A Distinct Flair for Words

by Linda Banche

  He looked down at her, his dear, sweet smile dimmer than normal. “I think not.”

  “If I can, please let me know.” She had been remiss in not considering his situation. But, no more.

  He nodded as they emerged onto Upper Brook Street. At the end of the thoroughfare loomed Hyde Park, lamplight glittering on the metal fence separating the grass from the pavement.

  She stopped. “I have always wanted to walk in Hyde Park after dark.” I want your company a while longer.

  His lips quirked up higher. “Then we shall.”

  They walked to the end of the street and then turned onto Park Lane to enter through the Grosvenor Gate.

  Her maid, who had lagged behind, ran up and squeaked. “Miss, do you think this is wise? Villains might lurk in the shadows.”

  “Pish-tosh.” Night had transformed ordinary grass, trees and water into an exotic wonderland awaiting their pleasure. She wouldn’t miss a walk here for anything. “Look at all the people on the paths. The light is sufficient for us to avoid any villains.”

  Frank’s grin glimmered. “Also sufficient to prevent us from tumbling into a ditch.”

  Felicity slapped his wrist. “There are no ditches in Hyde Park.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You never know.” He had put away their previous, dreary conversation. Good.

  At her chuckle, they headed toward the Serpentine Lake. A chill wind sprang up and caught Frank’s beaver hat, sending it flying.

  Felicity gave chase to the sailing headgear, now toppling end over end on the ground. When the wind paused, she scooped up the runaway hat and returned, dusting a dry leaf off the brim. “There, good as new.”

  “I thank you. With both arms occupied, I would have lost that hat. My favorite, too.”

  “Oh, Frank, you always make me happy.” Her heart bubbled over.

  They trod along the paths, both caught up in a companionship that had deepened in the past few moments.

  Finally, they stopped at a high-backed bench by the Serpentine. A nearby lamp provided some illumination, but the shadows clung close.

  Felicity frowned. “Oh, dear, the bench is so small, there is only room for two.”

  “You and your maid sit, and I will stand.”

  The maid shook her head. “No, sir. I see a nice, big rock on the shore, not too far away. Perfect for me.” She curtsied and then left to perch on the boulder.

  Frank and Felicity sat side by side. He set the manuscript on the outer edge of the bench, thereby decreasing the seat’s width and pressing them closer together.

  His heat radiated through her despite the intervening layers of pelisse and greatcoat. So comforting. And something else.

  He slid his arm along the top of the bench, pushing them closer. “As you said, the bench is small.” His voice had roughened. The same voice, but now different.

  Husky. Exciting.

  She had always liked Frank, even more now that when they were children. Had that liking ripened into something stronger? And could he feel the same?

  Occasional footfalls scraped on the gravel paths. Water lapped at the ice lining the banks, whispering a caress. A gentle breeze kicked up ripples on the unfrozen parts of the lake. A sudden sharper blast of wind buffeted them and Felicity shivered.

  “Cold?” Frank’s arm tightened around her shoulders.

  She nestled closer. “A little.” How lovely to have his arm around her. Let there be more. Please.

  His head dipped toward hers. “Felicity—”

  “QUACK!”

  They both jerked upright. A large mallard drake waded onto shore and marched straight to them.

  Felicity’s heart pounded so hard, she thought Frank must hear. “Mr. Tail Feathers, are you still here? I thought you had flown south with your friends.” Why did you come over now? Frank was about to kiss me!

  Frank’s glower was sharp enough to skewer the bird, pluck out his feathers and roast him.

  The drake flung Frank a visual dagger cutting enough to return the favor.

  Two males with their backs up. Typical.

  Frank snorted. “Mr. Tail Feathers? What kind of name is that?”

  “All mallard drakes have curly tail feathers, most often two. But this gentlemen has three.”

  “Probably has three because he is so big. I have never seen such a large duck.”

  “Yes. Is he not a most splendid specimen of drake pulchritude?” Oh, dear, she was babbling. Her mind had filled with more feathers than the ones that covered the duck.

