The Secret Christmas Bookshop (The Secret Bookshop #1)

Chapter Twenty-Two

S ophie woke to a cacophony of bird song unlike anything she heard from her flat, where seagulls provided the overriding chorus. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was, why she felt bone tired but happy, why the duvet was so beautifully weighted, light but warm. Then awareness rippled through her, and she opened her eyes and found she was looking at Harry’s peaceful, sleeping face, his eyelashes inky against his skin. His hair was in disarray, reminding her of the night before, and she felt the grin stretch her cheeks.

She rolled onto her back and saw from the clock on the bedside table that it was just after seven. Through the partially closed curtains, the sun was making its glamorous entrance, a fiery pink sunrise spilling into the room. It was breathtaking, and she inexplicably found her eyes burning with the possibility of tears.

She didn’t want to wake Harry, and she wasn’t sure what the etiquette of Mistingham Manor was, but she didn’t think it was beyond her to make coffee and buttery toast in an unusual kitchen, even if it was partly a building site.

She slid out of bed, found her jeans and jumper on the floor where they had been discarded the night before, and pulled them on. She tiptoed downstairs, and found the kitchen easily enough; a large open space at the back of the building, the double-aspect windows looking out onto trees, the birdsong here as loud as if it were being played through stereo speakers.

A small portion of clean worktop was exposed, next to a dated oven and gas hob. The rest was covered in plastic sheeting, cupboards and a dishwasher standing untethered, waiting to be installed. One alcove was pure Seventies nostalgia, with orange, brown and white floral wallpaper, and Sophie wondered how difficult it was for Harry to rip all this out, to essentially plaster over the rooms he’d grown up in, which held memories of his parents, his family.

She went hunting and found a cafetière, and a packet of coffee in the fridge, along with milk and butter. There was half a loaf of bread on the counter, wrapped in one of Dexter’s bakery bags. Sophie cut slices, boiled the kettle and assembled her tray, all the while expecting one of the dogs, or Harry or May, to find her.

But the manor was in a deep Sunday slumber, and she tried not to think about The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson, where the house at the centre of the story had a personality, sometimes innocently quiet, sometimes intent on wreaking a creeping, dread-filled havoc on the occupants.

Before Mistingham, Sophie hadn’t been in a place this grand for more than dinner or a posh afternoon tea, and she still found it difficult to accept that Harry lived here, that he’d been closeted by these thick stone walls when he was growing up. It made her realize how different they were, how their upbringings had been polar opposites of each other.

When everything was ready, she went as quietly up the stairs as she could with a heavy, crockery-filled tray. The arched window showed off the estate in all its shimmering, winter sunrise glory; wisps of mist covering the frost-dusted lawn, the sea kissed with pearly peach light. Sophie thought about how the different seasons would adorn Mistingham estate and the sea beyond in new and varied ways, no two days the same. She felt an ache in her chest, an unexpected longing for familiarity, for the chance to see each magical new version of the landscape.

She lowered the door handle with her elbow, then tiptoed into the room with her tray. She watched Harry stir, saw him blink and then stare at her, a gruff laugh bursting out of him.

‘Breakfast in bed?’ he said in a sleep-roughened voice. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’

Sophie shrugged, but inside she was a riot of happy butterflies. ‘I can think of a few things from last night.’ She grinned.

‘Come here.’ Harry sat up against the pillows, and Sophie couldn’t help gazing at his strong chest, at how his hair was the very definition of bedhead after their night together.

‘With the breakfast, or …?’

‘In a bit.’ He flung back the duvet in invitation, and Sophie put the tray on the chest of drawers and went to join him.

Afterwards, they sat up against the pillows, eating cold, spongy toast and drinking lukewarm coffee, Sophie wearing a blue T-shirt Harry had pulled out of a drawer for her.

‘It’s still good,’ he said, breaking off a crust and popping it in his mouth.

‘Only because we’re ravenous,’ Sophie replied. ‘It wouldn’t win any awards.’

‘I would give it an award.’

‘You might be biased.’

‘Maybe,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not sure anyone would blame me, though. Last night and this morning have been … unexpectedly amazing.’

‘Unexpectedly?’ Sophie asked.

Harry lifted his mug. ‘I was fully prepared for you to stay in the spare room last night. I thought there was a very real chance you didn’t want … this.’

‘You thought I didn’t want you?’

‘I honestly didn’t know. We’d kissed, but I wasn’t sure how … serious you were about any of it. And if,’ he hurried to add, ‘this is just a one-off, then of course that’s fine – you’re in charge, Sophie.’ He put his plate on the bedside table.

She could hear all the unspoken thoughts between his words: that she’d told him she was leaving, and hadn’t given him a proper answer when he’d asked again last night. But this … this. All her carefully laid plans, of organizing the festival, discovering who had given her the book, finding somewhere to rent in Cornwall, saying goodbye to Mistingham – it was as if they were a wall of dominoes, set up carefully to fall one by one, each knocking into the next, a clear and logical path. But now Harry had come along and scattered them with a single sweep of his hand, revealing a brand-new game board beneath, full of new possibilities.

