“Miss Grace Bennett?” the man asked.
“May I help you?”
“I’m Henry Spencer, solicitor with Spencer & Clark.” He smiled at her. “I’d like to have a word with you if I may.”
Grace looked to Mrs. Weatherford, who was standing near enough to have overheard. The older woman made a shooing motion with her hands, indicating Grace should go with the man.
Grace waved him to follow her to the back room and apologized for the cramped space. Not being able to order from Simpkin Marshalls meant they were finally using their stockpile of books. Though many of the boxes had been cleared out, the tidy space was still rather small.
“I generally do not come to the establishment of my clients,” Mr. Spencer said. “However, Mr. Evans was a friend. I wanted to ensure I had a chance to speak with you privately.”
An ache clenched in Grace’s throat.
“Mr. Evans had no family, as you know.” Mr. Spencer reached into his pocket and withdrew several keys. “He has left it all to you. The shop, the flat above it, everything he owned is now yours.”
Grace blinked in surprise. “Me?”
“Yes, Miss Bennett. From what I understand, you’ve made Primrose Hill Books what it is. I’m sure he knew no one would care for it like you.” He handed her the keys and had her sign a document, which she did in a trembling script caused by hands that shook too hard.
She recognized the key to the shop, which was a mirror of her own. “What are these other two for?” she asked.
He indicated the larger one. “This is for the flat. I’m not sure about the other.”
No sooner had he said it than Grace realized she knew exactly what it was for: Mr. Evans’s safe.
She could recall the day he’d shown her those precious books that had been salvaged from Nazi flames. It had been months ago. It felt like it had been a lifetime. And yet, it also seemed like it had been only yesterday. With him imparting his wise words, sharing a greater piece of himself not only with her, but with the world.
The bookshop was now hers, and she found herself more determined than ever to make Primrose Hill Books shine—no longer for herself, but for Mr. Evans.
TWENTY
Grace closed the cover on The Odyssey, one of the books she’d seen Mr. Evans thumb through often when he was alive. And one she now read aloud in the afternoons.
Were it not for the bookshop, the passing of the last month would have been much more difficult to endure.
She had lost herself in books. In the selling of them and the reading of them.
“Are you getting on well, dear?” An older housewife, who always wore a string of pearls at her throat and was called Mrs. Smithwick, put a hand on Grace’s arm.
Grace nodded. The same as she always did when asked how she had been faring. “Reading through the books I know he loved really helps,” she replied honestly. “Thank you.”
“I never thought books that ancient could be so interesting.” Mrs. Smithwick gave a conspiring wink.
“Nor did I.” Grace smiled lightly to herself. “Mr. Evans had loved them all though. I’m glad we’ve given this one a go.”
“Keep reading them all,” Mrs. Smithwick said with encouragement. “And we’ll be here to listen.”
Grace nodded her thanks and set the book behind the counter to ensure it wouldn’t become mixed up with the others. It was one she had taken from the massive bookshelf in Mr. Evans’s flat above the shop.
The pages were worn soft at the edges from the countless times he’d read through them. One corner of the cover was dented and the ink inside had several smears as if he had rested his fingers over a certain passage. It was careworn and precious.
There had been little time to clean out his flat between her running of the shop and her long hours as an ARP Warden at night. The bombs fell with less frequency now, but her efforts were still needed. She’d been too exhausted to do much with Mr. Evans’s effects, let alone prepare the small residence to move in to. Truthfully, she had been glad for the option to stay on with Mrs. Weatherford for a spell longer. Grace didn’t feel strong enough to be on her own just yet.
There had been so much death.
Too much.
Her mother. Colin. Mr. Evans. Mr. Pritchard. All the bombing victims she’d seen in those harrowing months.
There had been so much loss in so little time. It built up inside her like a tidal wave battering at a weakening dam. The more it swelled, the harder Grace worked.
Mrs. Weatherford didn’t like what she saw and commented often on Grace’s worn-down appearance, always shoving food toward her to get her to eat more. But Grace didn’t have an appetite for anything. Not Woolton pie, which they’d taken to calling Le Woolton Pie ever since her date at the Ritz, not even poultry when it could be found.