Dear Miss Lake: A Novel (Volume 4) (The Emmy Lake Chronicles) - Softcover

Pearce, AJ

Softcover

ISBN 10: 1668007754 ISBN 13: 9781668007754

Verlag: Scribner, 2026

Inhaltsangabe

“It’s hard to accept that this is the end of the Emmy Lake series, but if there has to be an end, let it be this one: Dear Miss Lake. Sheer joy!” —Bonnie Garmus, author of Lessons in Chemistry

Plucky wartime advice columnist Emmy Lake discovers that sometimes it takes losing everything to find what we need most in this heartwarming finale to a quartet of uplifting historical fiction novels set in World War II London.

London, July 1944. After nearly five years of war, the readers of Woman’s Friend magazine are relying on Emmy Lake and her team more than ever. With the city under attack during the Blitz, the magazine staff decamps to the countryside for the summer. Determined to support women on the home front, Emmy and friends work tirelessly to inspire resilience in the midst of wartime struggle.

With her army officer husband Charles posted close to home, and best friend Bunty by her side, Emmy throws herself into rural life, juggling children, magazine assignments, and preparations for a very important wedding. Then a call comes that may finally give her the chance to fulfill her long-held dream of becoming a war correspondent.

But when disaster strikes, Emmy must lean on her friends, her community, and her readers more than ever. Brimming with courage and compassion, a lovable cast of characters, and winning wartime details, Dear Miss Lake is an enormously uplifting testament to the power of friendship and hope.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

AJ Pearce grew up in Hampshire, England. She studied at the University of Sussex and Northwestern University. A chance discovery of a 1939 women’s magazine became the inspiration for her series The Emmy Lake Chronicles, which includes Dear Mrs. Bird, Yours Cheerfully, and Mrs. Porter Calling. She lives in the south of England.

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“It’s hard to accept that this is the end of the Emmy Lake series, but if there has to be an end, let it be this one: Dear Miss Lake. Sheer joy!” ―Bonnie Garmus, author of Lessons in Chemistry

Plucky wartime advice columnist Emmy Lake discovers that sometimes it takes losing everything to find what we need most in this heartwarming finale to a quartet of uplifting historical fiction novels set in World War II London.

London, July 1944. After nearly five years of war, the readers of Woman’s Friend magazine are relying on Emmy Lake and her team more than ever. With the city under attack during the Blitz, the magazine staff decamps to the countryside for the summer. Determined to support women on the home front, Emmy and friends work tirelessly to inspire resilience in the midst of wartime struggle.

With her army officer husband Charles posted close to home, and best friend Bunty by her side, Emmy throws herself into rural life, juggling children, magazine assignments, and preparations for a very important wedding. Then a call comes that may finally give her the chance to fulfill her long-held dream of becoming a war correspondent.

But when disaster strikes, Emmy must lean on her friends, her community, and her readers more than ever. Brimming with courage and compassion, a lovable cast of characters, and winning wartime details, Dear Miss Lake is an enormously uplifting testament to the power of friendship and hope.

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Chapter 1: Bunty Has a Surprise CHAPTER 1 Bunty Has a Surprise
Guy Collins was a man of some talents, but until now he had kept motorcycle mechanics under his hat. As the sun shone down on a beautiful July morning, I walked up to the entrance of Dower Cottage to see both Guy and his brother flat on their backs marvelling at the workings of what, by the sound of it, was a terrifically fascinating valve.

“I say, well done,” said Charles from underneath the Sunbeam Model 8. “That’s definitely looking better.”

Major Charles Mayhew, who also happened to be my husband, was on forty-eight hours’ leave from his base just under an hour away. With Italy beaten and put firmly in its place, four months ago and to my absolute joy, he had been sent back to Britain, where he had been promoted and sent to work on something operational and, as ever, enormously secret. The fact that he was currently lying on the ground and covered in oil did not for a moment detract from the thrill of having him home. After over two and a half years of marriage, we were finally in the same country, and most important of all, he was safe.

“Hello, darling,” I said, bending to retrieve a piece of rag and a spanner. “Has the old deathtrap been playing you up again?”

Charles looked up, smiled broadly, and leapt to his feet, greeting me with an enthusiastic kiss. “She’s a trouper,” he said, patting the cracked leather seat as if the motorcycle was a trusty old horse that had carried its owner though the Somme. “Guy has just worked a small miracle. I say, you look smashing.” He kissed me again.

Guy, who was also now on his feet, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a large black smudge. He had rolled his sleeves up and was up to his forearms in grease. “It should get you back to the base,” he said, as he surveyed his handiwork. “Better test it out first though.”

