Plus, receive recommendations and exclusive offers on all of your favorite books and authors from Simon & Schuster.
LIST PRICE $28.99
Get 25% off plus free shipping on orders of $40 or more with code GIFT25. (Terms apply)
Buy from Other Retailers
Table of Contents
About The Book
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).
Excerpt
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.
Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1
JESSIE CARSON
THE NORTH OF FRANCE, JANUARY 1918
FORTY MILES FROM THE FRONT
The narrow dirt road was pockmarked from shelling. Lewis, the chauffeur, advanced through shrapnel and around gaping potholes. In the passenger seat, I held tight to the door. The Ford hit a rut, and my head snapped back. I winced, not merely from the pain, but from the sight of fields stitched with barbed wire.
Destruction stretched to the horizon. There was not a single soul, nor a blade of grass, and the countryside blended with the gray clouds to form a colorless, hopeless terrain. Inhabitants had fled or been taken prisoner. The German army had obliterated homes and schools, churches and hospitals, libraries and lives. On farms, they bombed the rows of wheat that stood up to them. In orchards, they took axes to innocent apple trees. Branches lay on the ground, their dried-up leaves whispering in the wind.
At the checkpoint that would allow us to enter the war zone, we slowed to a stop behind five military trucks. Lewis cut the engine and lit a cigarette, which meant that we’d be here for a while. I pulled the collar of my woolen coat closer as the damp cold closed in. While Lewis sifted through the documents—passports, working papers, and authorizations stamped with blue ink, I squinted at the flakes of frost that clung to the corner of the windshield and discovered a kaleidoscope of designs. Silvery butterfly wings. A child’s mitten. Yes, my father had been right: even in the grimmest places, beauty abounded, if only you knew how to look.
“What a stiffrump!” Lewis gestured to a French military policeman who seemed to scrutinize each syllable of a truck driver’s paperwork. “At this rate, we’ll never get through.”
As we waited, scenes of my journey flitted through my mind, flapping like pages of a book caught in the wind. The ocean passage, in which my cabin-mate, a Red Cross volunteer, wore her life jacket the entire three weeks. Though afraid our ship would be torpedoed like the Lusitania, she sailed anyway. What courage! On our arrival in Bordeaux, my shipmates and I tasted real French wine and glimpsed angels and gargoyles in the architecture. Motoring to Paris, our Peugeot putted past lines of poplars that shaded the road. In the capital, Lewis helped me obtain authorizations to enter the war zone. We queued for hours at the police station to receive a stamped paper before dashing across the cobblestones to the Ministry of War, only to stand in line again. A three-day, herky-jerky, foreign-language obstacle course. I’d been in France for ten days, long enough to marvel at two elements—the awe-inspiring architecture and the mind-numbing administration.
Finally, the truck in front of us, which transported crates of cabbage alongside kegs of gunpowder, advanced. It was our turn. As he examined the papers, the MP frowned.
Seeing me tug nervously at my handkerchief, Lewis said, “You needn’t fret.”
The MP pointed to a line at the bottom of a document. Lewis flipped the page and pointed to the prefect’s scrawl. “We’ve done our bit. Now do yours and let us through.”
He gestured to me. “But it says that she’s a li—”
“We’re with the Morgan Brigade,” Lewis informed him in crisp, I’m-nearing-the-end-of-my-patience French.
The MP went slack-jawed. “Merci.” He waved us through.
I asked why he’d thanked us. Lewis responded that Anne Morgan’s efforts were known in these parts. And not just here. Miss Morgan was the reason I’d come. She’d commissioned a photographer and a filmmaker to record the effects of war. Back home, in a cinema around the corner from the New York Public Library, the audience had gaped at the images of a wan, white-haired farm couple dressed head to toe in black. Their craggy faces conveyed that they’d toiled under an unforgiving sun their entire lives. The Germans had slaughtered their goat and gelding, set their seeds on fire, and reduced their farmhouse to rubble. Arms limp at their sides, the couple lingered in front of their bombed-out barn, ghosts left with nothing to haunt. After the viewing, I couldn’t just sit home and pray.
