by Linda Banche
Around him, horses neighed, waggons, coaches and drays jammed the thoroughfare, and hawkers with their hand carts shouted their wares. People of all walks of life crowded the pavements, including some ragged and rough-looking ones. The garbage-filled Thames flowed nearby, and although the cold had greatly lessened its foul odor, Frank’s urge to cover his nose with his handkerchief had strengthened with each step along the way.
Although not as pristine as Mayfair, the neighborhood was respectable enough. But not the best place for a lady. Good thing Felicity hadn’t argued with him about coming here herself.
He squared his shoulders. Well, now he would help her.
He climbed the stairs. His heart pounded and perspiration slicked his palms, his usual state when he prepared to ask parishioners for donations. Despite the sewage reek, he took a long, slow inhalation to calm his jangling nerves. By George, Felicity had a great book here. He would do whatever he could to convince the publisher to accept it.
He pushed open the door. Sagging shelves overflowing with books and stacks of paper lined the walls, one hard wooden chair sat before the grimy front window, and a trace of tobacco smoke drifted in the air.
A little stark, almost shabby. He didn’t know what he had expected—maybe something like a library—but he thought a publisher’s office would look better than this. His throat constricted.
At the far end of the room, a young clerk perched behind a tall desk in front of an imposing door. As Frank shut the front door, the clerk peered over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles. “May I help you, sir?” His accent was that of the gentry. Uncommon to find a gentleman in these surroundings.
“Yes.” Frank trod the bare, worn floorboards to the clerk. “Mr. Blackmore requested Miss Felicity White’s manuscript.” He tapped the paper-wrapped box under his arm.
“Yes, sir.” The clerk brushed a lock of fair hair off his forehead as he cleared a space at the side of the cluttered desk. “If you will leave the book here…”
“I wish to deliver it to Mr. Blackmore personally.”
The clerk blinked. “Mr. Blackmore is busy. I do not think he can—”
“I am here on Miss White’s behalf, and I would like to see Mr. Blackmore.” Although he smiled, Frank kept his words firm and looked the clerk straight in the eye. This stance had enabled him to convince Mr. Tyler’s more clutch-fisted parishioners to contribute.
The clerk’s eyes narrowed and then one side of his mouth quirked up. “I see. I will tell him you are here.”
Frank nodded and then strode to the window and looked out. Good training, although his pulse had accelerated with the encounter. The more you practice, the better you will become.
The clerk returned a moment later. “Mr. Blackmore will see you now.” He walked Frank to the door behind his desk and then lifted the latch.
Frank nodded his thanks. Now for the real test.
The door opened and he slammed into a mud-colored wall of pipe smoke. He coughed. Gads, this was worse than the Thames stench. Clamping his lips shut, he fanned his hand in front of his face to clear away the fumes. Too bad he couldn’t close his nose, too. At his back, the door shut with a soft snick. Probably the clerk, who didn’t want to suffocate, either. Wise man.
Behind the desk sat a balding, heavy-set man whose beady black eyes followed Frank’s every move. From his mouth dangled the offending pipe, thick billows of fetid smoke rising from the bowl.
Frank swallowed his bile. “Mr. Blackmore, I believe?”
Mr. Blackmore grunted without removing the pipe from between his teeth. “My clerk tells me you have the book from Miss White.” He held out a meaty paw. “I’ll take it.”
Would such a man like Felicity’s book? But he passed Mr. Blackmore the box containing the novel. Time for his best cajoling tone. “You are in for a treat, sir. Opposites Attract is very funny. Sure to please those who like Miss Jane Austen’s books.”
Mr. Blackmore grunted again. “Exactly the audience I want to reach.” He pulled the string off the box and tossed the cover aside before pulling out the first sheet. “But the book has to be good. Your Miss White is a new writer. I’m not in the habit of considering the work of novices, but, to my knowledge, no one else has written anything like this.”
“You will be pleasantly surprised. Mr. Bingley is an appealing character. I am sure many readers will enjoy reading more about him, especially since his adventures are humorous. And also discover more about Miss Jane Bennet, who comes into her own when her sister, Elizabeth, is less in evidence.”
