The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society

Dearest Sophie,

Markham V. Reynolds, he of the camellias, has finally materialized. Introduced himself, paid me compliments, and invited me out to dinner—Claridge’s, no less. I accepted regally—Claridge’s, oh yes, I have heard of Claridge’s—and then spent the next three days fretting about my hair. It’s lucky I have my lovely new dress, so I didn’t have to waste precious fretting time on my clothes.

As Madame Helena said, “The hairs, they are a disaster.” I tried a roll; it fell down. A French twist; it fell down. I was on the verge of tying an enormous red velvet bow on the top of my head when my neighbor Evangeline Smythe came to the rescue, bless her. She’s a genius with my hair. In two minutes, I was a picture of elegance— she caught up all the curls and swirled them around in the back—and I could even move my head. Off I went, feeling perfectly adorable. Not even Claridge’s marble lobby could intimidate me.

Then Markham V. Reynolds stepped forward, and the bubble popped. He’s dazzling. Honestly, Sophie, I’ve never seen anything like him. Not even the furnace-man can compare. Tan, with blazing blue eyes. Ravishing leather shoes, elegant wool suit, blinding white handkerchief in breast pocket. Of course, being American, he’s tall, and he has one of those alarming American smiles, all gleaming teeth and good humor, but he’s not a genial American. He’s quite impressive, and he’s used to ordering people about—though he does it so easily, they don’t notice.

He’s got that way of believing his opinion is the truth, but he’s not disagreeable about it. He’s too sure he’s right to bother being disagreeable.

Once we were seated—in our own velvet-draped alcove—and all the waiters and stewards and maitres d’hotel were finished fluttering about us, I asked him point-blank why he had sent me those scads of flowers without including any note.

He laughed. “To make you interested. If I had written you directly, asking you to meet me, how would you have replied?” I admitted I would have declined. He raised one pointed eyebrow at me. Was it his fault if he could outwit me so easily?

I was awfully insulted to be so transparent, but he just laughed at me again. And then he began to talk about the war and Victorian literature—he knows I wrote a biography of Anne Bronte—and New York and rationing, and before I knew it, I was basking in his attention, utterly charmed.

Do you remember that afternoon in Leeds when we speculated on the possible reasons why Markham V. Reynolds, Junior, was obliged to remain a man of mystery? It’s very disappointing, but we were completely wrong. He’s not married. He’s certainly not bashful. He doesn’t have a disfiguring scar that causes him to shun daylight. He doesn’t seem to be a werewolf (no fur on his knuckles, anyway). And he’s not a Nazi on the lam (he’d have an accent).

Now that I think about it, maybe he is a werewolf. I can picture him lunging over the moors in hot pursuit of his prey, and I’m certain that he wouldn’t think twice about eating an innocent bystander. I’ll watch him closely at the next full moon. He’s asked me to go dancing tomorrow—perhaps I should wear a high collar. Oh, that’s vampires, isn’t it?

I think I am a little giddy.

Love,

Juliet

From Lady Bella Taunton to Amelia

12th February, 1946

Dear Mrs. Maugery,

Juliet Ashton’s letter is at hand, and I am amazed at its contents. Am I to understand she wishes me to provide a character reference for her? Well, so be it! I cannot impugn her character—only her common sense. She hasn’t any.

War, as you know, makes strange bedfellows, and Juliet and I were thrown together from the very first when we were Fire Wardens during the Blitz. Fire Wardens spent their nights on various London roof-tops, watching out for incendiary bombs that might fall. When they did, we would rush forth with stirrup pump and buckets of sand to stifle any small blaze before it could spread. Juliet and I were paired off to work together. We did not chat, as less conscientious Wardens would have done. I insisted on total vigilance at all times. Even so, I learned a few details of her life prior to the war.

Her father was a respectable farmer in Suffolk. Her mother, I surmise, was a typical farmer’s wife, milking cows and plucking chickens, when not otherwise engaged in owning a bookshop in Bury St. Edmunds. Juliet’s parents were both killed in a motor accident when she was twelve and she went to live with her greatuncle, a renowned Classicist, in St. John’s Wood. There she disrupted his studies and household by running away—twice.

In despair, he sent her to a select boarding school. When she left school, she shunned a higher education, came to London, and shared a studio with her friend Sophie Stark. She worked by day in bookshops. By night, she wrote a book about one of those wretched Bronte girls—I forget which one. I believe the book was published by Sophie’s brother’s firm, Stephens & Stark.

Though it’s biologically impossible, I can only assume that some form of nepotism was responsible for the book’s publication.

In any event, she began to publish feature articles for various magazines and newspapers. Her light, frivolous turn of mind gained her a large following among the less intellectually inclined readers—of whom, I fear, there are many. She spent the very last of her inheritance on a flat in Chelsea. Chelsea, home of artists, models, libertines, and Socialists—completely irresponsible people all, just as Juliet proved herself to be as a Fire Warden.

I come now to the specifics of our association. Juliet and I were two of several Wardens assigned to the roof of the Inner Temple Hall of the Inns of Court. Let me say first that, for a Warden, quick action and a clear head were imperative—one had to be aware of everything going on around one. Everything.

One night in May 1941, a high-explosive bomb was dropped through the roof of the Inner Temple Hall Library. The Library roof was some distance away from Juliet’s post, but she was so aghast by the destruction of her precious books that she sprinted toward the flames—as if she could single-handedly deliver the Library from its fate! Of course, her delusions created nothing but further damage, for the firemen had to waste valuable minutes in rescuing her.