Lewis and I were to drive straight from Paris to CARD Headquarters in the village of Blérancourt, where I’d report for duty as the newest recruit of the American Committee for Devastated France, Le Comité américain pour les régions dévastées (CARD). We passed through what used to be a village—cottages blown open, their shutters charred. On the outskirts, a roadside grave—at the head, a helmet on a cross, and standing upright at the base, a rusty bayonet. We inched by so slowly that I had time to read “Unknown soldier, August 1914.”
The scene, so forlorn, called out to me.
“Lewis,” I said, “please pull over.”
In CARD, we called each other by our surnames. When I’d first heard that someone named Lewis was going to be my chauffeur, I pictured a bald man with a monocle, not a sunny brunette Vassar girl. She and I were both in uniform, a horizon-blue jacket and skirt.
Lewis turned the wide steering wheel and maneuvered past debris to a clear patch on the side of the road. At the makeshift grave, we bowed our heads. In New York, street hawkers shouted until they were hoarse; horses nickered as they clopped down Fifth Avenue, milk wagons groaned under the weight of the cream; plump pigeons cooed the conditional language of love; from time to time, a lonely crow cawed. Here there was only an eerie silence.
Stiff from hours in the Ford, Lewis and I ambled toward rows of homes that had been reduced to mounds of stones that barely reached my waist. In the garden, there were ruins of rabbit hutches, the wood torn and twisted. Hand grenades and unexploded shells lay in the soil. Inside, where a dining room used to be, we could make out splintered table and chairs, a bassinet whose lace had been torn and dotted with dirt.
I could hardly believe I was finally here, in the midst of this mute, desolate madness. I remembered my boss’s riposte upon learning that I’d enlisted: “What the hell is a librarian going to do in the middle of a war zone?”
“Whatever I can to help.”
“How will you get to Europe?” she’d demanded with a smirk.
We both knew the ocean crossing cost more than I earned in a year.
I recalled the sheer satisfaction at disclosing that Miss Morgan had paid for my passage. Well, Miss Morgan’s brigade. For once, my boss, Winnifred Smythe—the brightest, oldest star in the constellation of the NYPL’s children section—had been speechless.
Never had I enjoyed a silence more.
“How does she know you?” she finally demanded. “You’re a nobody.”
It was unlikely that a librarian and the heiress to the largest U.S. banking fortune would cross paths. I replied that Miss Morgan might have heard of my efforts for the National League for Woman’s Service, which was founded so that we could contribute to the war effort. Naturally, Miss Morgan was treasurer. One of 250,000 volunteers, I headed the business unit. According to the secretary of the NYPL director, Miss Morgan had requested me by name.
“Why would she want you?” my boss muttered. “Why you and not me?”
My mother maintained that the “seek and ye shall find” passage of Matthew 7:7 referred to reading, that most answers could be found in books. I recalled the League’s 1917 manifesto: Resolved, that this National League for Woman’s Service shall be the consecration of Woman’s Power; that it shall be kept free from self-seeking and from politics…
No self-seeking or politics. That was why.
Lewis and I wandered along the cobblestone street. In front of a well, she paused to pick up a sooty rag doll. “I’ve made this trip ten times now.” She wiped its face clean. “But I never become inured to these remnants of families driven from their homes.”
We passed vestiges of what had been. In what used to be a cottage, a smashed curio cabinet, a sodden divan. In what used to be a backyard, Lewis positioned the doll on a chair whose legs had been hacked away. On the outskirts, I moseyed over the soft soil of farmland. No rebel wildflowers were tempted to put down roots here. No field mice scurried at the sound of my footsteps. No sparrows greeted us with wary chirps. Would the birds ever return?
The landscape reminded me of Willa Cather’s depiction of the Great Plains. Suddenly, I left this parcel for the library of my mind. It was two stories high, with a rolling ladder to access tomes on the top shelves. With its plump pillows and downy quilt, the window seat beckoned, and I often curled up with a book and gazed out at the secret garden, lush with roses and lavender. Now, I quickly crossed the creaking parquet to fetch My Ántonia. I wanted to walk straight on through the red grass and over the edge of the world, which could not be very far away.
“Carson!” I heard Lewis shout.
I returned from my cozy library to the present, where I’d managed to maroon myself in the middle of a muddy field.
“It’s full of land mines,” she said. “Find your exact footprints and walk back to me. Slowly.”
I turned my head. The grayish brown path stretched before me, an eternity to Lewis. I looked for my tracks—What was a rut? Where was the curve of my heel? My whole body shook, in part because of the cold, but mostly because I’d never been so frightened. On my first day in the war zone, I’d done what my boss had foretold—gotten myself in trouble. Actually, she’d predicted that I’d get myself killed. She lamented that I lived in my head, not in the real world. She was against my coming here. She was against me, period. I would prove her wrong.
I peered at the lumpy mud—had that puddle been there, or was that where I’d stepped? My heart thumped loud and hard. I was freezing, yet sweat dripped from my forehead. I wiped my brow with my father’s handkerchief and took my first step. I didn’t want to die. I didn’t want my boss to be right. Right, left. Right, left.
At the car, my whole body pulsed with panic, and I could barely catch my breath. I expected Lewis to lay into me, but all she said was “What a curfuggle!” The word meant “mess,” but was she referring to the situation or to me?
I sank into the passenger seat. Instead of slamming the door as I deserved, Lewis closed it gently and said, “Poor dear, you’re pale as snow.” The blanket of her concern warmed me, and the fear finally passed.
As she maneuvered onto the road, Lewis explained that we’d arrived in the Red Zone, where German soldiers had sown explosives the same way they used to plant potatoes. I recalled the description from the CARD report: Completely devastated. Damage to properties: 100%. Damage to Agriculture: 100%. Impossible to clean. Human life impossible.
Thus far, she had chatted away, glancing at me as much as at the road. Last Thursday, she’d turned twenty-five, which made her fifteen years younger than me. I remembered the constant inquiries that came with this delicate age. Do you have a beau? What does he do for a living? Has he proposed? How many children does he want? It was a relief that the questions had mostly stopped, though Mother occasionally whispered a wistful There’s still time.
“The girls managed to find some champagne,” Lewis had recounted. “My birthday party was a corking time! We Cards work like nailers, but know how to have fun, too. You’ll see.” She’d been here six months and was in charge of maintaining vehicles. Back home, she’d had her own car and chauffeur—now she repaired punctured tires, fixed engines, and scraped muck from the undercarriages.
“In the motor service,” she said, “we call ourselves les chauffeuses.”
Lewis loved to watch Frenchmen as she passed in the Ford. “They’ve never seen a woman drive—they don’t think it’s natural. Eyes bulging! Jaws dropped! It’s too killing!” she said, and we laughed. “Between the greasy spark plugs and the lack of hot water, my fingernails are black. Dear Mama—Philadelphia’s premier hostess—would be appalled!”
Lewis held up her hands, encased in expensive kidskin gloves. Instinctively, I covered a worn spot on my woolen ones. Most Cards were like Lewis, wealthy volunteers who paid their own expenses, whereas I drew a salary and had my costs, such as lessons to brush up my French and the ocean passage, covered. A uniform couldn’t erase the difference between us.
I told her that because I was a children’s librarian, my hands were either pink from paper cuts or blue from the ink blotter used to stamp books.
“How thrilling to share your knowledge with little ones,” she replied. I feared she was mocking me until she added, “Growing up, I had French and Latin tutors. After college, my father refused to permit me to seek employment.”
Suddenly, I felt sorry for an heiress. “What about translation work?” I asked. It could be done at home.
“Father said my knowledge is for my future husband. He expected me to select one of his employees—fine young stockbrokers—to marry.”
“My mother did the same. At Mass, there was a steady parade of suitors in our pew.”
“It’s enough to make a girl an atheist!”
I chuckled. “I never blamed God. And I never found out how Mother managed to unearth so many bachelors.”
The truth was, I wanted to support myself and was content in my career. However, I was ready for a challenge and longed to see new faces. And there were things I was ready to leave behind. Lewis and I had different upbringings, but here we were on the same scarred road, a pair of Cards with the goal of helping French villagers.
The sorrow of the land seeped into us. The rest of the journey felt like a funeral; we remained silent in order to pay our respects to the dead. She kept her eyes on the ruts as we drove through an hour of nothingness.
When it began to rain, Lewis said, “I trust you brought galoshes. This drizzle has been a near constant, and mud has taken over.”
As she stepped on the clutch to gear down, I ogled her suede button boots, which fit like a second skin, clearly crafted especially for her. I wore boxy work boots—the only kind I could afford. Was I exchanging a difficult boss for spoiled socialites?
“Are the other Cards easy to get along with?” I asked.
“For the most part, the girls are kind and hard workers. Miss Morgan and Dr. M.D.—that’s what we call CARD president Dr. Anne Murray Dike—run a tight unit. When a debutante hurkle-durkled in bed until 10:00 a.m., Dr. M.D. shipped her back to Boston.”
Unease gripped me at the thought of being discarded like a defective lamp. My boss would cackle, I told you so.
“Then there’s the girl who couldn’t cope,” Lewis continued. “After two weeks, she fled to Le Ritz.”
I wondered why she’d given up. Was she not entirely fluent in French? Or had homesickness overwhelmed her? I’d signed a contract—two years without seeing my sister and mother. What had I been thinking? I’d so looked forward to being in France that I hadn’t considered that the job meant leaving behind family.
“Here we are,” Lewis said.
We entered the war-torn village of Blérancourt at dusk. The fading light did not cloak the ruins of a stone cottage. Under what was left of the roof, a pug-nosed teen with pigtails perched on a pile of rubble, hunched over a book. She was so taken by the story that the beams of our headlamps did not register.
“That’s Marcelle Moreau,” Lewis said. “In what’s left of her house. Now they live in a quarry. Her father died on the battlefield. While her mother works as a laundress and seamstress, Marcelle looks after three rambunctious brothers. Madame Moreau doesn’t give her a moment of peace.”
“Books can be that moment.” Helping children like her was why I’d come. I needed to put aside my fears over being inadequate. “Will you introduce us?”
“I can try.” Lewis slowed the car. “She usually runs off.”
I dug into my purse and pulled out Anne of Green Gables, a comfort read that I was attempting in French. Anne always remembered the silvery, peaceful beauty and fragrant calm of that night. It was the last night before sorrow touched her life; and no life is ever quite the same again when once that cold, sanctifying touch has been laid upon it. I had a feeling that the girl would understand. From the window of the Ford, I proffered the novel, not unlike a carrot for Black Beauty. She snatched it.
“Would you like a few more?” I asked in French.
“Ma told me not to talk to devil-women!”
Diablesses. I suppressed a laugh. I was flattered—no one had ever considered me a bad influence. “I love reading, just like you. I’m the new librarian.”
She cocked her head. “Liar! Everyone knows that librarians are men.”
“Times are changing,” I told her.
“Not here.” Marcelle sized up Lewis. “Ma says that only harlots smoke or bob their hair.”
“Yet it’s acceptable for men to smoke and frequent the barber?” I asked.
Contemplating my words, Marcelle gnawed on the tip of her pigtail.
“You reflect on that double standard,” I added.
“Come find me when you realize it’s unfair,” Lewis said. “I’ll teach you to ‘chauff.’?”
Books and driving—who could resist the tantalizing offer? Marcelle stepped toward us.
“I sent you to the well to fill our pails,” we heard a woman holler. “How many times have I told you not to pester les dames?”
Eyes wide, the teen scampered off.
“Shouldn’t we go after her?” I asked Lewis.
“Nothing doing. Even I’m intimidated by Marcelle’s mom.”
As the Ford bounced over the cobblestones, Lewis pointed out the town hall, a two-story building that housed the municipal library. Miraculously, all four walls were intact. Instinctively, I patted my satchel, where I kept my blueprint for the children’s library. I couldn’t wait to share it with Miss Morgan. First impressions were lasting impressions, my father had believed. I’d prove that she’d made the right choice in employing me.
Our Headquarters—a demolished castle—came into view. Only a section of it remained intact. The golden glow from its ground-floor windows beckoned. We crossed over the stone bridge and dried-up moat, past a copse of spindly spruces. I was never so happy to see trees. As Willa Cather wrote, Trees were so rare in that country, and they had to make such a hard fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about them, and visit them as if they were persons. We continued through the arch of the grand sandstone gate to a hamlet of prefabricated wooden barracks topped with tin roofs. Lewis pointed out the garage, the mercantile where villagers purchased items at reduced prices, and a clinic. Six of the barracks were bedrooms; the seventh, called le club-house, was a community center where meals were served. She parked in front of the sliver of château still standing. In the moonlight, the tall sandstone castle resembled a satin wedding dress; the ruins of rubble stretched beside it brought to mind a lace train.
When we alighted from the Ford, a terrier swirled around my skirt. “Hello, boy,” I said.
Lewis explained that during bombardments, pets had become separated from their owners and now roamed the rues in search of food and affection.
“We all have dogs, and we all have fleas,” she added cheerfully.
As we stroked his head, Lewis stiffened like a soldier waiting to be told, At ease.
“It’s the two Annes,” she whispered.
I watched the duo exiting the imposing oak door of the château and recognized Anne Morgan from newspaper photos. With her wealth, one might have expected to read about her in the society pages—where she wintered and which duke asked for her hand in marriage. Instead, front-page profile pieces described her advocacy for working women—pushing for better salaries, safer conditions in factories, and paid vacation. She and her high-society friends picketed the streets of Manhattan with impoverished garment workers, knowing that where the well-heeled went, newspapermen with cameras would follow.
These days, articles underscored her efforts in France. When war broke out in 1914, Anne Morgan opened her villa in Versailles to convalescing soldiers. By 1916, she served as the treasurer of the American Fund for the French Wounded. In 1917, she and nine other women were given permission by Général Pétain to settle in Blérancourt in order to help civilians.
Tonight, Miss Morgan’s graying curls escaped from underneath her CARD hat, which tilted to the side. She wore a starched white shirt and a black tie with her uniform. Her eyes were fiercely intelligent, and her chin was slightly raised, as though she was accustomed to doing battle. At her side was Dr. Anne Murray Dike.
According to Lewis, the Scot was a force of nature, too. After studying medicine in Canada, Dr. M.D. had wed a Boston professor. They later parted ways; some blamed the divorce on Miss Morgan. The two Annes were inseparable.
Where Miss Morgan was robust, Dr. M.D. was tall and svelte. Waves of strawberry blond hair framed her oval face. She fixed me with a pensive regard.
“Welcome, Carson.” Miss Morgan’s voice was low and authoritative. “We kept one eye on our work, the other on the window. We wanted to be the first to greet you. How was the trip?”
I looked askance at Lewis, fully expecting her to recount my misstep in the field.
“Uneventful,” she replied airily.
“How are you holding up?” Miss Morgan asked me. “I remember the first time we drove through the devastation. It quite does something to you.”
This was where I should have said something. Those miles were a heart-rending sight? Nice to meet you? I’d love to show you my blueprints? Unable to decide, I realized I’d created a clumsy silence only when Miss Morgan said, “I propose a restorative drink.”
Unsure if the invitation was a form of politeness, I turned to Lewis, who grinned. “Let’s!”
The terrier and I followed the Cards into the château, eager for the next chapter to begin.
Reading Group Guide
Get a FREE ebook by joining our mailing list today! Plus, receive recommendations for your next Book Club read.
This reading group guide for Miss Morgan’s Book Brigade includes an introduction, discussion questions, ideas for enhancing your book club, and a Q&A with author Janet Skeslien Charles. The suggested questions are intended to help your reading group find new and interesting angles and topics for your discussion. We hope that these ideas will enrich your conversation and increase your enjoyment of the book.
Introduction
In the midst of World War I, an American librarian named Jessie Carson takes leave from her job at the New York Public Library to join a group of women heading the American Committee for Devastated France. Her contributions have a profound and lasting effect on the literary landscape of France.
Topics & Questions for Discussion
1. Miss Morgan’s Book Brigade was inspired by the real-life work of Anne Morgan, Jessie Carson, and the women known as Cards (an acronym from Le Comité américain pour les regions dévastées). Were you at all familiar with this piece of history prior to reading the novel?
2. Anne Morgan, as the daughter of millionaire J. P. Morgan, and Jessie “Kit” Carson, who actually draws a salary as part of her contract with the American Committee for Devastated France, come from very different backgrounds. How do the class differences factor in, if at all, to the stories of these two women?
3. Why do you think Janet Skeslien Charles decided to interweave dual narratives in this story? What does the narrative of Wendy in 1987 reveal about Kit and the women in 1918, and vice versa?
4. Wendy Patterson works in the Remembrance Department of the New York Public Library, where she is used to handling priceless documents and artifacts. What, if anything, is revealed about Wendy’s character when she takes the Card documents off-site? Was her coworker Roberto justified in his frustrations over that choice?
5. Many classic children’s books are referenced throughout the novel, from Anne of Green Gables and The Wizard of Oz to The Little Prince. Many of these are still widely read today. What is it about these stories that enables them to seamlessly cross generations?
6. When we first meet Kit, she frequently recounts the opinions of others in her head, such as those of her mother and her former boss at the NYPL. As Kit grows into her place in France, those voices matter less. Do you think Kit’s confidence in her ability to make a difference grows throughout the book? Can you pinpoint it to one experience?
7. We see Kit reach out to Sidonie, the village recluse, by reassembling her late husband’s book with a new binding. She lends local villager Jeanne a copy of Alice in Wonderland to help cope with the loss of her sister. These are two small acts of kindness involving books that have lasting effects on those characters. What does this say about the role of books in our lives? Have you ever used a book to reach out to someone?
8. We learn a lot about Kit’s relationships with Tom, her sister Mabel, and her mother through excerpts of her letters. From a distance, they experience Kit’s life in France, and she has a specific tone in communicating with each person. How do those relationships change, if at all, over the course of the book?
9. France could be considered its own character in the book, from the use of language to the descriptions of food and the characters’ travels through northern France to Paris. What stands out the most about France in this time period? Did anything surprise you?
10. Wendy’s professor suggests that readers won’t be able to identify with the Cards if she presents them as perfect figures in her writing. Do you agree with that? What would you have done in Wendy’s shoes?
11. We learn that Kit chooses to leave her position with CARD and move on to another opportunity after she is denied a salary bonus. Was Kit correct in her decision to move on? Do you think it was just a matter of the money, or was there something larger there?
12. Why do you think the important work of these women, such as helping with evacuations, rebuilding communities, and bringing hope and care to so many people, has been lost to time when compared to some of the other stories you hear from World War I? Would it be different if the work were done in, say, 1987, when Wendy’s story takes place? What about in 2024?
Enhance Your Book Club
1. A Library Card, a Recipe Card, a Calling Card, a Wild Card—if you were one of these volunteers, what kind of “Card” would you be?
2. Enjoy a French beverage service—a selection of coffee or black tea with sugar and milk options on the side. Consider various scones with butter and jam or madeleines as a food option.
3. Jessie Carson believes in the power of stories as something we carry throughout our lives. In the spirit of the novel, share a memorable book or story from your own childhood.
4. Seek out a map and chart Kit’s journey, including stops in New York City, Blérancourt and Compiègne in northern France, and then on to Paris.
5. Learn what else Janet is up to online at jskesliencharles.com
A Conversation with Janet Skeslien Charles
Q: You speak in the Author’s Note about your discovery of the Cards, which is a piece of history that is unfamiliar to many people. What surprised you the most in researching these women?
It was surprising to see how women’s experiences and contributions have been edited out of World War I.
First, Frenchwomen deserve credit for their tireless work and courage. Without formal education, they were suddenly expected to be nurses and teachers and agriculture specialists. In the north of France, most able-bodied men were soldiers, prisoners of war, or dead. Women held together families and farms. We often hear about the Nazi occupation during World War II, but the German occupation of the north of France during World War I was also brutal. Women and children were starved and forced to work essentially as enslaved labor in the fields. Frenchwomen resisted as much as they could to protect themselves and their children.
Second, it was heartening to see how CARD came together during and after the war. It truly was an international endeavor. Every cent donated went to the cause of helping French civilians. Lifelong friendships were formed. I loved reading about how women from different backgrounds and countries learned from each other and inspired one other.
Q: Both of your novels, The Paris Library and Miss Morgan’s Book Brigade, are considered historical fiction. What do you enjoy most about writing within that genre?
When I started researching my library trilogy, I didn’t think about where the novels would sit on the shelf. I just tried to write the best stories I could. Because the world can be grim, as a reader I enjoy learning and appreciate lighthearted moments in books. Thus, when I write, I use humor to shine a light on dark topics. Wendy’s universe of Remembrance allowed me moments of respite while researching the brutality of the war.
Now that my books are out in the world, I feel very lucky to be a part of the historical fiction community, with readers who appreciate strong characters as well as the amazing authors in this community who support and lift each other up.
Q: Miss Morgan’s Book Brigade is set in dual time periods—northern France during World War I and New York City in 1987. Did you know from the start that those would be the settings for this book?
At first I thought the 1987 section would be set in Paris, but my editor suggested a new location to differentiate Miss Morgan from The Paris Library. This was a really interesting idea. I decided on New York because many of the CARD archives can be found there and because that is where Jessie “Kit” Carson worked before moving to France.
Q: This novel is a love letter to both books and librarians and how we carry stories with us throughout life. Are there memories from visiting libraries as a child that you carry with you as an adult?
Absolutely! The Toole County Library in Shelby, Montana, is still my favorite library in the whole world. I’m grateful to my mother and grandmother for introducing me to it and for our weekly visits. I still remember discovering Marie Curie and Eleanor Roosevelt through illustrated books. Reading about them made me realize that women could do amazing things.
Q: Miss Morgan’s Book Brigade features an extraordinary list of classic children’s books. Do you have a personal favorite from the many titles included?
I came to Anne of Green Gables as an adult, and I absolutely love it. In reading those classics, I recalled how much heartache and loss children bore. It’s a reminder that we never know what someone has been through, and that it’s important to be kind because we don’t know what others are facing.
Q: You currently live in Paris. Is there anything in your day-to-day life in France that you enjoy pulling from for inspiration in your books?
My favorite place to write is still my hometown, Shelby, Montana. I love spending time with family as well as the calm there.
In Paris, I just moved to a new apartment and am still figuring out the neighborhood. One place I love to walk is the Montparnasse Cemetery. Each day, I walk past different graves, names, and stories.
Q: In your Author’s Note you speak to the many challenges librarians and libraries are facing in 2024. What would you say to anyone questioning whether nor not we need libraries now?
Librarians are on the front lines of the cultural war, protecting our right to read freely. These days, many people would rather block a friend or family member than have the difficult conversation. Likewise, it’s easier to ban a book rather than examine the truths inside or discuss the topic with loved ones.
Q: Do you have a next project in mind? And, if so, what is it?
I’m excited to share that I have another library book coming out! It is set in Paris and features characters from The Paris Library and Miss Morgan’s Book Brigade.
Product Details
- Publisher: Atria Books (April 30, 2024)
- Length: 336 pages
- ISBN13: 9781668008980
Browse Related Books
Raves and Reviews
“Charles (The Paris Library) follows up her bestselling debut with a dramatic story of war and literature in WWI France…. Charles packs Jessie’s story with emotion…Bibliophiles are in for a treat.” —Publishers Weekly
“An inspiring novel that celebrates resiliency, community, and connection.” —Booklist
“A wonderful novel that will keep you absorbed for an entire weekend. It also might make you want to pull a few classics off your shelf to reread, which for me is always the sign of a good book.” —Bookreporter
“A compelling remembrance of real librarians who could very easily have been lost to history. Readers who like historical novels with strong women characters will enjoy.” —Library Journal
“An astonishing novel of postwar WWI France with the beating heart of courageous women who change the world through books. . . and a moving tale of sacrifice, heroism, and inspired storytelling immersed in the power of books to change our lives.” —Patti Callahan Henry, bestselling author of The Secret Book of Flora Lea
“Bursting with remarkable characters and filled with heart-in-mouth moments, Miss Morgan’s Book Brigade is a hugely enjoyable read and an enthralling, emotional story rich in historical detail. . . . This wonderful book is a gift to the reader.” —Liese O’Halloran Schwarz, author of What Could Be Saved
“Janet Skeslien Charles is that perfect writer, able to take a true nugget of history and weave it into a tale that grips you from page one. She has an alchemist's eye for tiny historical detail that shimmers under her pen. . . . A rich, glorious life-affirming tribute to literature and female solidarity. Simply unforgettable!” —Kate Thompson, author of The Wartime Book Club
“A wonderful story about the ability of books not only to inspire, but also to rescue and restore. The characters are so richly drawn that they leap off the page… The meticulous research brings such a satisfying depth and authenticity to the narrative, and this is perfectly balanced by the compassion and humanity of the characters. I absolutely loved it!” —Ruth Hogan, bestselling author of The Keeper of Lost Things
“In this compelling ode to the astonishing power of libraries and librarians, readers are introduced to the intrepid, real-life heroine Jessie Carson who delivered hope along with books to children in war-torn France. Janet Skeslien Charles’s latest novel is – to borrow the words of one of her own characters – ‘unputdownable!’” —Marie Benedict, New York Times bestselling author of The Only Woman in the Room
Praise for The Paris Library
“As a Parisian, an ardent bookworm, and a longtime fan of the American Library in Paris, I devoured The Paris Library in one hungry gulp. It is charming and moving, with a perfect balance between history and fiction.” —Tatiana de Rosnay, New York Times bestselling author of Sarah's Key
“A fresh take on WWII France that will appeal to bibliophiles everywhere…an irresistible, compelling read.” —Fiona Davis, national bestselling author of The Chelsea Girls
“Well-researched, stirring, and rich with detail, The Paris Library is an ode to the importance of libraries, books, and the human connections we find within both.” —Kristin Harmel, New York Times bestselling author of The Book of Lost Names
Resources and Downloads
High Resolution Images
- Book Cover Image (jpg): Miss Morgan's Book Brigade Hardcover 9781668008980
- Author Photo (jpg): Janet Skeslien Charles Krystal Kenney(0.1 MB)
Any use of an author photo must include its respective photo credit