To Write a Wrong

by Jen Turano

  “And here the conversation was just getting good,” Mary said with a grin before she dipped into a curtsy and hurried out of the room.

  “I imagine she’s off to give your mother a full accounting of every snippet of conversation she’s been privy to as she’s helped you get ready for the meeting with your publisher.”

  “Mary’s been in cahoots with Mother for years,” Daphne said, moving to her wardrobe and withdrawing one of the gorgeous walking gowns Phillip had made for her. “They’re probably even now devising a plan to attract some Bostonian gentleman who wouldn’t mind being married to a woman who all of Boston, at least according to my sister, Lydia, considers notorious.”

  Eunice stepped closer, took the gown from Daphne, and began wrestling it over Daphne’s head, yanking it into place a moment later. “I don’t often give my personal opinions about personal situations, but I have to tell you that you’re fortunate you have a mother who wants to be involved in your life. Better yet, I’m truly convinced she only wants to see you live a happy life.”

  “Her idea of what constitutes a happy life is opposed to what I believe a happy life is. She’s always dreamed I’d miraculously turn into a lady everyone clamors to be around, and because that’s not who I am, I’ve always been a disappointment to her.”

  Eunice began fussing with Daphne’s gown, tugging the fabric in place over the bustle. “I doubt you’re a disappointment to your mother. I imagine she’s incredibly proud of you, even if she doesn’t understand the life you’ve chosen.” She took a step back and eyed the fabric now cascading over the bustle. “Mothers can be complicated creatures, Daphne. I should know, because my mother is more complicated than you can imagine. She’s incredibly dramatic, and her own father—my grandfather—called her a temperamental charmer with a flighty nature. Unlike your mother, when I disappointed mine by not wanting to travel the world with her on an extended tour when I turned seventeen, she left me to go on that tour on her own. I’ve not seen her since.”

  “You haven’t seen your mother in over ten years?”

  “I’m afraid not. And because I no longer live where I grew up, there’s relatively little chance she’ll ever be able to find me.”

  Daphne frowned. “You’re an inquiry agent. I’m sure you could find her if you were to use the services of our agency to look into the matter.”

  “Now is not the time for me to try and locate her.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I see,” Daphne said, not really seeing at all. “Perhaps your mother will try to locate you, then.”

  “She’d have a difficult time finding me because my name changed.”

  “She doesn’t know about Mr. Holbrooke?”

  “The Holbrooke situation didn’t happen until three years after she left.”

  “That’s an interesting way to speak about your marriage,” Daphne said, but before she could press Eunice further, there was a knock on the door and then Clara, Daphne’s mother, stepped into the room.

  Clara shot a look to Eunice, who was already pulling her veils over her face, and gave a bit of a shudder, then turned her full attention to Daphne. Her eyes widened. “Goodness. Mary told me you were intending on wearing a lovely gown, but that’s more than lovely.” She stepped closer. “You look beautiful, darling, and I love how Mary styled your hair. How feminine those curls are, but . . .” Her attention settled on Daphne’s face. “Have you considered abandoning your spectacles when you go off to meet your publisher today? They do give you the look of a bluestocking and don’t complement your overall appearance.”

  Daphne slid her spectacles firmly into place. “I’m fairly convinced the bluestocking ship has already sailed with me on it, Mother. It has, if you’ve forgotten, been disclosed that I’m Montague Moreland, and a lady who writes books can’t get much more bluestocking than that.”

  “I suppose you’re right, but . . . still.”

  “There’s no still about it. Besides, I can’t see without my spectacles. I’m relatively sure my publisher is going to need me to sign a few forms, what with how I’ve broken my disclosure agreement, and it’ll be difficult for me to do that if I can’t see where I’m supposed to sign.”

  “You could always, ah . . . wear a monocle. One of those would be easy to tuck out of sight when you didn’t need to see.”

  “And lend the impression I’m over ninety and at my last prayers? I don’t know any young lady who sports a monocle these days.”

