![Miss Morgan's Book Brigade: A Novel](http://img.images-bn.com/static/redesign/srcs/images/grey-box.png?v11.9.4)
![Miss Morgan's Book Brigade: A Novel](http://img.images-bn.com/static/redesign/srcs/images/grey-box.png?v11.9.4)
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Overview
1918: As the Great War rages, Jessie Carson takes a leave of absence from the New York Public Library to work for the American Committee for Devastated France. Founded by millionaire Anne Morgan, this group of international women help rebuild destroyed French communities just miles from the front. Upon arrival, Jessie strives to establish something that the French have never seen—children’s libraries. She turns ambulances into bookmobiles and trains the first French female librarians. Then she disappears.
1987: When NYPL librarian and aspiring writer Wendy Peterson stumbles across a passing reference to Jessie Carson in the archives, she becomes consumed with learning her fate. In her obsessive research, she discovers that she and the elusive librarian have more in common than their work at New York’s famed library, but she has no idea their paths will converge in surprising ways across time.
Based on the extraordinary little-known history of the women who received the Croix de Guerre medal for courage under fire, Miss Morgan’s Book Brigade is a “rich, glorious, life-affirming tribute to literature and female solidarity. Simply unforgettable” (Kate Thompson, author of The Wartime Book Club).
Product Details
ISBN-13: | 9781668008997 |
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Publisher: | Atria Books |
Publication date: | 04/01/2025 |
Pages: | 336 |
Sales rank: | 707,399 |
Product dimensions: | 5.31(w) x 8.25(h) x 0.88(d) |
About the Author
![About The Author](http://img.images-bn.com/static/redesign/srcs/images/grey-box.png?v11.9.4)
Read an Excerpt
Prologue PROLOGUE
You can learn a lot about a life by looking in someone’s closet. I stand before mine, pondering which outfit to wear tonight, and thumb through fitted cardigans and slacks, remnants of a long career. Cramped to the side are relics of a past life: the witch’s hat and smock that pupils begged me to wear each Halloween; a wedding gown that didn’t quite make it to the altar; and the uniform of the American Committee for Devastated France—horizon blue, the same color that the French army wore. I can’t help but touch the hem of the skirt. Seventy years old, and the wool blend, warm and light, still embodies the quality that Paris is famous for. The stories this cloth could tell... the fabric of life during the Great War. It had seen love and hate, sacrifice and stinginess, longing and hope, despair and courage. Always courage.
My fingers continue along the sleeve, to the rust-colored stain on the cuff. No matter how we washed it—dabbed with seltzer water, soaked in iodine, scrubbed with Marseille soap—his blood wouldn’t come out. No matter. The material is nearly dark enough to conceal it, and the discoloration can be attributed to a splatter of ratatouille.
To free the uniform, I seize the shoulders and pull, allowing myself to cradle the jacket as if it were a woman I could embrace. Something digs into my chest. On the lapel, a medal hangs from a blue-and-white striped ribbon. The silver has tarnished, but I can make out the griffin, the symbol of the Cards. On the reverse is engraved DO RIGHT AND FEAR NO MAN.
If I don the uniform, would it fit? Only one way to find out. Yes, the jacket is elegant over my blouse. Encouraged, I shimmy out of my slacks, only to find that the skirt bites at the waist. Still, it feels right, as if the uniform wants to be worn. The final touch is the handkerchief, its cloth worn thin by time. I slide it into my pocket.
I glance at my watch. Nearly 7:00 p.m. The decision of what to wear has been made—if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.
I rush from the apartment, up Fifth Avenue, to the New York Public Library. Shoulders squared, I march up the steps like I have thousands of times before. Upon my arrival in Manhattan, this was my school, my social life, my home.
In the hall, my fingertips trace scuff marks along the walls. Some may see imperfections, but I remember crates being delivered, a runaway book cart crashing down the staircase, and apprentices like me accidentally smudging the white paint with blotter ink that clung to our skin like perfume.
The past presses on me, memories fill the air. I clutch the handkerchief and know that now, finally, it’s time.