  “If you want to call it that.” His voice was sour.

  His arm loosened, and the magic evaporated like dew under the sun. Felicity opened her reticule and pulled out a small bag. “Mr. Tail Feathers, you are fortunate I always think of you.” She forced a brightness she didn’t feel into her voice. “I saved a piece of bread from dinner, which I planned to present to you on the morrow. But since I am here now…” After breaking the bread into small pieces, she scattered several on the ground.

  Mr. Tail Feathers, at once ceasing his baleful perusal of Frank, attacked the food.

  Frank tapped his foot. “Been overindulging on the bread, old chap?”

  The bird narrowed his eyes at Frank, as if daring him to make something of it. Then he bent his head and gobbled up the rest of the bread. His sight was remarkably sharp, because he cleaned up every last scrap. Then he waddled forward and tapped Felicity’s shoe with his bill.

  Frank thrust out a protective hand. “Careful, he might peck you.”

  “Nonsense. He does that every time. His way of saying thank you.” She caught Frank’s hand and set a few morsels of bread in his palm. Anything to touch him, even through their gloves. “Here, give him some food. You two should mend your bridges.”

  The duck scoured the ground for any crumbs that had eluded him. With none in evidence, he raised his head.

  His forehead a scowl, Frank tossed his bread out.

  The duck pounced. With remarkable speed, he devoured the bread, finishing up with his usual search for leftovers. After he found and dispatched one beside the bench support, he tipped his head as if reevaluating Frank. Then he tapped Frank’s boot with his bill.

  Felicity clapped. “He likes you!”

  Frank’s lips curved up. “I have changed my mind. I like, you, too, sir. I withdraw my earlier comment about your enthusiasm for bread. Let us cry pax.”

  The bird regarded him with avian solemnity before lowering his head in yet another hunt for any lingering food.

  Frank chuckled. “I assume that was a ‘yes’. Now I count a duck amongst my friends.”

  “One can never have too many friends.” Felicity bent toward the busy drake. “I daresay, sir, you are an exceedingly good housekeeper. You will make some lucky hen an exceptional mate.”

  Frank chuckled again. For several minutes, they sat as Mr. Tail Feathers rooted around for any bread still hidden amid the frozen grass blades. Unfortunately, Frank made no move to put his arm around her again. Emptiness bit through her.

  When the drake had dredged up the last ghost of a crumb, he raised his head and regarded Felicity.

  She dusted off her hands. “I am sorry, but that is all I have. You must wait for next time for more.”

  The duck canted his head in a farewell salute before he waddled back to the lake and then crossed the ice hugging the shore. Once, he almost slipped, but, with a startled squawk, righted himself. Then he slid and skidded the rest of the way to the edge. With a loud splash, he plopped into the water and sailed away. His image melted into the darkness, his final quack lingering against the soft nighttime sounds of the never-resting metropolis.

  They sat for a few more minutes, Felicity relishing their closeness, but the enchantment had vanished. She stood. “Mayhap we should continue home.” She fluffed out her skirt to hide the heavy weight that pressed on her shoulders.

  Frank rose when she did. He looked down at her, but the shadows masked his expression. “Yes, perhaps we should.�
�

  ***

  Damnation.

  Why had that blasted duck arrived when he did?

  The cold, the darkness and that treasured moment of affinity had woven a spell around Felicity and him, urging him on to a kiss. Mayhap his imagination was overactive, but he could have sworn the drake eyed him with the same suspicion as some fathers of young ladies had. Eyed him, and found him wanting. At least until he fed him enough bread. Would that everyone was that easy to win over.

  Felicity slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. For a moment, he thought she had fallen in thrall to the same sorcery as he. Did she? With her bonnet brim obscuring her face, he couldn’t tell.

  The shadowed park had woven an earth-shattering change in his feelings toward her. She ceased being an annoying child, or even a friend he helped with her book. She had become a warm, desirable woman. His fondness for her had escalated into something beyond mere friendship.