  “I suppose that is true,” Clara said before she began walking around Daphne, taking in every aspect of her appearance. She stopped and tapped a finger against her chin, an ominous sign if there ever was one. “I was thinking we could, perhaps, use your almost-fatal drowning in the Hudson, which everyone read about in the papers, as a way to solicit sympathy from our friends when we attend the Devonshire ball tomorrow evening.”

  Daphne swallowed a sigh. “I am sorry, Mother, but as I already mentioned to you, Eunice and I are returning to New York City tomorrow morning because we need to continue with Herman Henderson’s case. Our agency has already suffered a blow to its reputation after Charles wrote that dreadful bit about my being an incompetent agent. The only way I can prove him wrong is to solve the case, which means I won’t be in Boston to attend the Devonshire ball with you.”

  Clara began waving a hand in front of her face. “The very idea of you working as an inquiry agent out in the field gives me heart palpitations.” She caught Daphne’s eye. “You don’t want to be responsible for leading to my demise, do you?”

  “If that’s your way of convincing me to stay in Boston, or to attend that ball, you’re going to have to try harder. I know you’ve never suffered a heart palpitation in your life.”

  “There’s always a first for everything.”

  Thankfully, Daphne was spared a response to that nonsense when Mary stuck her head in the room. “Begging your pardon, but your sons have arrived, Mrs. Beekman.”

  “Maybe they’ll be able to talk some sense into you,” Clara said, tugging Daphne toward the doorway. She nodded to Eunice. “Would you care to join us, Mrs. Holbrooke?”

  “How very kind of you, Mrs. Beekman, but I have some agency work to catch up on. Besides, I hardly believe Daphne’s reunion with her brothers will be free of drama if I happen to skulk into view.” Eunice let out what almost sounded like a laugh. “I tend to cast a slightly ominous presence whenever I enter a room.”

  Clara’s lips twitched. “I do think you may be right about that.” She took hold of Daphne’s arm and walked with her out of the bedchamber as Eunice returned to looking through her notes.

  “She’s an interesting woman,” Clara remarked. “But she seems to be a considerate woman, as well, because she definitely would have drawn attention away from your reunion with your brothers, something that might disappoint them because I know they’re very anxious to talk to you.”

  “How anxious?”

  Clara grinned. “Incredibly so.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Daphne said, reaching the bottom of the stairs and turning right. And even though it was highly likely her three brothers were going to have a time of it at her expense because of her apparent notoriety, Daphne increased her pace as anticipation began to build. Her brothers were incredibly annoying at times, but she loved them to death and missed seeing them on a frequent basis. Walking into the library a moment later, she stopped just inside the door as her brother Jack caught sight of her.

  “Ah, there she is,” Jack proclaimed. “The prodigal daughter come home at last.”

  “She was home for a quick visit two months ago,” Clara said as Jack, who was two years older than Daphne, strode across the library and swept Daphne into a bear hug.

  “Was she really?” Jack asked, giving Daphne a squeeze before he stepped back. “It seems like it’s been longer.”

  “It always seems like a person’s been gone longer when their absence makes you miss them,” Cla
ra said. “Daphne’s absence from this very house, however, is going to continue because she’s refusing to listen to reason and move home.”

  “You don’t honestly believe she’ll ever move home, do you?” Jack asked, which earned him a sigh from their mother. He sent Clara a smile before he returned his attention to Daphne, giving her a thorough look over and grinning. “You’re looking uncharacteristically well turned out today, brat. Perhaps New York City does agree with you after all, even though I’ve heard you haven’t exactly been keeping yourself out of trouble there. Tracking down a would-be murderer and writing bestselling novels keeping you busy these days?”

  “And aren’t you just a peach for bringing up what you know is going to annoy Mother. She’s been trying to avoid the particulars of my situation since I got here.”

  “And you find that surprising?” Jack asked, his lips twitching. “Honestly, Daphne, what could you have been thinking? Besides getting yourself involved in a murder mystery, Montague Moreland, I ask you? Couldn’t you have come up with a more dignified pen name?”