Sophie liked to be sure of things, and right now she wasn’t sure of anything. She needed to change the subject, so she asked the question that had been on her mind since she’d seen the kitchen.

‘Is it hard, going through the manor and updating everything, erasing how it was when your dad was here, when you were growing up?’

Harry sighed. ‘It hasn’t always been easy, but I’ve tried to take the common-sense approach. It was all so dated, so dusty and damaged, that I knew if I wanted to live here, it had to be redone. And I have the important things. His desk, some of his books. I was so close to losing all of it, so I’m lucky I have the chance to choose which parts to keep.’

Sophie put her mug down and snuggled into his side. He put his arm around her, bringing her closer. ‘I’ve never had those kinds of issues,’ she admitted. ‘Never had anything from my past that I wanted to hold on to.’

‘Nothing from any of the families you stayed with? Not from Mrs Fairweather?’

‘I never stayed anywhere for that long,’ Sophie said. ‘And with Mrs Fairweather, the things she gave me can’t be seen or held. I’m sure I wouldn’t still be making notebooks, making money from them, if it wasn’t for her. And she was so kind to me – to all the children she looked after. She saw us as individuals, with different skills and aspirations and ambitions, rather than problems she had to deal with.’

‘Some of the homes treated you like that?’ Harry’s voice was deceptively gentle, but his arm tensed around her.

‘There are wonderful foster parents, of course, but there are some who think it’s their job to fix us: that every child who ends up without a family has done something wrong, not just been a victim of circumstance.’

‘Do you know what happened to your parents?’

Sophie nodded. ‘My mum gave me up as soon as I was born. She was only young, and she couldn’t cope with me. My dad wasn’t in the picture, and there was nowhere for me to go except foster care. She chose my name, though. That’s all I’ve brought with me.’

‘It’s an important thing, your name,’ Harry said. ‘And Sophie is beautiful.’

She no longer felt a tidal wave of sadness when she talked about her mum. She’d never known her, had no memories of her. From a young age she’d understood that she was on her own, and there was a certain freedom in that: she could go anywhere she wanted, at any time. No obligations to a place or person, just her and Clifton and the things she could fit in her beaten-up old car.

‘Are you a Henry?’ she asked. ‘I remember Winnie calling you Henry when we went to see her.’

‘I was christened Henry, but I’ve been Harry for as long as I can remember. My mum was Harriet.’

‘How old were you when she died?’

‘Fifteen,’ he said. ‘She’d been ill for a while, but you can’t ever prepare yourself for a parent dying, I don’t think. And then Dad … he threw himself into the bookshop. He spent all his time there, made it his singular focus, which is why it was so well-loved in the village. And I understand why. I think it was the only way he could contain his grief, but he left me and Daisy, my younger sister, to fend for ourselves.

‘The only place he paid us any attention was at the bookshop, as if, away from this house, with all its memories of Mum, he could breathe and give our relationship space. The manor got neglected, and it no longer felt like home.’ Harry trailed his hand up Sophie’s arm.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘So then … you went to London as soon as you could?’

‘To escape this backwater? Of course.’ He laughed, but it sounded sad. ‘London was huge and full of possibility. I had a strong head for figures, and ended up managing people’s investments, then companies’ investments. It felt important – at least at the time. It took me a while to realize how impersonal it all was, how much I’d lost touch with the things that mattered. I found hobbies I cared about, and the plan was to change jobs, to get out of it completely, but then …’

‘Then?’ Sophie prompted, looking up at him.

‘Then Dad got in touch, and he was upset; more emotional than I’d heard him in years. He told me things he’d been keeping from me for ages: that the estate was falling apart; that the bookshop, while popular in the village, wasn’t making money. That, in fact, he’d put so much into it without getting enough back, built up such a huge debt, that he was close to losing the entire estate, all the land – close to having everything repossessed. Everyone here saw him as their best friend, the kindest man they knew, but he’d let everything crumble at the expense of being well-liked. My only option was to keep earning good money, to work as hard as I could, to save it all.’ He gazed down at his hands, as if he was examining the lines across his palms.

Sophie swallowed. ‘So you stayed in London because …’

‘I had to,’ he finished. ‘I felt guilty for not realizing how bad things were, for staying away for so long. I had to make sure Dad was financially OK again. And then, when the estate was safe, when we’d scraped through by the skin of our teeth, he got sick, and I knew that living here, with me caring for him, wouldn’t give him the best chance. It wasn’t the healthiest environment; parts of it weren’t really safe any more.

‘So I found the best place I could for him, and I knew that moving back here and working as a remote consultant wouldn’t cut it for the care-home fees, so I stayed in London and worked harder than ever, all the hours I could, paying for Dad’s care, building up savings so I could come home and be closer to him when I had a big enough cushion.