  They gathered up her maid, who had dozed on her rock. If he had kissed Felicity, no one would have carried any tales. An opportunity missed.

  His mood as black as they inky byways they traversed, they made their way back to her house.

  She skipped as she walked. Whatever her feelings about the almost-kiss, she carried on with enthusiasm. “I do so hope this publisher likes my book.”

  Back to her book. Had the park magic dissipated so thoroughly? Had there ever been any? Perhaps he was wrong about her reaction. “As do I. Tomorrow I deliver your book to him, accompanied by my mesmerizing speech about its merits. Mayhap this time I will succeed. I apologize that my previous efforts have failed.”

  “Do not belittle yourself. I am certain you did your best. Not your fault if the publishers lack your discernment.”

  Tonight, as every other time, her inborn radiance banished whatever shades might lurk in his heart. Why had he never noticed? “That’s the spirit. Someone will like your book. Perhaps that will be your Christmas present this year.”

  “I hope so.”

  They turned into South Audley Street, their pace slowing as they neared her townhouse. Did she want to stay with him as much as he wanted her to? They paused at the bottom of the front steps.

  Her maid, not looking back, ascended to the door and knocked.

  Felicity climbed onto the first step so her face was level with his. “Good night, Frank, and thank you for everything.” Her eyes were soft as rose petals.

  He gripped the book harder to prevent himself from sweeping her into his arms. “You are most welcome.” He backed up. If he stayed too close, he would succumb to temptation. “I will not visit you for a few days. I must away to Bromley on business for the vicar.”

  “So soon? You just came back. Seeking more contributions?”

  “Yes.” Curse the errand. He wanted nothing more than to see Felicity again. And again and again.

  She wilted. “I will miss you.” She was an embrace, one he yearned for with every particle of his being.

  “And I will miss you, too.” He moved closer. Now was his chance. They would finish the kiss…

  The front door swung open and the butler peered down on them. “Miss White, home at last. Your mother just asked about you.”

  Blast! Interrupted again. Frank ground his teeth and then bowed. “Till I return, then.”

  Chapter 16

  “Three more publishers turned me down.” Felicity shuffled through the post on the tea table. Was there anything for her today? Pray not another rejection letter.

  “What?” Frank settled himself beside her. “Even the one to whom I delivered the book?”

  The fire in the drawing room hearth crackled, one of the drapes fluttered in a draft, and Aunt Philadelphia, awake for once, peered out the window from her favorite chair across the room. Not a very protective chaperone, but more than Felicity wanted now that Frank was here.

  How she had missed him the past few days! Without his sparkling presence, all color and light had leached from her hours, leaving her restless and uninterested in things that normally pleased her. Even her writing couldn’t occupy her distracted mind.

  Receiving multiple rejection letters hadn’t helped. Neither had Mr. Norris’s almost daily visits. Mama was beside herself at his not yet proposing. Felicity thanked heaven every night that he hadn’t.

  But now all was right with the world. Frank had arrived. What would she do without him?

  She heaved a weary sigh. “Yes, the latest one, too. He did send the manuscript back, though. And I have made another fair copy, with my friends’ help, just in case.”

  “Good idea.” Frank’s mouth pursed. “Apparently, I did not do a skillful enough job of persuasion.”

  “But did you prevail upon the church patrons to donate money?”

  “Yes.”

  “If nothing else, that is excellent practice.” She arranged the missives into a neat pile on her lap. “One day you will coax a publisher to accept my novel.”

  “I hope so. Since you have such confidence in me, perhaps I should write a few letters to publishers for you. I cannot do any worse that you.”

  “No, you have already done more than enough. And you also have to work for the vicar.”

  He shrugged. “As you will. But in the meantime, I would like to show my friends your book. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all. You can take the returned manuscript. I did not feel like unboxing it.” She slumped in her chair. Well, she slumped as much as her corset would allow. Fiddle. Sometimes she just wanted to slump, and the dratted whalebone contraption forced her to sit up straight. “Perhaps I should abandon my ambition of publishing my book.”

