by Amanda Scott
Nell found it hard to believe that Sir Mortimer had been a determined recluse for so many years, for he seemed, now that he had accepted her visits, to look forward to them. Sadly, by the end of the second week, she had begun to notice that rather than gaining strength, he was weakening, and that he was simply too ill to work at the pace that would see his book finished when the publisher expected it to be. Not only was he not accustomed to telling his tales aloud but he frequently had difficulty thinking of the words he wanted to use, and even more difficulty keeping track of his story. She thought the result worse than any tale she had ever read and was certain that even she, with her lack of experience, could have done a better job of writing it.
She had been going early each morning to the Royal Crescent and returning late in the afternoon to Laura Place, and as far as either she or Lady Flavia could tell, no one suspected that she was doing anything out of the way. Thus, she would have been content to continue as they were, hoping that with Sir Mortimer’s experience, he would somehow manage to create gold out of dross, but suddenly one afternoon, he lost what little patience he had.
“Damme, but I don’t know what’s come over me,” he muttered as he fumbled for a word. “That’s the fourth time in less than a quarter-hour that I have lost the thread! This will not do, Miss Bradbourne. It won’t do at all.”
“I wish you would call me Nell, sir,” she told him for what she thought must be the hundredth time.
“’T’ain’t proper,” he muttered, clearly still searching his mind for the word he wanted. “Pretty young woman like you oughtn’t to be spending all her time with an old man, wearing her fingers to the bone with nonsensical scribbling. Ought to be going about to parties and the like.”
“Well, I cannot do that, in any event,” she reminded him. “I am in mourning, as you know full well.”
“Must be nearly over and done b’ now,” he retorted. “Royal family’s nigh well given up mourning the Queen, after all, and Bradbourne did himself in about the same time, did he not?”
“Just afterward,” she said coolly, wondering how this old man, cooped up as he was on the top floor of a house in Bath, could know so much of what went on elsewhere in the world.
“Fool thing to do, to kill himself.” He stirred in obvious discomfort, and Borland, who had been sitting out of the way in a chair by the window, got up at once and moved to straighten his pillows. Sir Mortimer ignored him. “Why did he do it?”
Nell swallowed the emotions stirred by his question, determined to maintain her composure. She had quickly learned that it did her no good to reveal her sensibilities to this man, that it was better to give as good as she got. She said flatly, “I should prefer not to discuss that subject, if you please.”
“Well, I don’t please. I want to know what would drive a seemingly robust man to blow his brains out.”
Her expression wooden, she said, “He found that he had been ruined through his own foolishness, sir, and he was disappointed in his son. And now, if you please—”
“Disappointed, was he? Can’t blame him for that when his son’s a damned young scoundrel who didn’t even bother to attend his funeral. On the Continent, by what I hear, and likely to remain.” He shifted painfully, adding, “In my day, that would have meant pistols at dawn as the cause, but these mealy-mouthed times, it can’t have been any such thing. Only such affair I’ve heard about in years was some loose fish shot right here in Bath, and that was no affair of honor. Take that damned stuff away, Borland!” This last was in reference to the glass the manservant was just then attempting to press to his master’s lips.
Borland said gently, “The doctor insists you take your tonic regularly, sir, so it won’t do to be forgetting it.” He tilted the glass, and since he had prudently placed his large hand behind Sir Mortimer’s head to steady it, the old man could not move away and was compelled to drink the stuff. He did so, screwing up his face at the taste of it.
Grateful for the timely respite, Nell struggled to compose herself and wondered how he could know so much. Deducing that his admittedly large correspondence must provide the bulk of his information, and hoping he would say no more to her if he thought she was reading, she began to skim through the material she had taken down that day, noting only that the work was unimpressive, both in quantity and in quality. When Borland moved back to his seat by the window, she looked up again to find the old man’s eyes quizzing her, and was able now to perceive in them pain of a quite different nature.
“Pretty awful stuff, ain’t it?” he said miserably.
She was silent for a moment, then said, “You know, sir, I think perhaps Elizabeth ought not to run away from school. One reads that sort of thing so frequently that one begins to wonder if there are any young ladies still residing in their boarding schools. And to hire herself out as an abigail to a lady meaning to depart at once for a distant, exotic country seems a trifle implausible, too. Perhaps if she were older from the outset and simply left school because her time had come to do so—”
“Now, damme, Miss Bradbourne, don’t you get to thinking you know more about writing this stuff than I do,” he growled. “Been at it thirty years and more, don’t you know.”
“Whatever made you begin, sir?” Nell asked, adding quickly lest he take offense, “I mean, ’tis not an occupation one expects to attract a gentleman.” She managed to avoid adding, “like yourself,” but she saw from his expression that he knew what she was thinking. She had seen that same expression on Manningford’s face more than once, and found it just as disconcerting now.
Sir Mortimer had no objection to answering her question. “Shortly before Brandon was born, two friends and I were riding through a village in the ’Shires one day—too hot for hunting, it was—and we chanced to encounter some villagers in a market square, squabbling over a broken-down gig. We rode on, of course—no concern of ours—but soon found ourselves proposing possible grounds for the dispute. We ended by deciding that each of us should write a tale, just for a lark, including such events as we might imagine to have led up to it. The exercise amused me more than I expected, and my little fantasy developed into a work called Cymbeline Sheridan. I expect you have heard of it.”