  “I kept thinking the name Montague Moreland sounded familiar,” said Arthur, who was a year younger than she was. Jostling Jack aside, he pulled Daphne into a hug, gave her a kiss on the forehead, then released her. “For the life of me, though, I can’t think where I’ve heard the name before.”

  “Montague Moreland was that ridiculous villain I created for the play I wrote when I was twelve, the one I made all of you act out for our neighbors that summer we stayed in the Hamptons.” Daphne frowned at Jack. “I would have thought you’d have pieced that together by now since you were the one to play the role of Montague.”

  “How in the world could you have expected me to piece that together? It’s not as if you ever gave me a single hint that you’d actually gotten published.”

  “How could you not have figured that out? I’ve been in New York for five years. How would I have been able to survive on my own all this time if I hadn’t?”

  “I thought Aunt Almira was still supporting you.”

  “Having Aunt Almira support me for five years would have been quite the imposition on her finances.”

  “True, but it’s not as if I ever thought that my younger sister was perpetuating what has got to be one of the cleverest secrets the publishing world has ever hidden.” Jack gave her nose a bit of a tweak. “You could have told me what you were up to.”

  She tweaked his nose right back. “I signed a nondisclosure agreement. You’re an attorney, as are Arthur and Frank, which means you should understand the legality of nondisclosure agreements because you probably learned about them in your first year of law school.”

  “We’re your family, brat. As such, you should have told us about your contract—or better yet, you should have had us go over that contract before you signed it.” Jack caught her eye. “I would have encouraged you to refuse to sign a nondisclosure agreement, which would have allowed everyone to know who the author really was behind the brilliant Moreland mysteries.”

  A lovely warmth began flowing through her. “You think my work is brilliant?”

  Jack rubbed his chin. “Don’t know why you’d find that surprising. I always told you that you could write, although I might not have encouraged you to pursue it, which was not well-done of me. I’d just hoped to spare you a large dollop of disappointment.” He smiled. “I had no idea you, being a girl and all, would be able to find such success. But you’ve certainly done that, and I couldn’t be prouder of you.”

  “I believe we are all proud of her,” said Frank, their youngest brother, shoving Arthur and Jack aside to take their place. He promptly picked Daphne up, swung her around, then set her back on her feet and ruffled her hair.

  “Do have a care with swinging Daphne around,” Clara said, amusement marking her tone. “If you’ll recall, you did that when she was fifteen and she tossed up her accounts all over you.”

  Frank grinned and took two very large steps away from Daphne. “I forgot about that.”

  “I’m not going to toss up my accounts.”

  “Good to know,” a voice said from the doorway.

  Daphne smiled as her father, known throughout Boston as the Honorable Burton Beekman, strolled into the library, dressed in his customary dark suit and carrying a walking stick that he set aside as he opened up his arms.

  Daphne didn’t hesitate to hurry into them, breathing in the scent of sandalwood as her father wrapped his arms around her and squeezed her tight.

  Burton had not approved of her decision to move to New York City, but he hadn’t stood in her way, even though her mother asked him to do exactly that. He’d then proceeded to write to her every week, including in every letter what he called “pin money,” which was far more than a normal allowance and which he refused to take back from her, even when she told him she was perfectly capable of earning a living on her own.

  Stepping back after her father placed a kiss on her forehead, Daphne smiled. “I wasn’t expecting to see you home from work so early in the day.”

  “Your mother called a family meeting.”

  It was impossible to stifle a groan. “Oh . . . not a family meeting.”

  “What did you expect?” Clara asked, stepping up to them and accepting the kiss Burton placed on her cheek before she caught her husband’s eye. “She’s still refusing to move home, Burton. It’ll be up to you and the boys to convince her otherwise.”

  A clearing of a throat from the doorway had everyone turning that way as Lydia, Daphne’s baby sister, stomped her way into the room, her color high and her eyes flashing. “I, for one, don’t think we should convince Daphne to stay, not after all the dreadful gossip I had to field about her while I was paying calls.”

