“Oh, aren’t they a darling couple, Maud?”
“Absolutely darling, Vi.”
“And what will your business be, dear hearts?”
“Books,” said Gertie.
“Ah, books. How wonderful. Isn’t that wonderful, Vi?”
“Wonderful,” confirmed Violet.
It was indeed wonderful, as Violet and Maud not only agreed to sign over the lease but also became long-term customers of the Binghams. Gertie always delighted in sending any newly published romances to the two retirees in Suffolk. She imagined the pair of them, happy in a cozy cottage surrounded by a garden filled with the lavender, delphinium, and plump, fragrant roses befitting two devoted romantics.
On the day they opened the doors of their new venture, Gertie inhaled the rich scent of new books, more intoxicating than French champagne, and couldn’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else in the world. Harry took her hand and kissed it.
“Welcome to Bingham Books, my love.”
Part One
London, 1938
Chapter 1
Our deeds still travel with us from afar,
And what we have been makes us what we are.
—George Eliot, Middlemarch
Gertie arrived at the shop early that morning. She didn’t sleep much past five these days. It was a nuisance, but there it was. Hemingway, the mild-mannered yellow Labrador, was at her side as usual. He had become something of a local celebrity since joining their staff four years ago. Gertie noticed that he had the ability to raise a smile from even the most austere of customers, and several mothers had been known to make a detour during shopping trips so that their eager children could pat his bearlike head.
Little had changed in the town of Beechwood since Harry and Gertie first opened the doors of Bingham Books all those years ago. The Tweedy family still ran the bakery, and Mr. Piddock the butcher had retired only last year, handing over his impeccably sharpened knives to his son Harold, who, according to local gossip Miss Crow, left too much sinew in his leg of beef. Gertie glanced along the high street now. Her shoulders dipped at the sight of the honey-colored lettering of Perkins’s Confectioners. Harry had bought a bag of cinder toffee from Mrs. Perkins every week without fail for them to share during evenings beside the radio.
“Come on, Hemingway. Good boy,” said Gertie, ushering the dog inside the shop, grateful as ever for his distracting presence.
The sun’s early rays cast a spotlight through the window, as motes of dust danced and swirled like fireflies. Gertie paused to inhale the exquisite possibility of unopened books as she had done every morning for nearly thirty years. This place had brought her such joy for so long. She and Harry had built something wonderful. Their own world full of ideas and stories. At one stage in her life she thought she’d change the world in some dynamically public way, but she soon realized that she could do the same with books. They were powerful. They forged ideas and inspired history.
That joy was beginning to diminish now, however. She gazed toward the doorway at the back of the shop and imagined Harry standing there, arms full of books, smiling at her. Instinctively she reached down to stroke one of Hemingway’s velvet ears as the memory pinched her heart. The dog stared up at her with mournful eyes.
It had been the medical condition that won Harry his exemption from the Great War that had also caused his death two years ago. Gertie counted herself lucky when Harry was granted exemption on medical grounds, although Miss Crow had not missed the opportunity to dismiss him as a “shirker” to anyone who would listen. If Harry was hurt by these comments, he didn’t show it. His quiet service as a volunteer air-raid warden made Gertie burn with pride. But life has a way of catching up with you eventually, and the respiratory illness, which Harry had endured since childhood, meant that his body wasn’t able to fight the tuberculosis that finally stole his life. Gertie still couldn’t believe it. How could he be gone? They still had so much life to live.
“It’s not the same without him, is it?” said Gertie, her voice seeming too loud in this hallowed space, as if she were bellowing in church. Hemingway sighed in agreement as Gertie brushed away a tear. “Well. No use in dwelling on things you can’t change. Come along. We’re down to our last volume of Wodehouse, and Harry wouldn’t like that one jot.”
By the time Betty, the assistant bookseller she’d employed after Harry died, arrived, Gertie had dusted, tidied, and restocked the shelves ready for opening.
“I must say it looks spick-and-span in here, Mrs. B,” said Betty, shouldering off her coat. “Shall I make us some tea?”
“Thank you, dear. I’m absolutely parched.”
Betty reappeared a short while later carrying two mismatched cups and saucers. “Here we are. By the way, I’m still mulling over next month’s book club title and wondered if you had any thoughts.”
Gertie gave a casual wave of her hand. “I’m sure whatever you decide will be splendid.”
“Well, I’m quite keen on Middlemarch.”
“Good idea,” said Gertie. “I can’t remember the last time we chose a George Eliot novel.”
“Unfortunately Miss Snipp isn’t so sure.”
“Is she campaigning for another Thomas Hardy book by any chance?”
Betty nodded. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn, Mrs. Bingham, because he’s a wonderful writer, but we only read Tess of the d’Urbervilles two months ago, and forgive me for saying this, but some of the members didn’t care for the way Miss Snipp conducted the meeting.”
This didn’t surprise Gertie. Miss Snipp’s communication style could most accurately be described as abrupt bordering on downright rude. When they first met, Gertie had assumed that Miss Snipp simply didn’t like her. However, she soon came to realize that she disliked almost everybody, apart from Harry, but then, everyone had loved Harry. “I see. And what is she proposing you read next?”
“Jude the Obscure.”
Gertie winced. “Heaven help us all.”
“Mr. Reynolds was so upset by what happened to Tess, I’m not sure he could take it.”
“I’ll speak to Miss Snipp.”
Betty exhaled. “I would be grateful, Mrs. Bingham. I’m already concerned about our membership. I know we have our postal members, but last month’s meeting was very poorly attended. Mr. Reynolds said that it used to be standing room only when you and Mr. Bingham were in charge. I don’t want to let you down.”
Gertie gave her a reassuring smile. “Oh, Betty. You’re not letting me down. The world has changed and people are all rather distracted at the moment. I’ll speak to Miss Snipp, but please, don’t give it a second thought. Bingham’s Book Club is the least of our worries.” Gertie couldn’t say what she really felt: that her world had changed and she was rather distracted, and the book club was the least of her worries because she couldn’t bring herself to think about it. She hadn’t attended a single meeting since Harry died. In fact, Gertie had intentionally absented herself because of the simple fact that she couldn’t bear to attend without him.
They had set up Bingham’s Book Club together and run it as a partnership, relishing the monthly challenge of selecting the perfect book and chairing the most stimulating discussions. Mr. Reynolds had been right. People had traveled from the surrounding towns to take part. They had even attracted authors who were willing to come and discuss their works, achieving something of a literary coup when Dorothy L. Sayers agreed to attend what turned out to be a particularly lively meeting.