“Goodness,” Nell said, “of course I have heard of it! Why, everyone has, for I daresay it is as much a classic in its own way as The Monk, and I know for a fact that it was my mother’s favorite book. Did you really write it, sir?”
“Well, of course I did,” he retorted testily, “or I should not say so. Never thought anything would come of it, but I sent it to John Murray, a London publisher, when my friends dared me to do so, and then, after my poor wife died and I found I didn’t care at all for the company of others, I turned back to the writing instead. Never wanted my name bandied about, of course, and since the common taste runs to the likes of Ann Radcliffe and Madame d’Arblay—Fanny Burney, she was then—I chose to be an anonymous Gentlewoman of Quality.”
“I do know your books now,” she said, “for ’tis noted that they are written by the author of Cymbeline Sheridan.”
“Aye, so now you must agree that I know what I’m talking about when I tell you young ladies don’t want to be reading about a heroine past her prime. They want a young woman, innocent in the ways of the world, to be saved by a properly virtuous hero from an utterly wicked villain. They want ghosts and gypsies, princes and dukes, gloomy castles, dark woods, snow-white horses, and magic potions. Damme, if they don’t!”
“But none of those are real,” Nell protested. “I must tell you, sir, that I have been reading a most amusing tale lent to me by Aunt Flavia, called Emma, about ordinary people doing ordinary things. The author, a Miss Austen, writes about the sort of people she sees each day, doing things they really do, and her skill is such that she makes the reader laugh at their foibles right along with her.”
“Yes, yes, I know the muck you mean,” he said impatiently, “though she’s been dead now nigh onto two years, so I expect you think I ought
to speak kindly. But I can tell you, her work won’t last. Think about it! Pokes fun at persons of rank, she does, the very ones most likely to pay out good coin for the books. Oh, folks read them, but their interest will pass, and you’ll do well to remember, miss, that my books—nearly all of them about lovely young heroines marching innocently from one peril to the next—are vastly more successful than hers. Why, if she made even a third as much money in all her life as I’ve made on Cymbeline Sheridan alone, I shall own myself astonished!”
“Well,” Nell said, stirred by his arrogant tone to argue the point, “I think her story more interesting than this, sir.” She tapped the stack of paper in her lap, adding frankly, “Aside from disbelieving the existence of such absurdities as magic potions and dark, gloomy castles, I tell you to your head that in this day and age, any girl who sits waiting for a virtuous prince on a white horse to ride to her rescue will most likely end her days as a decaying spinster.”
“And how old are you, Miss Bradbourne?”
There was a silence before Nell said grimly, “Old enough to know when someone is attempting to divert me from my point, sir, but such a tactic will not serve. You have hired me—at a very good wage, I might add—to help you get this story written.”
“But not to write it,” he snapped, his face turning an alarming shade of red as he struggled to sit up straight in the bed. “I agreed to attempt this idiotic plan, but I shall end it instantly if you mean to insinuate your own simpleminded ideas into my story, miss.”
Appalled as much by the way she had allowed herself to speak to him as by a reaction that could not in any way benefit his health, Nell ruthlessly stifled indignation to say, “You are quite right to remind me that I have no experience in such matters, sir, and that it is not my business to be telling you what I think. I must apologize and hope you can forgive me.”
“Poppycock!” His blue eyes blazed. “You don’t fool me! No woman with a head of hair like yours ever spoke mealy-mouthed inanities with any sincerity whatever, and that’s plain fact. If you’ve got something to say, say it, but don’t prattle rubbishing apologies to me. I won’t believe a word of ’em!”
“But I do apologize, and most sincerely, for causing you distress, sir.” She glanced at Borland to see that he was poised on the edge of his chair, and forced a calmer note into her voice when she added, “I often speak before I think, which is a sad fault in me and one I have frequently struggled to overcome.”
“’Tis something, I suppose, that you don’t declare yourself proud to speak your mind,” he said, and she was glad to see the manservant settle back again. “Can’t abide folks who call it a virtue whenever they speak what comes into their heads. Never met one yet who appreciated that same virtue in anyone else. Daresay I never will, human nature being what it is. I’ll wager that if you were to speak the truth to me now, you’d say you don’t think this work is near as good as Cymbeline Sheridan.”
“No, sir,” Nell said quietly. When he did not reply, when it seemed, in fact, that he had lapsed into a silence of despair, she roused herself to add, “Since you have written many wonderful books, sir—so wonderful that his highness, the Regent, wants you to dedicate this one to him—I cannot believe you would thank me if I were to continue merely to write down what you tell me, when I know that you are not happy with the result. Nevertheless, I have no right to speak my mind if you dislike it, and certainly I never meant to say as much as I did.”
“You’re a damned impertinent young woman,” he muttered. “I don’t want to see your face again today.” He sounded tired. As he turned his face to the wall, he added curtly, “Get her out of here, Borland.”
