then lifted her head and sniffed. “Yes.”
“Your schedule appears to be clear, and there are children in sore need of books.” Mrs. Weatherford stirred her tea.
“Well.” Mrs. Nesbitt tossed her head.
Grace and Mrs. Weatherford looked at her expectantly.
Mrs. Nesbitt made a show of slowly adding a bit of sugar to her tea before taking a sip with one pinky elegantly elevated from the slender handle. She set the cup onto its matching saucer with a plink and took a breath.
“I shall take you up on your offer, Miss Bennett.” She stared at the luxurious thick pile carpet underfoot as she spoke. “Thank you.”
“And the orphanage?” Mrs. Weatherford prompted.
Mrs. Nesbitt lifted her gaze. “I’ll prepare to leave once we finish our tea.”
Mrs. Weatherford gave a triumphant smile. “Smashing.”
1940 passed into 1941 without much fanfare on Mrs. Weatherford and Grace’s parts. There was far too much to do otherwise. Over the next month, Mrs. Weatherford had to persuade Mrs. Nesbitt to join her at the orphanage less and less, as she began to go of her own choosing. The shelf designated for Nesbitt’s Fine Reads received much attention, which pleased Mrs. Nesbitt greatly.
She was not the only shopkeeper to have taken Primrose Hill Books up on their beneficence. With so few open buildings available in the bombed-out city, word spread among the booksellers of Paternoster Row, and five additional sellers had a shelf devoted to their store, including Smith’s. Grace fashioned small newspaper birds to adorn their designated space and rotated books from each seller along with Primrose Hill Books’ own stock for her afternoon readings. Soon the customers in the shop were not only those they knew from their own store, but from the other booksellers as well.
Jimmy attended her readings still, the orphan well-fed now and with properly fitting, clean clothes, with little Sarah in tow, which made Mrs. Weatherford enormously happy. The people who listened to Grace read at the tube station also continued to come, along with several of their friends and the owners of other bookshops along with their patrons.