The fire crackled in the room, Sebastian’s pencil scratched against the page, and Izzy… couldn’t stand the silence and secrecy one moment more.
She whirled in her seat and clutched the chair tightly. “I’m writing stories for children,” she burst out.
Sebastian’s head lifted with a jerk, his eyes wide. “You’re what?”
Izzy nodded, giving him a wobbly smile. “I tell stories to my nieces and nephews, and now I am writing them down.”
He blinked once, then his mouth curved up, and he set his drawing aside. “I heard that you tell stories to the children, but no one told me that you write them down.”
She giggled helplessly and bit her lip. “That’s because they don’t know! Well, Catherine asked me to write a story down for Rose because she was fussing about it, but she doesn’t know about this. No one in my family knows, and none of the Spinsters know. I haven’t told anybody.”
“Except me,” he pointed out, laughing once.
Izzy paused then grinned sheepishly. “Except you.”
“Why?” Sebastian asked with a tilt to his head that made him look rather charming and relaxed.
Her face warmed at once. “Why you?”
She prayed that wasn’t what he wanted to know, because there was no easy answer to that question. Mostly because she didn’t know herself, and she could not explain not knowing.
“No,” Sebastian laughed again, shaking his head. “No, why doesn’t anyone know?” His eyes widened, and he gaped. “Wait, when you say write, Izzy, do you mean…”
Izzy grimaced but giggled still. “I mean that I have a meeting with my father’s cousin, who is a printer, and we are discussing the possibility of publication.”
“What?” he cried, his voice rising with excitement.
“Shh!” she hissed, looking towards the door.
He clamped down on his lips, then waved for her to join him on the couch.
She scrambled over and sat beside him, folding her shawl more tightly. “I have no promises of anything,” she told him in a rush. “He’s only read the few that I’ve sent, and he sees potential, but…”
“That’s amazing, Izzy!” Sebastian interrupted, shaking his head. “How did this happen?”
“Well,” she allowed with a rough exhale, “he’s the one who prints the Spinster Chronicles, so he already knew that I could write a little, and he had taken a chance on us there, which has proven to be beneficial.”
Sebastian nodded thoughtfully, smiling still. “I’d say so. I see the Chronicles everywhere these days.”
Izzy wrinkled up her nose in delight at that. “I know, it’s gone beyond anything. And it’s becoming so fun to write more and more articles.”
“So, he is actually likely to take another chance on you?” Sebastian pressed, turning more serious for the first time.
“I don’t know,” Izzy sighed, rubbing at her brow. “It’s possible, I suppose, but there is no guarantee that he would truly publish a collection of children’s stories by a woman.”
Sebastian raised a brow at that. “When he has already published a newssheet written by several women?”
“Anonymously, remember.” Izzy shook her head slowly. “Everyone knows who we are, it’s true, but they do not know which of us has written which article. And there is no real way to tell if we actually wrote them. The secrecy saves us. This would be different.”
Sebastian made a soft sound of understanding, but nothing further.
“And…” Izzy trailed off, looking up at him with hesitation. “There is still the possibility that they are not good enough. That I am not good enough.”
“Izzy,” Sebastian murmured in an almost scold, reaching out to cover her hand. “Do you really think he would be entertaining the idea of publication if you were not good enough? I’ve never heard you tell a story, but your family spoke of it while we waited for you, and it captured my attention and imagination just hearing them. I can only imagine that the true story from its author would be much more captivating.”
Izzy smiled with such intensity that her cheeks ached with it. “Really?”
Sebastian wet his lips, then turned to pick up his notepad once more. He glanced at her, then turned it around. “Really.”
Izzy gasped at the sketch, grinning involuntarily.
A dog with a holly and ivy hat walked beside a small cat with a bell on its tail down what was so clearly a London street, which was dotted with snow.
And it was a very skilled sketch.
She looked at Sebastian in wonder. “This is incredible!” She looked down at the picture, then grinned up at him. “Is that…?”
“Petunia Puppy and Kitty Kitten,” Sebastian answered sheepishly, his smile boyish. “I couldn’t help myself.”
Izzy giggled, then stared at the picture again. “Petunia is actually a spaniel, though. And Kitty Kitten is white with black patches.”
Sebastian groaned and took the picture back. “Well, if I had heard the story properly, I would know such things, Isabella,” he grumbled playfully under his breath, widening his eyes.
“I can fix that,” Izzy assured him, settling in against the couch.
“Really?” he asked, glancing back at her out of the corner of his eye.
She nodded, unable to help smiling. “One fine Christmas Eve, Petunia Puppy paid a call upon her unlikely friend, Kitty Kitten…”
Chapter Ten
Whoever said fear is a great teacher has clearly never had the experience of being truly afraid.
-The Spinster Chronicles, 8 January 1817
Her fingers were numb, and yet they trembled.
That seemed an odd thing to notice at a time like this, but when the day was mild and there was no cause for extremity numbness, it did register as out of the ordinary. Of course, when combined with the racing heart, flushed face, bouncing knees, and dry throat, one could surmise that Izzy was anxious.