Frowning, Mr. Blackmore glanced at the page he held. “Trouble is, Pride and Prejudice is too polite to my way of thinking. Although the novel is funny in places, I think a tale with broader humor will sell better. Something like Tom Jones.”
Felicity’s book may not be right for this publisher. Frank’s stomach roiled, both from his misgivings about this publisher and also the tobacco smoke. “Miss White’s work is in the same vein as Miss Austen’s book, but is not a replica. The humor is a little less refined, but still proper. There is an uproarious scene where Bingley’s attempt to rescue a cat caught in a tree ends up with him falling into a thorn bush.”
Mr. Blackmore raised his eyebrows. “Sounds promising.”
Excellent. “When can Miss White expect your decision?”
Mr. Blackmore waved his pipe in the air, setting the smoke haze to eddying and billowing. “Oh, in a week or so.” He tapped the pipe against the edge of the desk. Brown sludge erupted from the bowl and spread over the papers strewn on the desktop. “I’m surprised she secured an agent. Most of the lady writers come themselves.” He leered.
Frank stiffened. Definitely not a place for Felicity to come alone. “Tell me your terms if you accept the book.”
Mr. Blackmore shrugged. “Standard for a first novel. Ten pounds for the copyright.”
“Sounds a bit low.”
Mr. Blackmore grinned like a hawk about to pounce on a fat pigeon. “While I realize your job is to secure the best terms for your client, nothing will convince me to raise my price. That is, if I take the book.”
The clerk swung the door open. “Mr. Blackmore, the printer needs you in the press room.”
Mr. Blackmore rose. “Pleased to meet you Mr. Wynne.” His tone said he was anything but. “Mayhap we will see each other again.”
Effectively dismissed, Frank nodded and withdrew.
Chapter 10
“A package for you, Miss White.” Bates, his mouth a thin line, stood on the threshold to the drawing room. “Unfortunately, the messenger would not surrender the parcel to me. He said his orders were to deliver the item to you and no other.”
Felicity glanced at Frank. “Gracious, what can that mean?” She rose to the accompaniment of a soft snore from Aunt Philadelphia in the corner. “Thank you, Bates. I will see to him.”
The butler, his lips pursed, bowed and then stood aside as she quit the room, Frank following.
Could this caller have information about her book? Felicity’s stomach fluttered as if a whole flock of butterflies danced inside. For the past week she had jumped whenever Bates brought in the post. But, each time, her butterflies thudded to the ground. While she longed to find out her book’s fate, at the same time, she dreaded any news. If she didn’t know, she still had hope of an acceptance.
She stopped on the landing and leaned over the bannister.
In the entryway waited a tall, young man. A well-favored young man, too, with guinea-gold hair, chiseled features and a slim, yet muscular form. He shuffled from foot to foot as he tapped his hat against his leg. Under his free arm, he clasped a wrapped pasteboard box.
He could serve as a model for Mr. Bingley. Except for the spectacles.
Frank touched her elbow and leaned close. “The clerk from the publisher’s.”
The package must be her book. All her butterflies crashed senseless to the floorboards. “I fear the news about my novel is not good.”
Frank’s smile faded away. “M
ayhap. But let us hear what he has to say. Whatever the verdict, the messenger is not to blame.”
Biting her lip, she descended the stairs, Frank close behind.
The clerk raised his head at the sound of their scuffling feet. “Miss White?”
When Felicity nodded, he handed her the parcel. “I am Mr. Adam Russell from Blackmore Publishing. Mr. Blackmore has returned your book, along with this note.” He pulled a folded sheet of foolscap sealed with black wax out of his greatcoat pocket.
Oh, dear. People used black sealing wax when a death occurred. Any last quiver of butterfly wings ceased.
Frank’s eyebrows pinched together. “Is this a joke?”
Mr. Russell coughed into his fist. “Mr. Blackmore’s idea of a jest. Not very funny, I daresay.”
Felicity passed the box to a glowering Frank. “Let me read this.” She stepped aside and broke the seal.
