“No one is too old to fight, Gertie, and you are far too young to be giving up.”
Gertie frowned. “Who said I was giving up? I’m merely planning the next step in my life.” Her mind cast back to the conversation earlier with her uncle.
Don’t make any rash decisions you might regret . . .
“Let’s just say I never had Gertie Bingham down as a woman who would sit idle in retirement while the world needed her,” said Charles.
Gertie caught sight of the photograph of her and Harry on their wedding day. They had been giggling when the photographer took the picture. You could see the sparkle in their eyes. They couldn’t wait to get started on their life together. “I’m tired, Charles. I’ve had enough of all this.”
Charles followed her gaze. “You miss him, don’t you?”
Gertie was surprised how quickly the tears formed. “Of course. He was the very best of men.”
Charles took her hand and kissed it. “And you are the very best of women. Which is why I’m asking you to do this.”
Gertie brushed away a tear. “What kind of place is this for a child?”
Charles glanced around the room at the shelves lined with books, the glowing hearth, and the dog, snoring gently at Gertie’s feet. “The very best place I can imagine,” he said. He took another sip of whisky. “All I would ask is that you give it some serious thought. The world is on the brink of something terrible. The question is do we stand by and watch, or do we stand up and help?”
Gertie stared at the fire. She knew he was right, and if she were thirty years younger, she’d have jumped at the chance. But as the world darkened around her, Gertie felt her own existence contract. She didn’t feel strong or capable or stubbornly opinionated as she had in her youth. She was bruised by life and unsure if she had the strength of will to offer hope to anyone, least of all herself.
Chapter 3
You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read.
—Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
“And what did you say your business was, Mr. Higgins?”
The burly man stroked his abundant beard. He reminded Gertie of a bear. “I’m a horticulturalist and seedsman by trade, Mrs. Bingham,” he told her. “But I like to think of myself in broad terms as a naturalist.”
“Ah,” said Gertie. “Like our famous former local resident, Mr. Darwin.” She pulled a copy of On the Origin of Species from the shelf and held it out for him to see.
“Oh yes. A great man,” said Mr. Higgins with a faraway look in his eyes.
“And I suppose you will be selling everything the amateur horticulturalist requires?”
Mr. Higgins’s ruddy face grew serious. “Oh no, dear lady. My real passion is taxidermy.”
“Taxidermy?”
He nodded. “I’m an expert in the art. People are very keen to preserve their deceased pets, you see.”
Hemingway gave an involuntary whine from his prone position behind the counter. “I see,” said Gertie, dearly wishing Harry could hear this. She imagined his eyes twinkling with mischief at the turn the conversation had taken.
“I also sell dry shampoo powder for dogs,” he added cheerfully. “Here, have a free sample.” He pulled a dark brown vial from his pocket and offered it to Gertie.
“Thank you,” said Gertie, accepting the bottle with a rictus grin.
Mr. Higgins touched the brim of his hat. “I best be off. I’ll wait to hear from Miss Crisp, shall I?”
“Yes, if you would be so kind. Thank you for taking the time to call in.”
Gertie exhaled as soon as he left. “Well, that’s certainly food for thought, eh, boy?” she said, glancing down at Hemingway. “I’m not sure what the local residents would make of a taxidermist, but then it took them a while to get used to me.”
This was certainly true. “Bohemian” had been one of the more charitable words Gertie had heard muttered when she and Harry first established Bingham Books. People would eye her with suspicion as if she might at any moment curse them with a spell that would fill their minds with new ideas. It never ceased to amaze Gertie that, despite living less than ten miles from where she grew up, people’s worldview was often as different as if they lived on the moon. They came ’round in the end, but some, like the redoubtable Miss Crow, still gave the shop a wide berth.
Gertie glanced up as the bell above the door rang and an elderly woman entered, using a stick for support. Mrs. Constantine was a poised, dignified lady who reminded Gertie of Queen Mary. She always wore a choker of pearls with her hair swept into an elegant chignon. On spotting Mrs. Constantine, Hemingway made the considerable effort to lift himself to his feet and approach her, tail wagging.
“Ah, my dear Mr. Hemingway. I’ve got a treat for you,” she said, holding out a bag containing some juicy pieces of chicken. “I can’t eat a whole breast on my own, so I like to share it with a friend,” she told him, watching with satisfaction as he devoured the offering in seconds.
“That canine is thoroughly spoiled,” said Gertie.
“He deserves it,” said Mrs. Constantine, “don’t you, Mr. Hemingway?” The dog gave an affirmative bark. “And so clever too. Like Hercule Poirot himself. Which reminds me, has my book arrived, Mrs. Bingham?”
“It has,” said Gertie, retrieving a copy of Appointment with Death from the shelf. “I think you’ll enjoy this one. I thought it was better than Death on the Nile.”
“High praise indeed, my dear,” said Mrs. Constantine, holding up the book to admire. “Such a fine writer. She always keeps me guessing. I’ve never got it right once!”
Gertie smiled. Mrs. Constantine was one of the customers she would miss. She had moved to the area alone nearly twenty years ago. There was a rumor that she had been a member of the Russian aristocracy, forced to flee Moscow following the revolution. Gertie always thought that hers would be a story she’d love to read. “That’s the mark of an excellent crime writer,” she said.
“It was your dear Harry who put me onto the great Mrs. Christie in the first place,” said Mrs. Constantine.
“He had a knack for matching readers with the perfect book,” said Gertie, eyes glittering at the memory.
The old lady studied her face. “How long has it been, my dear?”
Some people would have found this question meddlesome, but Gertie had known Mrs. Constantine long enough to realize that it came from a place of heartfelt concern. “Two years. It’s a long time.”
Mrs. Constantine shook her head. “That’s a matter of minutes when you have loved and lost. Trust me, I know this. We women have many crosses to bear. Don’t bear them too heavily, my dear.”
Gertie knew she was right. Still, grief haunted her like the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future combined, and she had no idea how to banish it.
On the stroke of 11:30, the bell above the door signaled the arrival of Miss Alfreda Crisp. Gertie liked Miss Crisp. She was a young, ambitious woman whose father had established his estate agency business shortly before the war, when his wife was expecting their first child. He then found himself in the inconvenient position of having a succession of daughters. Undeterred, Crisp and Daughters became one of the foremost estate and letting agents in the area, staffed by the amiable Mr. Crisp and three of his five girls. Alfreda was the youngest and had a youthful vigor that Gertie greatly admired. She had vowed to do everything she could to find the right tenants to take over “your splendid bookselling establishment.”