  Frank peered down his nose at her. “What, Miss Felicity White quitting? I would not have thought you so poor-spirited.”

  She couldn’t help her chuckle. Frank’s optimism always cheered her. “I know, I usually am the last to give up on anything. But these rejections have discouraged me so much.”

  “And by tomorrow, you will recover, and write five more letters to publishers.”

  “I daresay.” She straightened, mainly because the corset defeated all her efforts to slump. “But, to continue to business. I asked Mr. Russell over today so we can discuss our progress, if any there is.”

  A clatter from the passage announced the arrival of the maid with the tea things. As the servant worked, Felicity resumed leafing through the post. “Oh, another letter from a publisher. Perhaps…” Hands shaking, she broke the red seal and unfolded the paper.

  Slowly. If the letter contained bad news, she didn’t want to find out too soon.

  She read the contents.

  “Oh, drat, another rejection.” If her corset permitted, she would slide under the sofa cushions never again to emerge.

  Knocking sounded on the front door, and then booted heels clicked on the stairs and in the corridor. Mr. Russell, his smile as bright as his hair, strode across the threshold. One look at Felicity, and the edges of his lips drooped. “Is something amiss?”

  She waved him to a seat. “More rejections. I had hoped…” How much I hoped! She hid the disappointing letter among the others, and shoved them all out of sight behind a flower vase.

  Mr. Russell lowered himself into the chair on her other side. “All writers receive rejections. You must soldier on.”

  “I know.” She poured tea into the cup before her. The fragrant scent of Assam, her favorite tea, wafted through the air, but, at this point, even her preferred tea couldn’t dispel her dismals. “I just wish there were something more I could do.” She set the cup before Frank.

  Mr. Russell cleared his throat. “Miss White, how much do you know about publishing?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “As much as anyone does, I suppose. I send my novel to a publisher and he prints it. People then buy the book from a book shop.”

  The firelight glinted off Mr. Russell’s spectacles, obscuring his eyes for a moment. “There are several methods of publishing a book. The best of all possible cases is profit-shari
ng, where the publisher bears all the expenses and pays the author out of the earnings. Another method is by subscription. In this case, the publisher releases the book only when enough people subscribe to cover the costs. The author can also sell the copyright to the publisher, which yields some instant money, but nothing more. And yet another method is by commission, where the author pays for everything and the publisher takes ten per cent of the gain for his work.”

  Felicity bit her lip. “Oh, dear. I daresay I will have to pay to have my book published. Unless I can sell the copyright.” She set another cup and saucer before her and fixed the tea.

  Mr. Russell shook his head. “I advise against it. You might lose greatly. First of all, a publisher has to accept your book, and none has yet. Also, for a first novel, the price is low. Miss Austen herself received only ten pounds when she sold the copyright for Susan. She later bought the copyright back and published the book as Mansfield Park.”

  Frank plucked a lemon biscuit from the plate beside Felicity. “Mr. Blackmore also mentioned ten pounds when I asked him what he paid for a first novel.” He bit into the biscuit. “Ah, sheer heaven, as always. Have one, Russell.”

  “Then I suppose I must pay a publisher.” She handed Mr. Russell the cup. “Milk only, as you like it.”

  “Thank you.” Mr. Russell settled the cup on his lap. “Miss Austen used the commission method, too.”

  Felicity poured her own tea. “I am in good company, then.” Small comfort, that.

  Mr. Russell paused to take a sip of tea. “I suggest a combination of commission and subscription. Ask people to contribute to the cost of publishing, and then use that money to pay the publisher.”

  “With my lack of success so far, perhaps we should try that.” She took a lemon biscuit. This day, her favorite sweet consoled her as little as her favorite tea did. “Oh, dear, soliciting puts paid to my idea of remaining anonymous.”

  Mr. Russell shook his head. “Not necessarily. Your friends already know about your novel, and I am sure they will keep quiet if you ask them to. For the people who don’t know, say the author wishes to retain her privacy. In fact, some might subscribe because of the mystery.”