Exclusive Peek At Madeline Martin’s “The Booklover’s Library”

Here is an exclusive excerpt from author Madeline Martin’s new work of historical fiction, The Booklover’s Library. Like her bestselling book The Last Library In London, it combines two irresistible elements: England during World War II and books. 

Widowed mother Emma Taylor is getting desperate for funds. She has a wonderful child to care for. But at 25, she’s too old for factory work and most people won’t hire a mother anyway, even a widow. Emma’s driven to a painful act any lover of books will find hard to witness: selling off a beloved first edition of Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland.  

It’s the sort of opening fans of Martin’s writing will savor. The author of dozens of historical romances and historical fiction, Martin’s latest follows in the wake of other popular tales like The Librarian Spy and The Keeper Of Hidden Books. So here’s Chapter 1, but don’t say we didn’t warn you: you’ll have to wait till September 10 to read more.

The Booklover's Library by Madeline Martin ($18.99; Hanover Square Press) Buy now from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org

Exclusive Peek At Madeline Martin’s “The Booklover’s Library”

The following is an excerpt from Madeline Martin's new novel The Booklover's Library. All rights reserved; copyright 2024.

CHAPTER 1

Nottingham, England
August 1939

EMMA TAYLOR HUGGED the first-edition copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland against her chest and strode determinedly down Pelham Street, finally arriving at the pawnshop. The book was one of the precious five delivered from Newcastle a month after her father’s death.

Eight years had passed since then. Just after the shop burned down, a young gentleman from her father’s solicitor’s office named Arthur had tucked her under his wing. She’d allowed herself to be pulled in, drawn to Arthur by loneliness and grief.

The wedding was quick, too soon to realize they weren’t compatible, both too young. Too different. There had been fights, tears, expectations that were impossible to fulfill. And after yielding to the pressure around them, there’d been a baby. Olivia had been born with Emma’s deep blue eyes and Arthur’s chocolate brown waves. Beautiful, happy, and perfect.

But everyone was wrong. A child hadn’t fixed their problems, but made them worse. And when Arthur didn’t come home one night five years ago, Emma had assumed he’d been out at a pub again. He had, but apparently, upon weaving his way home, he stepped out into the street and had been struck by a car.

In all her years raised by a single father, Emma had never anticipated she too would become a single parent.

She stopped and looked at the sign with three golden balls announcing Pelham Pawnbroker. Her courage wavered.

Rent for the small flat in Radford was due and Olivia needed a new pair of shoes before school started next month. Already she had worn her shoes from last year too long. No doubt they pinched, though she’d only mentioned the discomfort once.

Seeing how easily her daughter had adjusted to a life with so little money pulled at a place in Emma’s chest. 

It’s only a book, Emma.

Resolve thoroughly in place, she pushed through the door. A jangle of bells sang merrily overhead, and she couldn’t help but wonder how many others teetering on the brink of financial desperation had been subjected to that mocking, cheerful tinkle.

A man stood behind the counter, his gaze feasting on the parcel in her hands before dragging up to her face. “May I help you?”

The array of goods beneath the glass counter taunted her, treasures sold cheap under the pressure of time and need. Amid the glittering gemstones were several solid gold bands. One of those was hers, sold while it was still warm from her left finger only six months prior. A cheap band replaced it, something to keep her respectable in the eyes of society.

The money had run out quickly.

“Are you interested in purchasing?” the man prompted, his focus flicking back to the book in her arms. “Or selling?” A shelf behind him displayed a pair of small leather shoes, not unlike what Olivia needed.

“Selling.” The word caught slightly. Her hands trembled when she set the book on the counter and gently—reverently—peeled off the paper wrap.

Excitement flashed in the pawnbroker’s eyes before dulling with practiced disinterest. “Which edition is this?” he drawled, as if he didn’t know.

Emma stared down at the red cover, recalling how the gold-embossed spine had stood out among a row of old books at the shop in Newcastle, and how her father had held it in his hands, a prize both wondrous and precious. Perfect for their collection. “First edition.”

“Well.” The man reached for the book and everything in Emma screamed for her to snatch it back, to cradle it against her chest and run home.

But that wouldn’t keep the electricity on, or put food in their larder, or keep them in the decent home they’d managed to find for such an affordable rent. 

It’s only a book, Emma. 

But it wasn’t just a book. It was part of her father’s legacy, one of the few remaining pieces that hadn’t gone up in a fiery blaze.

The man examined the book carefully—pristine save for a dent at the bottom of the cover that he made a point to tsk over. “I wish I could say my clients have an appreciation for first editions,” he murmured sympathetically. “They won’t be willing to pay what it’s worth and I do still have to make a living.”

After a round of haggling, Emma pushed out of the shop several minutes later with a quarter of the sum she’d anticipated. The opening notes of a headache pounded at her temples. She had hoped the funds from the sale would cover expenses for at least several months. At most, this would last three, maybe four.

And what then?

She walked several feet and stopped, leaning her back against the brick wall as she tried to breathe through the dizzying rush of anxiety.

Her widow’s pension was ten shillings a week combined with Olivia’s government support of five shillings. Though it was just the two of them and they lived as frugally as possible, fifteen bob went fast.

The ache in her temples edged around to the backs of her eyes. A groan rasped in her throat as she remembered they’d run out of aspirin tablets several days before.

More money to spend.

Already the measly sum in her handbag was getting lighter.

At least she was near the chemist. She pushed off the wall and made her way toward Boots’, the sprawling chemist that took up a full corner of Pelham Street. The hand-painted letters scrolling over the wide plate glass windows was posh, displaying goods within that she could never afford. She went in through the corner entrance just below the ornate clock and strode past various wares in their glittering cases.