Which, of course, she was.
She clenched her trembling fingers inside her muff as she sat in the waiting area of Cousin Frank’s print shop, trying her best to steady their tremors and focus on her breathing. What was it that Prue always said when she was overwrought? Something about breathing in and out, and fear going in and out?
She wasn’t necessarily feeling fearful just now, simply… apprehensive. There was nothing to fear from Cousin Frank. He would tell her exactly what he thought and avoid all hints of flattery, and she would know once and for all if she had any chance at publishing her stories. If he would not do so, she wasn’t sure any other printer in the world would.
And then what?
She could not, and would not, pretend that she had always dreamed of being a writer or that she had always been writing down stories in journals or acted them out or anything of the sort. It had just somehow happened upon her, and now it was one of the chief focuses of her life. But she’d had no dreams or aspirations, and nothing would be ruined by a refusal to publish. She would simply have to go on just as she had always gone on, especially when life had not turned out the way she had expected it to. She had certainly learned by now that expectations were never quite meant to last, and it was best to let them go the moment that realization had struck. But she could not deny that her life was running out of meaningful paths, and that did tend to make her fearful.
Which was why she sat here.
Alone.
Waiting.
“I am so sorry to have kept you waiting, Izzy,” Cousin Frank said as he came into view, his full face wreathed in a faint sheen of perspiration that was matched by the same on the top of his head. “The life of a printer. Please, come into my office.”
Izzy smiled up at him and moved into the room as he indicated.
It was a well-furnished room, but with more clutter than she would have expected from a man of business such as he. Still, it all seemed to be related to articles and printing matters, and the bookcases were filled to the brim, so she could not fault him for that.
&n
bsp; He came around her to pull out a seat at a well-worn table in his office, and she caught sight of the ink-smudged sleeves on his equally well-worn grey coat.
For some reason, that made her smile.
Not just a businessman, then. He had started out as his own printer years ago with only two assistants, and she imagined such a beginning stayed with a person. She wondered faintly if he ever laid out the Spinster Chronicles settings himself just to have the experience.
Cousin Frank moved back around the table to sit opposite her and took his seat with a grunt of satisfaction. He smiled at her rather pleasantly, folding his hands over his growing girth.
“You look well, cousin,” he told her, his tone almost fatherly. “I haven’t seen you in some months, but I must say you look very well.”
Izzy had the good sense to blush modestly. “Thank you, cousin.”
He chuckled as she ducked her chin. “Still not able to take a compliment, eh?”
She shook her head, grinning now.
“Ah, well.” He sat forward and rested his folded hands against the table. “How is your mother? Harriet was asking after her only yesterday, and I was embarrassed to not be able to properly answer her.”
Izzy managed a wan smile. “Mama is perfectly well, thank you.”
Cousin Frank smiled knowingly, a twinkle in his eye. “Is she really, Izzy? I’ve never known your mother to be perfectly well in all the years I’ve known her. There is always something.”
“She is well enough,” Izzy admitted, her smile relaxing a bit.
“That seems to be more apt.” He tilted his head, eyeing Izzy carefully. “And I do not mean to imply that your mother is bent on bemoaning her state in any way. I only mean her mind is often fixed on one topic or another, and it does tend to infiltrate her conversation.”
Izzy bit back a retort that would have enhanced his kinder account of her mother’s nature, and only smiled as an obedient daughter would. Then she carefully managed, “It does, yes.”
Cousin Frank chuckled at that. “Always kind, Miss Izzy, and always so sweet. I wonder very much what would happen if you ceased biting your tongue.”
A helpless giggle escaped her, and she could tell it delighted him.
“Well,” he said with a heavy sigh, his fingers drumming against each other, “I suppose you would have me dispense with the politeness and get on with it.”
Izzy shrugged one shoulder. “That would depend on what it is you have to say.”
Cousin Frank laughed again. “Too right. Well…” He cleared his throat and sobered, though there was still a warmth to his gaze. “I read over your latest three stories.”
The formality in his tone gave Izzy pause. What could that mean? Was he simply indulging her whims as a relation and not seriously as a publisher? Her fingers clenched in her lap, and her stomach echoed the sensation.
Her cousin’s thin lips curved to one side. “They are wonderful, Izzy.”
The pit of her stomach burst into a shower of warmth and she exhaled a rough, gasping breath. “Really?”
He chuckled, nodding repeatedly. “You are a talented writer, my dear, and quite skilled. That you should have already surmised from the Spinster Chronicles.”
There was no way to answer that in the affirmative while maintaining any shred of modesty.
Izzy managed a shy smile. “Well, I did hope…”
“Hope no more, my dear,” he told her as he reached over to pat her hand. “As a professional, and as your friend and cousin, I will tell you that you are very good.”
“For a woman?” Izzy suggested wryly.
Cousin Frank gave her a hard look. “For anyone, regardless of sex.”
Now Izzy blushed fully and looked down at her trembling fingers. “Thank you.”
“I was already fond of the ones you had sent previously,” Cousin Frank went on. “And I wondered how you would respond to the query for more of them.”
