Page 8 of The Undercover Bookshop

His chest puffs out, and I know my idea is a good one. While I’m not sure Mr. Bantry is a reader, his delighted reaction lets me know he’d like to be one. Or at least he’s curious.

“If you both come to the store, I’ll share with you some of my favorites. I know we can find something you’ll both enjoy.”

“We’ll be there. Right away.” He nods to me, to his wife, then shifts his weight back to his own table.

“Well done,” Peggy whispers across to me.

I nod in understanding. It’s the way with many families here. The economy has shifted since the war, and niceties like sugar, books, new clothes, and good tea are the things one saves for and savors. While growth and reconstruction are churning at a pace in the cities, farming communities still reel from lower demand, less surety, and the loss of the wartime infrastructure that kept prices stable and rising until V-E Day. To offer something fun and cheerful, at a low cost, means something in this community, as does what the Oxford Times article stated: the ability to rest and relish a moment’s respite.

“Speaking of customers and good things, guess who I met today and who loves the bookshop idea?”

When I wait, rather than answer my own impossible question, Peggy’s eyes flash with impatience, basically saying “do go on.”

I smirk. “Lady Beatrice.”

“Lady Marchmont?” She balks in alarm. “You didn’t call her that, did you?”

“Of course not,” I fumble. “I didn’t call her anything.”

“Lady Beatrice would be her daughter if she had one. She is Lady Marchmont or Viscountess Marchmont.”

I peek to Freddie, who nods sagely.

“How do you both know that?”

Freddie lifts a brow as if to say, “How do you not?” as Peggy answers me. “When you’ve got a viscountess in your village, you learn fast.” She smiles warmly, and it’s a teensy bit patronizing. “Isn’t she lovely? I’d die for her wardrobe.”

And that sets us off on another conversation, one that’s lengthy, involved, and extremely detailed. After the longest time, we both suddenly search around, locate Freddie across the pub, with no idea of when he left us, wave an apology, and start up again. Lady Marchmont. Christian Dior. Vogue. Eve. Her shoes. Woman’s Weekly. All the fashions and all the style magazines. Peggy’s knowledge of and interest in them almost matches my own.

At a lull she taps the book I set on the table between us. “What’s this?”

“My first book sold. To me. For you. And your first Agatha Christie. I almost envy you.” I slide the book towards her. “You get to meet Hercule Poirot for the first time, delight in his quirky habits, and revel in the brilliance of his ‘little grey cells.’ And you get to ponder his relationship with the fairly hapless Hastings. But don’t spend too much time on that. Hastings can be tedious. No capable Dr. Watson sidekick, that one.”

She picks up the novel and pages through it. “You didn’t need to do this.”

“I wanted to. I wanted to thank you.” She looks up. I look down. “You’ve been a good friend.”

Her hand taps mine. “So have you, and that’s my thanks for that. I’ll pay you back.”

“Please don’t.” My head lifts so fast my focus takes an instant to catch up. “Pay me back by reading fast so we can talk about it. But don’t actually pay for the book.”

I’m not sure why it means so much to me, but it does. I want to give a gift, a token of friendship and gratitude. I haven’t had the opportunity to do that in a very long time.

“Thank you.” Peggy nods with what I take for understanding but know it can’t be. How could anyone truly understand? “I’ll read it as quickly as I can.”

She slides the book into the canvas bag at her feet, and our conversation picks up again, as jovial as before, about everything and nothing at all. We’re deep into Peggy’s talk of finalizing the committees at church when she tilts her chin across the pub to the front door.

I follow her gaze to a tall, willowy man with thick brown hair and equally thick dark brows. He appears to be in his early to mid-forties. His hair is grey at the temples, and he moves into the room on crutches. “Who is that?”

“Len Beurton.” Peggy takes a sip of her sherry. “He’s married to Ursula Beurton.”

“I haven’t seen her since she came into the store the day you and I met.”

“I told you.” One corner of Peggy’s mouth lifts in a sardonic curl. Her eyes remain fixed across the room. “She doesn’t shop, socialize, or join any committees in Great Rollright, and he rarely comes out at all. Both are dark horses, really. I wonder what he’s up to?”

“Up to?”

Her brow furrows. “Everyone wonders about them. Besides the rumors about her having an affair, he’s on a government blacklist and she’s German.”