“I’m delighted for you, my dear.”
Betty gave a happy sigh. “It’s just marvelous to find someone who loves the same things you do, isn’t it? Barnaby and I—”
“Oh, it’s Barnaby now, is it?”
Betty looked coy. “Well, Mr. Salmon is a bit formal, isn’t it? It’s not the 1900s. We were just saying how we can’t think of anything better than bookselling. It really is a salve to the soul. I mean, take P. G. Wodehouse. The fascists take over Europe, and he creates Roderick Spode to make them look like nincompoops.”
As Gertie listened to Betty expound her theory on how every author from Charlotte Brontë to Charles Dickens had improved life, an idea crept into her mind. Betty and Barnaby were the new generation. They had the passion that she so dearly lacked these days. Maybe it was time to hand over the mantle like Mr. Piddock had done with his business.
Gertie had been mulling this idea over the past few months, but now it seemed obvious. It was time to move on, to move away even. She rather fancied Rye or perhaps Hastings. She was approaching sixty, and despite what Mr. Chamberlain said, it looked as if the country could well be on the path to war again. Gertie wanted to be tucked up safely away from London by the time anything happened. She couldn’t face another war in London. She wasn’t sure if she could face another war full stop. Most of all, she wanted to escape the constant reminder that Harry was gone and the painful reality of a life without him.
Chapter 2
The past and the present are within my field of inquiry, but what a man may do in the future is a hard question to answer.
—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Hound of the Baskervilles
Thomas Arnold was something of a character in the book world. At the age of seventy-eight, he still ran Arnold’s Booksellers, declaring himself to be the oldest bookseller in London. He was fit as a flea, putting this down to his daily swim in the Serpentine and the fact that “I had the good sense never to marry.”
Thomas had established Arnold’s with his brother, Arthur, in the previous century, surviving the pitfalls and dramas of the past fifty or so years to emerge as one of the most successful bookshops in the land. He was known for having an explosive temper and a kind heart. The gentleman publishers of London either held him in high regard or viewed him as a blessed nuisance. Writers and artists beat a path to his door in the hope of being invited to one of his legendary literary lunches. Whichever side of the fence you perched, Thomas Arnold was lauded as both a great eccentric and the most astute of businessmen. This was perhaps most succinctly illustrated by the telegram he had sent to Hitler in 1932, asking if he could buy the books he was planning to burn.
“Such a criminal waste!” he had told Gertie and Harry during one of their monthly Sunday promenades around Greenwich Park.
Needless to say, Gertie adored her uncle. Since she’d lost her brother, father, and mother, he was her last living relative and assumed the role with aplomb. Their monthly walks were sacrosanct to Gertie, even more so after Harry died. They would talk business, books, and about the family they missed.
“You do know that if I’d had a daughter, I would have wanted her to be just like you,” he said as they climbed the steep hill to the top of the park, ready to have their efforts rewarded by the astonishing view of London, which unfurled before them like an old master’s canvas.
“You are a dear,” said Gertie, pausing to catch her breath.
“Of course, I’m a miserable old beggar, so I would have made a dreadful father. And then there’s the issue that I can’t stand children. Never have. Never will.”
“You’ve always been lovely to me.”
“Ah, but you’re different, Gertie. You’re a treasure.”
They paused on a park bench to take in the spectacular view, as streaks of golden sunshine framed the skyline to perfection. Beyond the rolling hill, Queen’s House, and the military college, the River Thames stretched its meandering passage toward St. Paul’s Cathedral and beyond. It was as if the entire city were laid out before them. “As Dr. Johnson and I agree, if a man is tired of London, he is tired of life,” said Thomas. “Take note, dear niece. I’d like that epigram on my gravestone.”
“I refuse to discuss your demise,” said Gertie. “You’re the only family I’ve got left.”
Thomas took her hand and kissed it. “Dear heart, I didn’t mean to upset you. Forgive a foolish old man.”
“It’s all right. I’m just a little out of sorts today.”
“What is it, Gertie? You look pale. Are you not sleeping?”
Uncle Thomas was obsessed with sleep. He believed that every man, woman, and child needed exactly eight hours’ sleep every night. No more, no less.
“I’m fine,” she said. “A little tired but no more than usual.” This was a lie, of course, but where was the sense in worrying him about the fact that she often lay awake fretting, her mind twisting in an endless thicket of sorrow? Some nights she would sleep and then wake with a momentary frisson of joy, before rolling over in bed to be confronted with the empty space where Harry had once been. Most mornings, she was relieved that Hemingway was there to give her the impetus to move.
“And business is still brisk?”
“Oh yes. Ticking along nicely.”
“Then what is it, my child?”
Gertie cleared her throat. “I’m thinking of selling the business and moving to the coast. I’m wondering about East Sussex.”
“I see.” Thomas stared toward the river. Gertie was used to her uncle’s raging outbursts and explosive reactions. She braced herself for a storm, but he remained taciturn, eyes fixed forward.
She took a deep breath and continued. “I think it’s time for me to retire. Harry and I ran the shop together, and now that he’s gone, I’m not sure I want to carry on alone. I’d like to be somewhere peaceful. I think Hemingway would enjoy walks on the beach, and of course you could always come to stay. It would do you good to escape London every now and then.”
“Is that what you’re doing then?” asked Thomas. “Escaping London?” He sounded almost hurt.
“I don’t know. I’m weary, Uncle Thomas. And I miss Harry. I don’t know how to live my life without him.” Tears pricked her eyes.
Thomas pulled out a green silk handkerchief and offered it to her. “Oh, my dear girl. I’m sorry. I do understand. It’s merely that I’d miss you. I’m being selfish. Forgive my petulance.”
Gertie accepted the handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “I’d still see you. I can come to London for visits.”
He patted her hand and cast his gaze across the city. “I can’t blame you for wanting to escape London, Gertie. The prospect of another war fills me with dread.”
“Do you think it’s likely?”
Thomas shrugged. “Someone needs to stand up to that madman. It’s shocking what’s happening to the Jews in Germany. Businesses wrecked and looted, synagogues set on fire, men rounded up like animals. It’s monstrous.”
Gertie nodded. “It’s dreadful. I wish there was more I could do to help.”