A variety of items were laid out, from thermometers and medications to bottles of perfume, stationery, and handbags. She ignored it all and picked up a tin of aspirin, setting the little tablets inside rattling about.

The woman at the register lifted her thin brows. “Will that be all?” Before Emma could reply, she rushed on, shimmying her shoulders with excitement. “The Fancy Department is having a sale on handbags, today only.”

Emma tucked her purse behind the counter to keep the woman from seeing its sorry state. The once neat corners were now slightly dented and the entire thing resembled a discarded paper sack. “This is all for now, but thank you.”

A crack of thunder boomed outside and the young woman leaped in surprise. “That’s quite the storm coming in.”

It was a storm Emma might be walking in. After all, she was only about a dozen blocks from home, and walking saved her the cost of the bus fare. If she hurried, perhaps she could—

Lightning flashed outside, immediately followed by torrential rain that came down in veritable buckets.

“Maybe a bit of tea?” the woman suggested, eyeing the rain whipping against the windows. “The café is just upstairs beside the Booklover’s Library.”

Tea was more money Emma didn’t need to spend. But then, wearing out the last bit of her own shoes in a downpour would be far more expensive. Even sprinting for the bus would do little good at this point. At least Olivia would see the storm and know why Emma was late.

There was nothing for it but to wait. And at least a cup of tea meant Emma could take the aspirin and receive relief sooner rather than later.

She climbed the stairs, and turned toward the café opposite the exclusive lending library as she inhaled the comforting aroma of freshly baked scones and the earthy, spicy scent of tea. Her stomach snarled with longing. The moment she sat down, a waiter approached and took her order—a single cup of tea. Once it had cooled enough, she withdrew three of the five-grain tablets from the tin and downed the bitter medicine with one swift swallow.

The tea was heavenly, strong and bracing with a bit of milk and sugar.

She leaned back, surveying the café as the tables filled with patrons eager to wait out the rain.

This had been her life for a brief spell when she’d been married to Arthur, enjoying the income of a solicitor’s wife. She’d sat among tables covered in crisp linens and fine china without a thought about the cost of a cup of tea. Or a scone for that matter. But money didn’t buy happiness. She knew that well and good by now.

There may not be much money in the box in her wardrobe, but she had the purest joy there ever was. She had Olivia.

As Emma sat, she caught a familiar aroma in the tea-and-scone-scented air—the fragrant pull of paper and ink, of books.

Her gaze wandered unbidden to the grand entrance of the Booklover’s Library just steps away from the café, where stained-glass windows welcomed cheerfully colored light to splash across the rows and rows of books. The lending library had been as much a fixture in Boots’ as the glass counters exhibiting the costly purses and makeup downstairs. Being a subscriber was just as prohibitively expensive.

She pulled in a pained breath.

Books had once been such a comfort to her, helping her through life’s difficult moments as well as the struggles of a motherless childhood. Her father and their shared love of literature were so closely linked, imagining one without the other was quite impossible.

Outside, the rain had eased to a bearable drizzle. She drained the last of her tea, desperate to flee before memories could settle over her.

The ache in her head was beginning to subside and her spirits were somewhat bolstered by the tea. Emma stood and nudged the chair back under the table with her hip when a woman’s voice sounded from a cracked door several feet away. “You’ve only just completed your training.”

“I know, and I’m terribly sorry,” another woman replied, her voice younger, her tone almost pleading. “Tommy said that with the last war, his parents almost didn’t get married for want of a pastor. We must have our wedding before the war starts, so we can do it how we want.”

There was a pause.

“I understand,” said the older woman, resigned. “Felicitations on your nuptials.”

“Thank you, Miss Bainbridge.”

The door opened fully and a pretty redhead wearing the lending library’s green overalls tied over her dress swept from the room, buoyant with youthful optimism and the promise of a bright future.

Both things Emma had been lacking leading up to her own marriage all those years ago.

The older woman who emerged from the office had her feet firmly planted on the ground, a line of concern etched on her brow. Her hair was more gray than black, swept neatly away from her austere expression.

She stiffened when she caught sight of Emma. “I’m sorry you heard that. I didn’t realize the door wasn’t closed.”

“You needn’t concern yourself.” Emma squared her shoulders. “Though I’m assuming this means you have a position open?”

The query hung in the air long enough to make her tamp down the urge to squirm.

“I might,” the older woman replied carefully. Miss Bainbridge, that’s what the young bride had called her. “Are you seeking employment?” 

Was she seeking employment? 

The question would be scornfully funny if it weren’t so very serious.

Emma had been looking for a job going on two years. Ever since the money box had become distressingly light. At one point, the combination of her father’s and Arthur’s inheritances had seemed a king’s ransom. But after five years of living expenses, the fortune had become little more than a pauper’s life raft—a swiftly sinking one at that.

The marriage bar restricted wives from remaining employed or seeking employment. It was not supposed to extend to widows. Unless, of course, there was a child involved.

Respectable shops wouldn’t hire her. Being a single mother made her too much of a liability.

She’d applied everywhere, including factories, which were usually less fussy about such things, but even there she’d been turned away. The industry hired girls straight out of school at fourteen, ones with swift hands and young, bright eyes. An untrained woman over the age of twenty was not worth the effort. At twenty-five, Emma was far too old to start a factory job, even if she did look young.

“I am indeed seeking employment.” Emma stuffed her left hand into her pocket and slid off the cheap tin band.

The woman considered her for a long moment. “Very well, if you’ve the time, step into my office and I’ll conduct the interview this very moment.” She hesitated. “Miss…”

Emma didn’t think twice as she stripped away the Mrs. from her name. “Miss Taylor.”

The Booklover's Library by Madeline Martin ($18.99; Hanover Square Press) Buy now from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org