Rising with dignity to her feet, Nell said, “I am perfectly capable of removing myself, sir. Is it your intention to give notice that my services are no longer required?”
There was no answer.
She glanced at Borland, whose eyes rolled up toward the ceiling as though he hoped to gain assistance from above. When his glance met hers again, she smiled ruefully, and he got to his feet, shaking his head. He made no move to approach the bed.
Placing her notebook in the satchel she used to carry her things, she shook her skirt out with her free hand and turned to leave the room, moving with care so that the figure in the bed should not know how much his reaction had discomposed her. But once she was safely on the other side of the door, she expelled a long breath and let her body sag against the wall, closing her eyes and wishing she could as easily shut out the lingering echoes of her hasty tongue and his angry response. She stood like that for a long moment before straightening, then turned toward the stair and walked straight into Manningford.
His strong hands grasped her upper arms to steady her, and his breath stirred the curls beneath her flimsy lace cap when he said quietly, “A bad day, Nell?”
She felt warmth flooding her cheeks at the thought of the picture she must present to him. Straightening quickly and attempting without success to step away from him, she forced her gaze to meet his, realizing that he must have been in the study with the door open, and crossed the carpet on silent feet, for she had heard nothing to warn her of his approach.
She had no wish to speak to him there, lest their voices be overheard to the further distress of Sir Mortimer, in the room behind her; yet she found it impossible to move away from him as long as he continued to hold her, and he seemed not to realize that she wished to move. The warmth of his hands on her arms was disconcerting, his nearness more so. It was not, of course, the first time she had stood so near a gentleman, or been so near to him, for she had been seeing him every day for nearly three weeks without becoming shy in his presence, so why his nearness now should disorder her senses was a mystery. Nonetheless, she could neither seem to find her tongue, nor the strength to disengage herself from his embrace.
“Perhaps we should step into the study,” he said.
“No!” Glancing at the door behind her, she looked back at him in mute appeal, grateful beyond measure when he took her meaning swiftly, stood aside, and let her precede him to the stairway. By the time they had reached the floor below, Nell had regained her customary composure and was able to accompany him into the library without another distressing thought.
The room had become a favorite retreat for her. Its windows, draped in peach-colored velvet a shade darker than the white-molding-trimmed walls and several shades lighter than the carpet, looked out over the crescent and the magnificent panorama beyond. A Chippendale bureau bookcase that filled the wall opposite the fireplace, and a pair of secretary bookcases that flanked its white-marble mantle, were loaded with books of the sort she most enjoyed reading, books that Manningford had told her from the first day she might take away to read if she liked. She had spent a number of hours here while Sir Mortimer napped, which he did at least once a day, for now that there were servants in the house again, there was always a cheerful fire to welcome her, and no one disturbed her unless she rang the bell.
The chamber was not only comfortably furnished but elegant as well, although it was a rather decayed elegance, for Nell would have staked her best gown on the likelihood that it had not been refurbished in a decade. Noting that Manningford had very prudently left the door ajar, she moved to one of a pair of wing chairs facing the fireplace and took a seat there, looking into the fire and letting her body relax.
“What happened?” he asked. “I collect that he is in one of his twittier moods today.”
She looked at him ruefully. “It was entirely my fault, sir. I spoke out of turn, and he became angry with me. I am sure it can have done him no good.”
“Well, if we are to fret every time he loses his temper, we shall all of us soon be fit for Bedlam. I’ll wager he’s lost it at least once a week these past twenty years and more, for he has never been noted for his even temper.”
That drew a smile from her. “No,” she said, “but the doctor insists that he must not be distressed, and I …”
“You distressed him
,” Manningford said flatly. “What did you say?”
“All that I ought not to have said, I fear. I had the temerity to criticize his writing. You ought to have told me that he wrote Cymbeline Sheridan, sir. I had no idea!”
“Nor did I,” Manningford said. “Did he indeed write it? I am scarcely bookish, but I have certainly heard of that one.”
“Well, I should think you must have done,” she said. “A person must have been raised in a monastery not to have done so, and I collect that you went to a perfectly ordinary school.”
“I doubt the lads at Eton would appreciate your description, but I’ll not quibble over it.”
She shot him a saucy look. “My brother went to Harrow, sir, so you will not be surprised that I have long been given to look upon Eton as a vastly inferior sort of school.”
“We don’t think much of Harrow either. You said once that he and I are alike. Tell me about him.”
“Oh, you are not really so much alike as I first thought,” she said, adding quickly, “He is presently in France, in any case, and you once said that to talk of one’s family is boring, did you not?” Biting her lip, she added, “I ought never to have criticized your father, sir. It was badly done of me.”
“Nonsense,” he said, adding, “My sister and her husband are in France, too, in Paris, to be exact. If your brother is doing the fancy, ’tis likely he will encounter them there.”
“I shouldn’t think so. Nigel prefers gaming to dancing.” She didn’t add that she thought he would be apt to stay away from anyone likely to know his history, but she was aware of a certain amount of strain in her voice, and she was not surprised when she looked up at Manningford to see that his eyes had narrowed. He did not press her, however, and after a brief silence, merely suggested that she might like some refreshment.