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My mind casts back to the story of me trying to “kill” Mrs. Sharpe all those weeks ago. “It never is.”

She creases up her forehead as if to say “quite right.” “I’m not having an affair.” Her eyes gleam at the shock I clearly convey through mine. “I’ve heard it, too, Gemma, and it feels particularly malicious, and it’s not true. I’ve said it before, though perhaps it’s not what you want to hear. Yes, I enjoy the bicycle rides. But I like my autonomy more. I ride each Tuesday to Kidlington, do my shopping in privacy there, and no one reports on every single purchase I’ve made at the Unicorn that evening, and no one delivers tedious gossip into my ear as I’m going to and fro. What’s more, I give them no fodder for more gossip about me. So, yes, my strange ritual gives me exercise, but more importantly, it gives me freedom within the close quarters of a small village. Even if it didn’t stop the tongue wagging, I wouldn’t change my habits. Living here would become too heavy.”

I open my mouth to apologize, as I hadn’t considered how the gossip might make her feel or how such close quarters, welcomed by some, could feel stifling to others. But before I can, she stabs another bite of cake and gives me a small, sly lip curl. “What are they thinking of anyway? Can you imagine how uncomfortable making love would be in sharp, freezing shrubbery?”

Laughter bursts from me. And that brings it out of her as well. Ursula’s eyes almost close and her whole face transforms with mirth. Yet oddly, rather than fully joining in, I find myself watching her, reminded of my recent date with Charlie when, after he told me about Lady Marchmont’s car, I asked him to tell me specifically how he sized up a liar.

“You’d be good at it,” he said. “It’s a mix of things, an absorption, really, of the person in front of you. You watch their eyes. Are they steady or darting about? What about their tone, does it go up or down? You pay attention to their hand gestures and movements. You search for tension around the mouth and eyes. I’ve never broken it down before, but that’s a sense of what it is. I’ve just always been able to do it.”

Watching and listening now, I note how Ursula’s laugh is pitched a note or two higher than usual, her hand grips her fork so tightly the tips of her fingers blanch with the pressure, and her eyes, though scrunched in attitude of amusement, do not shine.

The instant ratcheting in my stomach surprises me, almost like a warning. Nothing escapes Ursula’s notice. I know with a shrewd certainty that my eyes will reveal my thoughts, and that, in this moment, feels dangerous. I lower my gaze to the chessboard and pretend to work out my next move. Our laughter subsides and silence lies between us. I stay fixated upon the game board.

“Do you want to know about one of the only times I’ve ever really been nervous?”

My head pops up. “Yes, please.”

I shift forward in my chair, feeling certain that my apprehension of the past few moments was simply driven by too much sugar rather than by my ferreting out some secret Ursula is trying to withhold or, worse, a lie she is trying to sell.

And Ursula always tells a good story, but not often. She isn’t chatty. In fact, I’m the one who talks most during our lessons. But when she does share, her stories are purposeful. I learn something from them, and they are always interesting. During our second lesson, she shared she was the eldest daughter and second child in a rich Jewish family of six children originally from Berlin and how she hopped an ocean liner to New York to visit her brother Jürgen in America—all alone at twenty-one years old! I spent the next two days pondering risk and courage, family and sacrifice.

During our third lesson, she told me how she helped publish an independent newspaper before the war in Germany long ago and worked in a library. That, of course, led to a discussion of books—her tastes favor spy stories while I prefer mysteries—and to me bringing to our fourth lesson a few of my favorites from the store’s book corner.

She begins. “It was in China . . .”

My eyes widen and the cake and chess game lay forgotten as she tells me the story of a motorcycle ride along a Chinese highway, hanging on to the back of a man named Richard Johnson, not her husband, and of an afternoon, many afternoons, of long, fast rides—about which she doesn’t give any further details.

Yet thanks to Charlie’s instructions regarding liars, I feel pretty adept at reading her flushed face and fingertips touching her lips at poignant moments. I read her body language and find myself blushing—with a quick admonishment not to tell Charlie how effective his tutorial was.

When the story is over, I am sure of two things. First: Ursula definitely had an affair with this Richard Johnson, and second: there’s more to this story than an affair alone. I am also fairly certain fear and nerves don’t exist for her, but it’s important to her that I believe she feels them.

“You loved him,” I whisper.

Her gaze returns to mine from her memories. “I suppose I did. He was unique.” A sly look passes swiftly as she lifts a shoulder and lets it drop.

I watch and, underneath all her words, I sense excitement, conquest, adventure, daring, and even secrets, but not loss and certainly not nerves or anxiety. I study the chessboard and recognize it as a light manipulation, but I can’t see why.

Story finished, Ursula pushes back her chair and carries her plate to the kitchen.

I follow her, and as I pass her bookcase with her gramophone and radio sitting on top, I notice two of the books I brought her poised on its edge. The Body in the Library and Strong Poison. I pick one up. “Did you finish these?”

She turns back to me. “They were wonderful. I’d love to discuss them, and they gave me an idea for you. You need to start a book club.”

I blanch.

She flaps a hand at me. “Don’t do that. Book clubs don’t bite, and it’ll be good for you.”

“I— I couldn’t— How— No one would come. Peggy, Mimi, Freddie—” I stall as none of my friends would join a book club. I don’t even mention Charlie. I wouldn’t dare impose that upon him. He might come—out of obligation!

“It’s not for your friends; it’s for you, for the store. It’ll help Mr. Hastings too.” She studies me. “Causes pull people together, Gemma. That connection and shared purpose. Clubs also have the advantage of being inherently exclusive. Ladies love exclusivity, and many will clamor to join and buy the book to be a part of it. And do you want another truth?”

I nod.

“Knowledge is enticing. It means power in any form,” Ursula says the words quietly.

“I’m not following you.”

“You need to have something to offer these new neighbors of yours. Exclusivity. Knowledge. Power. Offer one of those and you’ll fit in here splendidly. How do you think I did so well in all my moves?”