Before Charles could reply, I moved in.

“It’s nearly lunch,” I said, firmly. “I’m under strict instruction to bring you both up to the high field to meet the others. The children are mad keen to see you, and Bunty has laid on the most terrific spread. I’m to take you there straight away.” I paused and looked at them. “You might want to clean up a bit first.”

At the promise of food there was no argument from the men as they followed me into Mrs. Tavistock’s cottage. Bunty’s granny was always a generous hostess, and never more so than now. For the last fortnight, London had been under constant attack from Hitler’s new flying bombs as he tried yet again to break British morale. Throughout the city, sirens rang out day and night with air-raid alerts. Under today’s cloudless sky in the Hampshire countryside, it was quite possible to pretend that it wasn’t having an effect, but that was far from the truth. There had been two direct hits where Bunty and I lived in London, and while our home in Braybon Street had been extraordinarily lucky, a desperate number of our neighbours had not.

The morning after the second bomb, our friends from the fire station, Roy and Fred, had come round, the colour drained from their faces.

“There’s at least fifteen dead,” said Roy, quietly, “and well over a hundred more injured.”

“They won’t put that in the papers,” said Fred. “These new rockets are vicious blighters. I don’t want to scare you, but if you can get the kids out of the city, we both think that would be a very good idea.”

The children’s mother, Thelma, had been one of our dearest friends. Almost exactly a year ago, she had been killed by the Luftwaffe and at her request we had become George, Margaret, and Stan’s temporary guardians until their dad came home from the front. With the end of the war now in sight, nothing was more important than keeping the children safe. Roy and Fred were usually two of the biggest jokers we knew, but when they were serious, you listened.

“Don’t wait for the end of term,” said Roy. “Put them on the first bloody train you can find.”

We didn’t have to be told twice. Bombing raids might have been part of wartime life, but seeing the devastation they caused never became any easier. Now, with the arrival of the doodlebugs, and as it was so close to the summer holidays, a decision was swiftly made. A phone call later, and Bunty and the children were on their way to her granny’s, two hours from London and with masses of room for everyone.

I had stayed on in Pimlico, working with Guy and the rest of the team at Woman’s Friend magazine where we were doing everything we could to support our readers after nearly five long years of war.

It was a job that very much needed to be done. Everyone was exhausted. For Britain’s women it wasn’t just from the physical demands of war work, but the keeping things going—looking after the children, dealing with shortages of everything, or trying to turn carrots and potatoes into a new, interesting meal for the thousandth time. And when you added grief and loss and loneliness on top, not to mention the current bombardment from the V-1s, that was a very big weight to bear.

Today, I was grateful to be able to escape to the countryside and picnic with my friends. Guy and I had arrived the previous evening, relieved to deliver our precious cargo of Stan’s two guinea pigs. Now, with the brothers having used a ration-defying amount of carbolic soap to combat the motorcycle oil, we headed off to the top field. It was only a ten-minute walk, and as we strolled along the narrow lane I breathed in deeply, savouring the fresh air. Tall spikes of purple and pink foxgloves lined our route as they poked up between the white umbrellas of wild carrot, while clouds of fluffy meadowsweet swayed in the ditches. There wasn’t a florist in all of London that could come close.

“How is Harold coping without Bunty?” asked Charles as we walked, arm in arm. “Is he pining away now that she’s moved down here?”

I laughed. Harold and Bunty had been seeing each other for some time and it was screamingly obvious to everyone that they were perfect for each other. Both, however, had been through difficult times during the war, and perhaps this was holding them back. Bunty always played things down and Harold seemed stricken with fear at the very thought of asking her to make things more official.

Having recently forced Charles to corner him and ask very severely what his intentions were, it transpired that Harold was absolutely convinced that he wasn’t good enough for Bunty. Consequently, he couldn’t bear the thought of what he was sure would be the crushing blow of rejection should he suggest anything permanent between the two. For his part, Charles had been equally hopeless and not thought to tell him to buck up and get on with it.

“You’ll see for yourself in a minute,” I said. “Although if you’d jolly well pushed him in the right direction, Harold would probably have proposed by now. Guy, couldn’t you have a word?”

Guy stuck his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “You can’t go around bullying people into this sort of thing,” he said, sounding vague and looking over a hedge.

“It’s not bullying,” I replied. “It’s Bunty. Honestly, you’re both as bad as each other.”

Charles and Guy exchanged synchronised raised eyebrows. I took my arm out of Charles’ and marched on, telling them that I would obviously...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Scribner
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2026
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1668007754
• ISBN 13: 9781668007754
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Auflage: 1
• Anzahl der Seiten: 304
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar