Enchanted by a Lady's Talent: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Abigail Agar

  “Pippa! Good heavens! What on earth took you so long?” her mother asked the moment she stepped inside the house.

  “There were riots in town, Mother. I could not get home. Whose coach is that outside?” she asked.

  “It is Lord Barnaby, Pippa. He has come to pay a call on you and have dinner,” her mother explained in a hushed tone.

  “What?” she gasped, desperate for her mother to tell her something different.

  “He sent a letter earlier this afternoon, but you were out with Fiona. I hoped that you would get home before he arrived, but you were not here and it has been humiliating to have to explain that we did not know where you were at,” her mother said.

  “Did you not hear about the riots?” she asked.

  “I heard something about riots but did not know that you were stuck amid them. Anyway, you are positively covered in dust. Go change and make yourself look decent. Be quick about it. I shall stall him a little bit longer before we have dinner.”

  Pippa was still in a state of shock when she rushed to get changed and make herself ready. The last thing she wanted was to have to speak with Lord Barnaby. The first time she'd met him, he had patronised her about her love of writing and when she had danced with him again at the ball hosted by Mr. Shelley the evening before, he had insinuated that she was nothing more than a pretty young lady and he liked to be seen dancing with pretty young ladies.

  She disliked him a great deal, but understood that it hardly mattered. If he had come around, her mother would be eager to show him that Pippa was presentable and, further still, marriageable.

  If she had been aware that he was coming earlier, she would not have rushed to get home. Instead, she would have remained at the bookshop and helped Mr. Brooks for as long as she could.

  Pippa set down the book which he had given her. It was their work. They had pieced it together quite nicely and even if it were not able to be rebound, which she was going to make an effort to do regardless, she would read through it.

  After quickly changing and fixing her hair, she made her way to the parlour, where her mother and father waited with Lord Barnaby.

  “Good evening,” she said, curtseying. “You all must forgive me. I was seeing my friend, Miss White, and on my way home, I was trapped on the other side of a riot.”

  “Oh, my dear. I was not aware that you had been caught in that. Are you all right?” her father asked in concern.

  “Yes, Father, I am. I did not have to see any of the worst of it. Only I saw that many shops have been destroyed, which was quite upsetting enough,” she said.

  “Those animals,” Lord Barnaby grumbled.

  “Yes, I wish they had found a better way to express their anger,” she said, not liking that he compared them to animals even if they are in the wrong.

  “Where were you? How did you stay safe?” her father asked.

  “I hid in a shop which had already been harmed. I climbed inside, through the broken shop window and I hid in the back.”

  “My goodness!” her mother exclaimed, suddenly very sorry for her.

  “I am perfectly all right,” she said.

  “Very well, very well. I am glad that it is over, and you are home now,” her father said.

  “Yes, Father, as am I,” she replied.

  “If that is all finished, might I request that we have our dinner soon?” Lord Barnaby asked.

  It was a surprising segue, but Pippa’s mother nodded politely.

  “Indeed, you must be famished. Come, let us make our way to the dining room,” she directed.

  They did just that and sat down to eat. The maid who came each day for a few hours to cook and clean had stayed late in order to impress Lord Barnaby into thinking that she lived with them and that they could afford better than they truly were able.

  Throughout the dinner, Lord Barnaby continually looked at her and smiled with wolfish eyes. There was something about the expression which left Pippa terribly uncomfortable. She had begun to wonder if he was trying to signal the extent of his interest or if he was trying to make her feel special somehow, even though she found him rather appalling.

  “I have to say, Mrs. Blackwell, you keep your home run quite nicely. I must also say that you keep your daughter run very well,” he said with a laugh.

  The insult was a slap to Pippa. He was insinuating that she had to be ‘kept’ somehow?

  “I confess that when I arrived and you told me with that panicked expression that she would be here soon, I had my doubts. I thought I had been a fool to lend myself to the idea that she was actually a good young lady. But I have been proven wrong for doubting,” he continued.

  “Oh, yes, well…thank you, Lord Barnaby,” her mother said, the same panicked smile on her face in that moment.

  “When I first met your daughter, she told me she likes to write stories. I have told this to a few of my dear friends who have warned me against marriage to a young lady who allows her mind to run off like that. But I do think a young woman may be tamed with time,” he said.

  Pippa inhaled with a hiss of rage, but immediately tried to cover and be calm. Her mother gave her an expression of warning and Pippa clenched her teeth together instead of taking another bite of her food.

  “Thank goodness I have come to find that she is every bit as decent as the other types of young ladies I have interacted with. Only, she is more beautiful and what more could possibly matter to a man than having a wife who is pretty enough?” he asked.

  “Her mind?” Pippa suggested before she could stop herself.

  Her mother looked at her with wide eyes that told Pippa to hush.

  “Ah, yes, well, a mind is only as good as the husband who keeps it in check,” Lord Barnaby said, taking a sip of his wine with a smug smile on his face.

  “Lord Barnaby, would you have a wife who cannot hold an intelligent conversation with you?” she asked.

  “I appreciate a woman who does not converse too much at all, actually. All of that speaking from a woman does little to help anything,” he said.

  Feeling that she may burst out of her skin or attack him with her butter knife, Pippa took a calming breath. It was not enough. She was full of rage.

  “Lord Barnaby, a bit more wine, perhaps?” her mother offered.

  “Oh, I should not have too much. But…if you insist upon it,” he answered.

  The evening went along much the same and Pippa’s father had to do all that he could to steer the conversations away from areas which might insult Pippa and even her mother. Lord Barnaby, however, certainly did enjoy the alcohol which they kept flowing. Soon enough, he could barely form his insults, instead making an utter fool of himself as a drunkard and a lout.

  By the time he departed from their home, stumbling his way to his coach, Pippa was so full of relief at his departure that she did not think she could hold herself together any longer.

  “Mother! How can I possibly marry a man like that?” she asked.

  “Oh, my dear, I have no idea. But I do know that you may not have a choice if you cannot sway someone else to do the job,” her mother said.

  “You mean that you would actually force me to marry him? Even though he is so awful?” she asked.

  “If I had no other choice? If you were going to end up as a spinster? Yes, I would.”

  Pippa was shocked. She had not imagined that her mother would actually put her through something like that, all for the sake of marriage and propriety. Lord Barnaby was awful.

  “Pippa, you must quickly find someone else or you will end up being married to Lord Barnaby. I am sorry, but that is how it must be,” her mother said.

  She was utterly distraught but did not know what to do. Her mother and father would never approve of Mr. Brooks, not that he had made her any sort of an offer. How could she convince him to do so? And then, how could she convince her mother and father to allow her to marry him?

  It was all very confusing for her, but she was determined to find a way. She could not s
ubject herself to marrying this baron who was as awful as a man could possibly be. He was rude and insulting and didn’t even realise it.

  By the time she went to her room, desperate for sleep, she was shocked to see a letter on her bed. Her mother must have left it there and forgotten about it.

  The letter was addressed as being from Fiona, but it was not Fiona’s handwriting. Pippa realised that someone must have signed it as her in order to prevent her mother and father from reading the note.

  She opened it and glanced down to see that it had been signed by George. The note itself was a poem.

  Darkest hair, the black of night,

  Eyes of blue with beauty bright,

  Her voice a bell, trilling sweetly,

  Her gown of amber falling neatly.

  O’ this lady, O’ my dear,

  How I long for her.

  With talent wondrous, brave, and pure,

  Unaware of her own allure,

  Softly calling out her hopes,

  Of characters within their tropes.

  O’ this lady, O’ my dear,

  How I long for her.

  She whispers softly in my ear,

  Or so I dream to one day hear,

  She tells me that she loves me so,

  And I cannot let her go.

  O’ this lady, O’ my dear,

  How I long for her.

  Pippa stared at the poem, unable to move for a long moment. She had not believed the day could grow any stranger. From her time in the shop with Mr. Brooks to her dinner with Lord Barnaby to this poem from George Sinclair, she was overwhelmed by the men in her life who sought to be near her.

  What could she do? She did not wish to hurt George’s feelings. The only option she had was to tell him that her mother and father would not approve and that she was being courted by another. He might be sad, but it would stop this from happening any further.

