I’m very sorry to interrupt you, especially when you looked so intent on your writing. But I just wondered if I could get you anything. A cup of hot tea? Or a fresh lemon scone perhaps? They’re really quite delicious.”
“Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine.”
Meredith felt a little flustered by the sudden attention. She didn’t mean to cause a fuss to anyone in the shop. She had just needed to get out of the house.
She’d been unable to find a quiet place to write at Lavinia’s townhouse without everyone interrupting her, so she’d escaped that afternoon and taken refuge at the one place in London where she felt at home, Hamilton’s Book Shoppe.
The charm of the place beckoned to her, and she enjoyed the calm and bookish atmosphere. She found a lovely corner table and chair near the back of the shop where no one would disturb her and had gotten quite a bit of writing done in the hour or so that she’d been there. She had been so involved in her story that she had lost track of her surroundings.
“I am the owner of this bookshop, and I just happened to notice you. . . . I’m so thrilled that there is a writer here. Do you mind if I ask what you’re writing?”
The woman expressed such genuine interest that Meredith could hardly refuse.
“It’s a mystery novel. More of a suspenseful mystery, I suppose. I don’t want to tell you too much, or I’d spoil the fun of reading it. I’m not quite finished yet, but I’m getting closer,” Meredith said, a little burst of pride welling in her chest. She rarely had an opportunity to talk to anyone about her writing. Delilah had always dismissed it as a frivolous pursuit, and now Aunt Lavinia was no better.
“You’re writing a book!?” The woman’s face lit up. “How exciting! I should love to read it one day when it is published. You are planning to publish it, are you not?”
Meredith nodded with a shy smile. “That is my goal. To become a published author. One day. Hopefully soon.”
“We’ve never had an author actually writing in our shop before, and I shall take great pride in saying that Hamilton’s discovered you first! I’m Colette Hamilton Sinclair, and my sisters and I own this bookshop as well as a few others. I’m so pleased that you are here, and you are welcome to stay and write as long as you like.”
“Why, thank you! My name is Meredith Remington. It’s lovely to meet you. I’m thankful that you don’t mind that I am writing here. It’s difficult for me to write at home, and I didn’t know where else to go, but I simply adore your bookshop. I’ve never seen a bookstore as inviting and charming as yours. It’s been my favorite place since I came to London.”
Colette Hamilton sat down at the table across from her, an eager expression on her face.
“You’re not from England, are you? America? New York perhaps?”
“Yes, I’m from New York.” Meredith was impressed. “How did you know?”
“I recognized the accent. My sister Juliette lives in New York and you remind me of her daughter, Sara. You’re about her age, too, if I had to guess. What brings you to London?”
“My aunt brought me,” Meredith began. “We have family here.”
She was oddly comfortable speaking to a complete stranger. But Colette Hamilton, of Hamilton’s Book Shoppe, didn’t feel like a stranger. She felt more like a dear family friend.
Meredith continued. “My aunt Delilah was born in Sussex and wished to return to England. So here I am. . . . And today when I needed a quiet place to write, I thought of the lovely bookshop I visited a few days ago. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind in the least! I’m quite thrilled that you are here! I simply love the idea of a book being written in a bookshop. It’s rather poetic, don’t you think? There is a great deal of inspiration with so many classic novels around you. Please feel free to come and write here whenever you wish. Stay as long as you like. I’ll let my staff know, so they won’t interrupt you.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind of you.” Meredith was touched by the offer. “I shall certainly take you up on that.”
Colette smiled warmly. “I think it’s important to encourage writers, especially female writers. We’ve never had a writer actually writing here before, but you shall be Hamilton’s Book Shoppe’s first in-house writer, Miss Remington.”
“Oh, my. That’s such an honor! Thank you. I don’t know if I am worthy of such an accolade, but I shall endeavor to try to be.” Meredith liked the woman so much and felt such an instant spirit of kinship with her.
“I’ve no doubt you will. I’ve always been in awe of writers and had great respect for them. I’m such a great lover of books, but the thought of actually writing one is simply overwhelming to me.” Colette glanced at Meredith’s manuscript. “How close are you to finishing your book?”
“I have more than half of it written. Then I shall have to edit it and put it all together neatly. I know a publisher back in New York who was interested in taking a look at it when I finished, so I’ll send it to him when I make it presentable.”
“How exciting!” Colette exclaimed, her blue eyes sparkling. “If you need anyone to read it for you, I would be happy to help. Also, I am familiar with a number of people in the publishing business here in London, so I can introduce you to them as well, if you like. John Murray is a friend of mine and he’s a prominent publisher in town. Maybe you could have your book published here and in America as well!”
“You would do that for me?” asked Meredith, utterly stunned by the generosity of this woman she barely knew. “Someone you only just met?”
“Of course. Think nothing of it. Women need to help other women when they can, for it’s a man’s world, make no mistake about it, and we ladies need all the help we can get. So I like to do what I can to help the female cause. To that end, I only hire women to work in my bookshops.”
Why, this lovely lady was a modern and progressive woman! Meredith could not believe her good fortune. “I’m so lucky to have met you.”
“I believe I’m the fortunate one! Just think! A female author right here in my bookshop!” Her pretty face beamed with delight.
“I’m not a published author yet,” Meredith added shyly.
“But you will be.” Colette nodded her head for emphasis. “I just know it.”
They talked together easily for some time, and Meredith told her the plot of her book, how long she had been writing, and about the magazine articles she had written in New York.
She found it amazing that Colette was so supportive and encouraging. Not once did she ask why Meredith wasn’t looking for a husband or why she wasn’t married yet. None of that seemed to matter.
How refreshing to not have marriage as the topic of conversation for once! And to find someone who didn’t care to discuss marriage! That was a rarity, indeed.
Their conversation was so unique and inspiring, her spirit soared for the first time in weeks. No one had ever shown such a genuine interest in Meredith’s writing before. She even allowed Colette Hamilton to read a few chapters of the manuscript.
“It’s wonderful. You have such a way with words,” Colette said in awe after she had read the handwritten pages of The Edge of Danger. “I can’t wait to find out what happens. I want to read more!”
Thrilled with the response, Meredith exhaled with relief. That was what a writer always wished to hear the most. I want to read more. Her head spun with the dizzying compliment. “I’ve never shown my writing to anyone before, except Mr. Robinson at his publishing office.”
“And he is the one in New York who wishes to publish it?”
Meredith nodded. “He said he would be interested in seeing it when it’s finished, of course. So I’m hopeful