  “Seems a little early for you to be done with calls, Lydia,” Jack said, which had Lydia’s stomping coming to an abrupt end as she settled a scowl on him.

  “Mother called for a family meeting. But even if she hadn’t, I would have cut my calls short today because”—she shuddered—“Daphne is the talk of Boston.” Additional color stained her cheeks. “She’s sufficiently ruined any chance I may have had of securing an advantageous match this year. What man wants to court a lady who has a notorious older sister?”

  “Daphne’s not notorious,” Jack said, moving to stand beside Lydia, where he promptly kissed her forehead and sent her an indulgent smile, as if she were still five years old and being unreasonable, something Lydia had excelled at in her youth, and was still rather proficient in. “You’re once again being overly dramatic, because you’ve never been in danger of not securing an advantageous match. There are many gentlemen interested in securing your affections, some of whom are friends of mine. The only reason you’ve yet to marry is because you’re hoping your very own Prince Charming will descend on Boston and whisk you away to his castle.”

  “I’m not holding out for a Prince Charming,” Lydia argued. “I’m merely holding out for a gentleman who makes my heart flutter.” She turned to Daphne. “Thomas Sibley has been very attentive to me of late, and he is making a name for himself as a well-respected attorney. I was actually considering him—up until you went and brought such scrutiny on our family. I doubt he’ll continue to flatter me now that the Beekman name is associated with scandals of epic proportion, and . . .”

  Whatever else Lydia said, Daphne didn’t hear because a mere second after her sister mentioned Thomas Sibley, her blood began to boil.

  “You will not even consider allowing Thomas Sibley to flatter you, nor will you ever spend time in his company again,” she said, interrupting Lydia’s tirade and causing the room to fall silent.

  “Why would you say that?” Lydia finally asked, raising a hand to her throat. “Thomas is a wonderful gentleman and has been fast friends with Jack for years.” She narrowed her eyes. “Could it be that you have regrets for refusing his suit all those years ago and now long to have him turn an interested eye your way again?”

  “The last thing I
want is for Thomas to turn an interested eye my way. He’s a disagreeable man who had the audacity to suggest to me, as well as to Mother, that I spend some time in an asylum after I turned down his suit.”

  Her father shot a look to Clara. “I never heard a whisper about sending Daphne to an asylum.”

  “Nor did I,” Jack said, a flash of anger flickering through his eyes. “And one would have thought, what with Thomas being one of my good friends, that he would have mentioned something about that at some point over the past few years.”

  “It was only an idea,” Clara said. “And it’s not as if I expected Daphne to spend a long time there. I merely thought that having professionals look after her in an institution might very well cure her of her horrible bouts of anxiety, something Thomas was concerned about as well.”

  “My anxiety has been improving of late, likely due to my being preoccupied with other matters.” Daphne returned her attention to Lydia. “But hear me well, Lydia. You will not have anything else to do with Thomas Sibley. I’ve met more than enough women through my work at the Bleecker Street Inquiry Agency who’ve found themselves threatened with time in asylums by their own husbands. Husbands, if you’re unaware, have the right to have their wives committed and don’t need a legitimate reason to do so. That Thomas Sibley tried to convince Mother to have me committed merely because I wouldn’t marry him is a definitive sign that he’s not a man any woman should marry, especially my sister.”

  Lydia narrowed her eyes. “But if Thomas is the only man still willing to pay me attention after this debacle of yours, you mark my words, I will accept his suit. I have no intention of turning into you—a confirmed spinster who’ll never enjoy the attention of a gentleman, nor will you ever be able to claim that you’ve ever been kissed.”

  Even though Daphne was quite used to her sister’s disagreeable disposition, Lydia’s words sent temper flowing through her. Before she could respond, though, Garrison, the Beekman family butler, suddenly appeared in the doorway, two gentlemen a few steps behind him.