Izzy allowed a rueful grin to cross her lips. “I was terrified and intimidated, to be sure, and worried that I had not yet proven myself capable enough.”
Cousin Frank was shaking his head before she finished. “You had, but I wanted more. Not necessarily more in quality, but to see what you could do. You see, two short stories, adorable though they may be, could only be published in a news sheet or a journal of sorts. It would hardly garner you the attention or the funds that you are undoubtedly looking for.”
His words shocked Izzy with a jolt of surprise, and her cheeks flushed. “Oh, but I am not…” She began unsteadily.
“But of course you are,” Cousin Frank overrode in an almost gentle fashion. “For all our nobility and airs, we writers want to be paid for our efforts. We may write for love of it, and for the sheer pleasure of putting pen to paper and producing extraordinary adventures and sweeping romances, or, in your case, entertaining and admirable creatures, but when it comes down to it, we want our name out in the world for the masses to adore. And we are the tiniest bit mercenary about that. In the noblest sense.”
Izzy laughed breathlessly, just once, then nodded. “I’m afraid I do want that. A little.”
Cousin Frank snorted softly. “Don’t be afraid of it, Izzy. We all do. Nothing to be ashamed of. Now…” He smiled at her, drawing out the moment. “I expect you are wondering about my decision, yes?”
“Yes,” Izzy said on a rough exhale, not bothering to hide her relief that they had come to it at last. “Yes, I am.”
He chuckled and leaned back comfortably, clearly at ease with Izzy’s uneasiness.
Impertinent relation.
“I won’t insult your intelligence by bandying about,” Cousin Frank told her. “I have too much respect for you to engage in such foolery and could never understand why other men in the world of business do such things.”
“I appreciate that, thank you,” Izzy replied, wondering when he would get on with it instead of only talking of getting on with it.
Cousin Frank seemed to sense the more cynical side of her thoughts and smiled a little more broadly. “Izzy, I would love to publish a collection of your stories.”
Her heart rammed against at least seven ribs in a strange ricocheting dance, and it took her a moment to breathe properly. “Cousin Frank, thank you, that would be…”
“But…” he interrupted with the utmost gentleness.
The dance of the ribs came to a complete standstill, and her lungs paused in their function.
Never had one word been more hated in her entire life.
She wet her lips carefully, swallowed, then forced her face to be less arrested. “But?”
Cousin Frank now looked rather sympathetic. “But I need more.”
“More,” she repeated uncertainly. “More… stories? More quality? More… variety?”
He nodded at every answer. “All of the above, though your quality is already wonderful. I need at least twenty, if not twenty-five stories, if we are to truly make this worth my time, your time, and the cost of publication. You need a full collection, Izzy, not a pamphlet.”
Izzy let go of years of comportment training and slumped back in her chair with a rough exhale. “More.”
“Yes, my dear. More. Any publisher in the world would agree with me, progressive, stingy, or otherwise.”
More. It was an incomprehensible thought. She had already stretched her mind as far as she could recall just to give him a few stories more, but the idea of creating twenty all told…
She was only ever able to create stories for the children, making them up for herself was far less amusing and entertaining. Least of all because the creatures wound up being rather spinsterly and wished for a romantic partner, which would not do at all.
“And then there is the matter of illustration.”
Izzy looked up at that. “Illustration?”
Cousin Frank returned her look with surprise. “Surely you don’t intend to publish a collection of children’s stories without some sort of illustration. It would never work
.”
“Another expense, then.”
“I am afraid so, yes. But as your publisher, I would be more than happy to assist in the cost of an illustrator.” He smiled in encouragement. “I am sure we can find someone who will be amenable to negotiating the price.”
Izzy wasn’t nearly so sure. What sort of artist would be willing to do children’s illustrations in a collection of stories for something undoubtedly far less than a proper wage for it? There could hardly…
Her mind trailed off of its own accord as a new and rather intriguing idea entered her mind. So intriguing, in fact, that she sat up straighter in her seat, her brow knitting deeply in thought.
“Izzy?” Cousin Frank pressed, sounding more curious than concerned.
She raised her eyes to his and felt her lips curve into a smile. “What if I have an illustrator already? And one who would be more than unusually accommodating for us both?”
Cousin Frank grinned in response. “I would say bring me concept art so that we might see where this leads.”
Izzy nodded thoughtfully, her smile blossoming. “I can do that. I most certainly can do that.”
She most certainly could not do this. Every fiber of her being was suddenly straining against it, and she couldn’t breathe a word of it to a single soul.
She had never felt this particular choking sensation. It encapsulated her entire chest, her throat, and her tongue all at the same time. And it seemed to be making her eyes impossibly dry, so her frequent blinking was doomed to give her distress away, if anyone were to notice.
She swallowed with great difficulty, and raised a hand to her brow, which was not as damp with perspiration as she had expected it to be. In fact, it wasn’t damp at all, which was a bewildering observation, given her frantic state and the sudden warmth in the carriage.
Spinster and Spice (The Spinster Chronicles, Book 3) Page 12