“Your uncle’s shop was a dusty bit of nothing before you stepped up.” Viv put her hands on her hips. “And something tells me Mrs. Weatherford will strong-arm Mr. Evans into a letter of recommendation in six months if he dares to refuse.”
The image of Mrs. Weatherford haranguing Mr. Evans into submission was almost laughable. “Now there would be a battle of wills.”
“I know who I’d put my money on.” Viv winked. “Let’s go see what she’s accomplished.”
By the time they returned to Britton Street, Mrs. Weatherford was already in the parlor with a cup of tea as the scent of roasting meat filled the air. Yet another delicious meal, no doubt. Mrs. Weatherford had quite the talent in the kitchen, the same as Grace’s mother.
Mrs. Weatherford looked up from her teacup and waved the fog of steam from her glasses. “Ah, there you are. Mr. Evans will pay you a fair wage and would like you to start tomorrow morning promptly at eight.”
Grace slid her low heels off and, without bothering with her slippers, padded onto the thick pile carpet in the parlor. “You mean…？”
A victorious smirk touched Mrs. Weatherford’s lips. “Yes, dear. You are the new assistant at Primrose Hill Books.”
Relief wrestled with trepidation. It was a job, one that would guarantee Grace a livelihood in London. With it, perhaps she could finally put Drayton and her uncle successfully behind her.
“Thank you for speaking with him, Mrs. Weatherford,” Grace said gratefully. “It was so considerate of you.”
“It was my pleasure, dear.” The slight puff to the older woman’s chest indicated that it had indeed been her pleasure to do so.
Grace paused. “Might I ask why it’s called Primrose Hill Books when it isn’t on Primrose Hill?”
Mrs. Weatherford gave a dreamy smile that told Grace the reason was a good one. “Mr. Evans and his wife, God rest her soul, met on Primrose Hill. They propped their backs against the same tree and discovered the other reading the very same book. Can you imagine?” She took a tea cake from the tray and held it pinched between her fingers. “When they opened the shop, they said it was the perfect name for a bookshop they shared. Quite romantic, isn’t it?”
It was almost impossible to imagine the stodgy old shop owner as a young man in love, but the shop name was indeed charming. As was the story. Perhaps working at the store would not be so terrible.
And anyway, it would only be for six months.
THREE
Grace arrived at Primrose Hill Books at ten minutes to eight the next morning with perfect curls and jangling nerves. Viv had helped set her hair the night before and rose early to wish her luck despite her own interview with Harrods not being until that afternoon.
Grace would need all the luck she could get.
Mr. Evans was behind the cluttered counter when Grace entered. He wore a tweed jacket with a collared shirt underneath and didn’t bother to look up at the ding of the bell. “Good morning, Miss Bennett,” he said in a bored drawl.
Grace smiled at him, determined for a fresh start with her best foot forward. Or her other cheek turned, depending on how one looked at it. “Good morning, Mr. Evans. I truly appreciate you giving me the opportunity to work in your shop.”
He lifted his head and regarded her through the thick glass of his spectacles. His wispy white hair and overgrown eyebrows appeared as tamed down as they might ever be. “I don’t need help, but that woman wouldn’t let me be until I finally agreed.” He wagged a stubby finger at her. “And don’t you be locking your heart into this task, Miss Bennett. It’s only for six months.”
Grace’s shoulders relaxed somewhat with her relief. At least he wouldn’t expect her to be at the shop for the rest of her life.
“I won’t become attached,” she answered truthfully. How could she possibly with a place so dusty and desolate?
She scanned the shop and was struck anew with how cramped the space seemed. Shelves were crowded against one another like big teeth in a small mouth amid errant piles of scattered books. All without any sense of rhyme or reason.
At least when Grace had begun at her uncle’s shop, there had been some semblance of order. What was she do with this haphazard chaos?
A sense of hopelessness crept in. After all, where was she even to start? Did Mr. Evans already have expectations he wanted her to meet?
She stood awkwardly in a state of uncertainty with her purse and gas mask box on her shoulder, still wearing her hat. Mr. Evans did not appear to notice as he scrawled a series of numbers into a ledger. The pencil tip was carefully pinched between the pads of his fingertips. One more sharpening and the thing would be nonexistent.