‘Dad wouldn’t let me sell the manor. It was the easiest solution when he was first diagnosed with dementia, to pay for his care home, but when I suggested it he point-blank refused. He told me it had to stay in the family, that it meant so much to him, had meant a lot to Mum, and that I had worked so hard to save it, I couldn’t just let it go. So then I had this grand idea that I would restore it when things got easier, when I was able to.’

He stopped talking, and Sophie waited for what came next. She glanced up at him, and he was staring ahead, his expression blank.

‘Hey,’ she said, but he wouldn’t look at her, so she pushed back the duvet and slid her leg over his hips, so she was facing him, straddling his lap, and he couldn’t avoid her.

He met her gaze, his distant look replaced by something more intense. His hands came up to her hips and squeezed.

‘What made you come back?’ she asked.

He gave her a rueful smile. ‘A book.’

Sophie sucked in a breath. ‘A book ?’

‘Dad had only been in the home a year, but he had already lost so much of himself. When I phoned, and the few times I came back to visit, he didn’t recognize me. Then I got this book in the post: an old copy of North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell. The inscription said, To my darling Harry, all my love, Bernie. It must have been a gift he’d given Mum years ago – it was her favourite novel – and he’d held onto it after she died. I don’t know whether he knew he was sending it to me, passing the gift down the line and ensuring it wasn’t lost, or if, in his confusion, he somehow thought it was going to Mum.

‘He must have had the address of my London flat, told the nurse where to send it. Obviously she knew the truth – that his wife had died over twenty years before – and I’d spoken to her plenty of times, so she knew I was Harry, too. But it didn’t matter what Dad had thought he was doing, or who had a role in the book getting to me, because it made me realize …’ He swallowed. ‘I realized that I could earn all the money in the world, but here was my dad, slowly disappearing, and I wasn’t even visiting him. Daisy is a career woman, she was busy too, and we’d both convinced ourselves that we were doing the right thing, but I think we were running away.’

‘Running away?’

He pressed his nose into her collar bone. ‘He effectively abandoned us after Mum died, and I know that, really, we were doing the same to him. Not entirely consciously – probably more out of fear that he wasn’t Dad any more, telling ourselves that it was so much easier to get on with our own lives and, in my case, that I was helping by funding his care. But when I got that book, I realized that he was still, somehow, holding on to his love for Mum, even after so much else had deserted him. I knew I had to come back.’

‘And you did.’ Sophie’s throat was thick. She tipped his head back, her finger under his chin. ‘You came back to him.’

‘I had a few months with him before he died,’ Harry said. ‘It wasn’t really enough.’

‘But at least you came.’ Sophie’s thoughts were whirring, because he’d been sent a book, and it had changed the course of his life. It had made him realize that he needed to uproot everything and come home. But he’d known from the beginning who sent it to him, it hadn’t been a mystery. But the coincidence …

‘Soph?’ he asked. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘And I’m so sorry. You’ve been through so much. You stayed away to help your dad, and everyone thinks you deserted him, that you deserted all of it – the estate, Mistingham.’

‘But I was doing that too.’ Harry slid his hands up her back, beneath the T-shirt.

‘You’re making up for it now, though.’ She searched his face, looking for a hint of smugness, something that would reveal he’d given her the copy of Jane Eyre , and that telling her the story about his dad sending him North and South was his way of admitting it. Was the book that Winnie had been given some kind of peace offering from him, after their sparring match? But Sophie was sure she’d told him about her mysterious present from The Secret Bookshop, and he’d seemed as baffled as she was. Except … had she told him? That night after the pub, when he’d walked her home? She couldn’t remember how much she’d said to him.

Harry’s hands slid around her waist and his fingers danced a path over her stomach, making her muscles contract.

‘ Harry .’ She’d meant it as a protest, but it was half-hearted at best.

‘Mmmm?’ He leaned up and kissed her, long and slow and sensuous. All thoughts of books went out of Sophie’s head as he pulled the T-shirt up, broke the kiss so he could lift it over her head, then dragged the duvet over both of them, sliding them lower in the bed.

‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said, needing to acknowledge the faith he must have in her to want to tell her about his family, about the things he was ashamed of.

‘I’d tell you anything,’ Harry said, as he wrapped his arms around her, then moved them until she was on her back, and he was hovering over her. ‘Anything you want to know, Soph. I’m an open book when it comes to you.’

Sophie smiled up at him, soft and lazy and full of desire, and she knew, then, that he had nothing to do with her anonymous gift. It was just a coincidence: this place was full of books, full of the memory of them, and they were a good present to get – that’s all it was. And besides, she thought, as she closed her eyes and tried to hold back a gasp, Harry was giving her a pretty good gift right that moment.

She would work out who had sent her the book, who Mistingham’s secret book Santa was, just as soon as she recovered her senses and escaped the perfect, pleasure-filled haven of Harry’s bed. But there was no rush, she told herself. Absolutely no rush at all.