One word leaped from the page. “Rejected”. Her heart constricted. She hadn’t expected the first publisher she approached to accept her book, but the refusal still knifed through her. She crumpled the note, the paper’s crunching loud in the ominously silent foyer. “As I thought. Mr. Blackmore does not want my novel.” She pasted on a smile for the innocent bearer of the bad tidings. Indeed, the poor man looked desolate. “Thank you for delivering my book.”
“My pleasure, miss.” He gripped his hat brim so hard most likely he would leave dents. “If I may say, I read your story. I liked it very much.”
“Thank you.” Her cheeks hurt from holding the false smile.
He cleared his throat. “Would you mind a suggestion? Perhaps you should employ an editor. An editor can make improvements that might render your book more appealing to another publisher.”
“Yes, thank you.” Her face would soon crack if she had to utter more polite talk. Why couldn’t he leave?
Frank, his features like granite, stepped in front of the clerk. “Who are you to make suggestions?”
Mr. Russell’s face turned equally stony. “Mr. Blackmore sometimes uses me as a reader and editor on books he has doubts about. I recommended this novel, but Mr. Blackmore said there was no market for a book so much like Miss Austen’s. He wanted something different. More like Tom Jones.”
“Did he now?” Dragons spewing fire leaped from the ashes of her butterflies’ demise. Who was this publisher to tell her what to write? Her book was superb the way it was! “Can you edit my book, sir?”
The man’s eyebrows flew up into his hairline. “Why, yes, but—”
She batted her lashes and turned her best smile on the hapless clerk. “Would you edit my manuscript?”
His jaw sagged. Had a woman never smiled at him before?
“Of course, I will pay you.”
“A moment, please, Mr. Russell.” Frank drew Felicity to the side and then glared down at her. “What are you doing? You know nothing about this man.”
“He read my book, he likes it, he made a helpful suggestion and he knows how to edit. Where else can I find an editor?” But am I grasping at straws?
“We can look for one.”
“He also brought my book back and appears a decent sort.” And he looks like Mr. Bingley.
Frank clamped his mouth closed as if he were suppressing a shout. “Are you sure?” He spat the words through gritted teeth.
“Yes.” She patted his arm. “Everything will be fine.” I hope. She turned back to Mr. Russell. “Sorry for the interruption. Have you considered my proposal?”
He relaxed his hold on his battered hat brim. “Yes. I will edit your book. But, please remember, several other publishers may also refuse you until one accepts your work.”
Frank, his face still hard, gave a reluctant nod. “You may have to explore many avenues to publication.”
“You are both right. But first—” She returned her book to the befuddled clerk. “Please edit this at your convenience.” At least she had salvaged something from the wreck of her hopes. And that was that! “Now we must celebrate my acquisition of an editor. Come to the drawing room and have tea.” From his speech and manners, the man was obviously a gentleman, even though he worked.
She grinned over her shoulder as she restrained herself from skipping up the stairs. Today had turned out better than expected. Much better.
Mr. Russell’s jaw sagged again. “But—”
“No use trying to avoid it.” Frank’s voice floated up from the foyer. “Now you, like the rest of us, will dance to Miss White’s tune.”
Felicity, hands on hips, pivoted around.” And what does that mean, Mr. Frank Wynne?”
Frank’s teasing grin was the same one he had employed when they were children. He clapped Mr. Russell on the shoulder. “And you will enjoy every minute, I assure you.”
Tapping her foot while forcing herself not to smile, she waited on the landing as Mr. Russell doffed his greatcoat, and then passed the garment and his hat and gloves to the waiting footman.
Frank, his good humor returned, grabbed Mr. Russell’s arm and pulled him along.
As they entered the drawing room, Felicity called to a maid in the corridor to bring up another cup and saucer. Pointing to her still-sleeping aunt, she held a finger to her lips. She motioned to a chair. “Please, be at ease, Mr. Russell.”
They sat, and Mr. Russell set the book on the floor beside him. “I am most happy to help you, miss.”
“Here, have a biscuit.” She offered him the plate of sweets.