  Then, she would have to find a way to be rid of Lord Barnaby. However she did it, she would have to be clever, to make him think it was his idea.

  Then, and only then, would she be free to be courted by Mr. Brooks.

  Chapter 20

  Doyle and George were busy, fixing up the shop as best as they could. He still had an air of dreamy remembrance from the evening before when he had gone through as many pages as he could with Miss Blackwell. They had managed to put together five and a half books before the streets were clear enough that he was able to send her home safely.

  But now, Doyle and George were continuing that work, as well as sweeping up the glass and waiting for the man who was meant to come and give them an estimate on getting a new window.

  “I am amazed that they did so much damage,” George said.

  “As am I. And terribly saddened by it. I am relieved that our British history section remained largely untouched and that the theology section was completely left alone,” Doyle said.

  “I suspect that they were all too frightened to go near the theology books. After all, what if they had been struck down by trying to harm them?” George reasoned with a smile.

  “True enough. Cowards are still able to fear God, at least,” Doyle replied.

  “And what of the rest?” George asked.

  “Some of the books they pulled from the shelves landed unharmed. Some simply have bent pages, but we may still sell those and even mark them with a very slight discount for the imperfections,” he said.

  “What a shame,” George said.

  “Indeed, it is, but once we have everything cleaned up and put back together, I shall be able to take these damaged books to my home where they shall be out of the way. Then, I may bring many of my own volumes which remain unread and are perfectly new. If we fill the shelves with those for now and I receive some of the more popular books from the publishers, I do believe that we shall be all right,” Doyle said.

  “Well, I suppose we are fortunate that you have such a grand, private collection,” George said.

  “Indeed, we are. I look at the bakery, whose ovens had bricks were entirely removed. I know that they shall not be impossible to fix, but it is going to take time and money.”

  “Such awful men,” George said.

  “Indeed,” he replied.

  “So, as we are fortunate enough to still have the shop, what do you think we ought to do for those friends of ours who have seen theirs fall apart?” George asked.

  “I was thinking about that, actually. I am going to begin by writing to every person who has purchased a ticket for our event and ask them to please consider making purchases from the shops which have been damaged the next time they are in need of something. That way, they shall be earning an income as they try to put their livelihoods back together.”

  “That is an excellent idea,” George said.

  “Yes, and I shall reiterate it on the evening when we have all of those men here before us,” Doyle said.

  “Of course. That evening. And have you given any further thought to your plans for that evening?” George asked.

  “Certainly, I have. It is going to be marvelous,” Doyle said. “I am going to surprise Miss Blackwell. I have already told her that the event shall be on the thirteenth of August. Therefore, I am going to ask her to come and help me set up on the twelfth. She shall arrive and see all that I have put together for her.”

  “And you really do intend to add her name to the book?”

  “Most definitely. I cannot hold to my original plan when it was so harmful. I was awful for even considering it.”

  George did not reply, but Doyle was glad for that. He already knew how George felt about it all and that he had been right to be angry and to disapprove. What Doyle had thought about doing was wrong from the start and he was ashamed that it required him falling for Miss Blackwell to actually care about fixing the matter.

  “May I ask what it was that prompted you to shift your idea?” George asked him.

  Doyle was certainly not willing to tell his employee about the feelings which he had for Miss Blackwell. Instead, he shrugged and answered him with nonchalance.

  “I knew that it was wrong. I knew from the beginning that it was wrong, and it was only selfishness that caused me to think that I should do something like that. But I cannot allow myself to behave in that way when I believe that it would harm us all in the long-term. You know, I do regret that I ever considered it and I think that I just needed to take some time to consider the importance of listening to my conscience.”

  This seemed to appease George and Doyle had no desire to share further details. They continued working on the shop, trying to fix things up and make it presentable. Although there was a great deal of work to be done, Doyle was simply relieved that he and George were making progress. He trusted that they would have enough taken care of that very day that it would be easy to have everything ready by the twelfth of August.

  At last, the man arrived to have a look at the window. Doyle was relieved, although he knew that he was not going to like whatever price the man determined. More than likely, he had realised that all these shops were desperate and he would gouge them accordingly.