down, Morland, and stop hovering,’ barked Sebastian, indicating the sofa. ‘No one likes a hoverer.’
With a baleful glance at Sebastian, Posy skirted around the sofa and sat in the armchair opposite Mr Powell. Sebastian plucked a bottle of champagne out of the ice bucket placed next to him. He peeled off the foil, untwisted the cage then slowly eased the cork out with all the skill of a virtuoso, so it came free with a small but emphatic pop. Posy hadn’t noticed the delicate glass coupes on the table, but Sebastian picked one up, poured some champagne into it and handed it to Posy.
‘I shouldn’t drink any more.’ If bad news were imminent, then maybe brandy would be better. Or a cup of sweet tea.
‘Lavinia’s orders.’ Sebastian looked at her, and his scrutiny, combined with the knowledge that a savage remark was sure to follow, were too much for Posy. She looked away and although she had only been planning to take one sip, just to be polite, she ended up chugging the champagne down in one graceless gulp.
Then she had to concentrate very hard on not belching as Sebastian smiled smugly and gestured at the lawyer. ‘Mr Powell, will you do the honours now?’
Posy feared the worst, but she hoped the worst would be brief: ‘Please vacate the premises at your earliest convenience and don’t let the door hit you in the arse on your way out,’ Mr Powell would say, though he might be more polite than that. Instead he leaned forwards to hand Posy an envelope.
Smythson’s Cream Wove Quarto. Lavinia had a box of them in the back office of the shop. Posy’s name was written in Lavinia’s beautiful cursive script in the navy blue ink she’d always favoured.
All of a sudden, Posy’s hands didn’t want to work. She was shaking so hard that she could hardly open the envelope.
‘Let me do it, Morland!’
It turned out that Posy’s hands were in full working order when it came to slapping away Sebastian, then she was easing a finger along the flap and pulling out two sheets of the same cream paper, closely covered in Lavinia’s writing.
Dearest, dearest Posy,
I hope the funeral hasn’t been too grim and that they haven’t stinted on the champagne. I always found that the best way to get through both funerals and weddings was to be slightly tipsy.
I also hope that you aren’t too sad. I’ve had a good innings, as they say, and though even at this late stage in the proceedings I’m not sure that I believe in an afterlife, if there is one then I’m surrounded by the people I love that I’ve missed so dreadfully. Reunited with my parents, my beautiful brothers, all those fallen friends and, best of all, my darling Perry.
But where does that leave you and Sam, my lovely Posy? I’m sure that my death, my demise, my passing (no matter what word I choose, it still seems unthinkable, ludicrous, that I’ve shuffled off this old mortal coil) has stirred up memories of your parents. But then you’ll remember what Perry and I told you on that awful night after the policeman had left.
That you weren’t to worry. That Bookends was as much yours as it was ours and that you would always have a home there.
Posy, darling, that still stands. Bookends is yours. Lock, stock, and that copy of Men Are From Mars And Women Are From Venus that we haven’t been able to sell for the past fifteen years.
I know that the shop hasn’t been doing well. I’ve been so intractable and resistant to change since Perry died, but I have every faith that you’ll turn the shop’s fortunes around. Make it the success it used to be when your father and mother were running it. I’m sure you’ll think of all sorts of exciting schemes to transform the old place. With you at the helm, Bookends will start a new chapter in its life and I know that I couldn’t be leaving my beloved shop in better hands.
Because you, my dear, of all people know what a magical place a bookshop can be and that everyone needs a little magic in their lives.
I can’t tell you how happy I am that Bookends will stay in the family, because I’ve always regarded you and Sam as family. Besides, you’re the only person I truly trust to protect its legacy and keep it safe for future generations of booklovers. I’m counting on you, dear Posy, so don’t let me down! It’s so important to me – my dying wish, if you will – that Bookends will live on after me. However, if you feel that you don’t want to be burdened with it or, I hate to say this, if it’s not operating at a profit within two years, then ownership will revert to Sebastian. The last thing on earth I would want, darling Posy, is for you to be saddled with something that will grind you down into the ground, but I know it won’t come to that.
Now, don’t be afraid to ask Sebastian for help. I’m sure you’ll be seeing lots more of him anyway as he’ll inherit the rest of Rochester Mews, so you’ll be neighbours and, I hope, friends. Time to put all that bitterness about the Coal-hole behind you. Yes, Sebastian can be a little obstreperous, but he really does mean well. That said, don’t put up with any nonsense from him. I do think he’d benefit from a good clip around the ear from time to time,
So, goodbye, my darling girl. Be brave, be strong, be a success. Always remember to follow your heart and you won’t go astray.
Much love,
Lavinia xxx
Bookends was situated at the northern tip of Bloomsbury. People walking from Holborn down Theobalds Road, towards the Gray’s Inn Road, often missed the tiny cobbled Rochester Street on their right. If they did happen upon it and decide it was worth exploring, chances were they’d pause as soon as they came to the delicatessen to look at the cheeses and sausages and brightly coloured edibles in glass jars all lovingly displayed in the window.
They might browse the boutiques full of pretty dresses and soft and cheerful winter knits. Then the butcher’s, the barber’s, the stationery shop, until they came to the pub on the corner, the Midnight Bell, across the road from the fish and chip shop, There’s No Plaice Like Home, and an old-fashioned sweet shop, which still weighed out pear drops and lemon sherbets, aniseed balls, winter nips, humbugs and liquorice allsorts and poured them into little candy-striped paper bags.
Just before the end of this delightful street, like something from a Dickens novel, was a small courtyard on the right: Rochester Mews.
Rochester Mews wasn’t pretty or picturesque. There were weather-beaten wooden benches arranged in a circle at the centre of the courtyard, planter pots full of weeds … even the trees looked as though they’d seen better days. On one side of the yard was a small row of five empty shops. From the peeling, faded signs, it would seem that in another life the premises housed a florist, a haberdasher’s, a tea and coffee merchant, a stamp shop and an apothecary. On the other side of the yard was another, larger shop, though it looked like a collection of shops all joined together to make a jumbled whole. It had old-fashioned bow windows and a faded, black-and-white striped awning.