He took two. “Thank you.” The cuffs of both his shirt and coat were frayed, and his clothes, although finely made and of excellent quality, hung on his lean body. Didn’t he get enough to eat? That odious Mr. Blackmore didn’t pay him enough. But she would take care of him. After all, he now worked for her.
Felicity set the plate back beside the tea pot. The maid returned with the cup and saucer and Felicity poured the chewing Mr. Russell a cup. “How do you like your tea?”
“With milk, miss.”
She added a large dollop to the tea. “Have you worked for Mr. Blackmore long?”
Mr. Russell winced as he took the cup. “For over two years, since I completed my studies at Oxford. Books have always interested me, and I wanted to learn about the business side of publishing.”
Felicity picked up her own cup. “From your tone of voice, I gather you have not.”
“But I have, to some extent. I know who all the printers, binders, paper-makers and illustrators are, what they charge and the quality of their work. But, mostly, I keep track of the progress of the books Mr. Blackmore has accepted. Occasionally, when he is too busy to read all the incoming manuscripts, I read some.” His mouth tightened. “You have no idea how bad most are. Full of spelling errors, and incomprehensible in one way or another.” He took a sip of tea. “And many of the novels are just plain bad or boring stories. Your book is head and shoulders above most.” He finished up his second biscuit.
“Why, thank you.” She liked him even more. “I think we shall rub along together exceedingly well.”
Mr. Russell’s grin lit his whole face. When that pinched look left his features, he was extremely good-looking. Just like Mr. Bingley.
Felicity refreshed Frank’s cup and offered Mr. Russell another biscuit, which he took. She really must find a way to get him a proper meal.
As Mr. Russell bit into the biscuit, the mantel clock struck three times. He choked. With a clink of china, he set his cup and saucer on the table and jumped up. “I must return, or I will not have a job.” He dropped the half-eaten biscuit into his coat pocket.
Felicity extended her hand, which he bowed over. “Of course, sir. I appreciate your taking the time to come here, and of course, for helping me. But, before you go, please let us know how we can contact you.”
Mr. Russell pulled out a pocket notebook and scribbled his address. “Please, do not contact me at Mr. Blackmore’s unless you must. He does not like his employees doing personal business at work.”
Frank also stood
. “I must leave, too. I will show Mr. Russell out.”
***
The two men descended to the front entry, where they retrieved their outer garments.
Frank shrugged into his greatcoat. “I will walk with you a ways, if I may.”
Mr. Russell raised his eyebrows, but said nothing as they departed.
Mr. Russell had most likely walked here, so Frank headed down South Audley Street before heading east on Curzon. “I thank you, too, for your willingness to help Miss White, although I counseled her against you.”
Mr. Russell gave a weak smile. “I could see that, and I do not blame you. I would have done the same. You know nothing about me.”
Frank tapped his walking stick on the pavement. “But I have changed my mind. I saw how you acted at Mr. Blackmore’s office and here. I think you will suit Miss White admirably.”
“Thank you.” Mr. Russell blew out a breath. “I regret that Mr. Blackmore refused her novel. He had given the book to the office delivery boy to return, but I intercepted him. I hoped to let her down a little more easily.” He winced. “I regret I did not.”
“Thank you for your concern, but I daresay no one can make disappointment more palatable.” They waited at the intersection with Clarges Street for the traffic to clear. “Although, I did not like Mr. Blackmore when I met him. In a way, I am glad he did not accept her book.”
“Although he is my employer, I do not care for him, either. I fear he would cheat her.”
“Then she had a lucky escape.” Frank grinned. “Not that she thinks so at the moment.”
“Having you represent her was a wise move on her part.”
“So wise that I did not sell her book.”
Mr. Russell shook his head. “Still a wise move. Too many writers are so desperate for publication they almost give their work away.” He twisted his lips. “And Mr. Blackmore takes advantage. He calls himself a shrewd businessman.”
Frank snorted. “So shrewd he refused a good book, which will be someone else’s gain.” The street cleared and they crossed, Frank flipping a coin to the ragged girl who swept their way clean before they continued down Clarges. “At least, now she has an editor. Tell me, how long do you need for the editing?”