by Amanda Scott
She gasped. Her curls were standing on end, as though she had pushed a rake through them, and there were two spots of ink on her right cheek. Glancing at her hands, she saw that her fingers were also smudged. “Ask Mr. Manningford to wait five minutes,” she told the butler as she snatched a handkerchief from beneath her sash and, waiting only until he had gone, damped it with the tip of her tongue and proceeded to tidy herself, leaving red marks in place of the ink stains on her face. The state of her hair made her long for one of the lace caps she wore when she visited Sir Mortimer, but after a brief struggle to force the riot of curls into order, she gave it up and moved quickly to sit down when she heard Sudbury’s hand once again on the latch.
Manningford, striding into the room with a harassed look on his face, did not appear to notice her untidiness. His manner was blunter than she was accustomed to see in him. “Good day, Miss Bradbourne, I am sorry to trouble you. I came to discover if you have had time yet to work on that fair copy.”
Bristling at his tone, she said, “Indeed, sir, I have, but surely you might have waited until Monday morning, when I return to Royal Crescent, to ask me.”
“The problem is more urgent than that,” he said. “My father has had another attack.”
“Another attack!” Nell’s hand flew to her mouth. “It must have been my fault for speaking to him as I did! Oh, will I never learn to control my wretched temper?”
“I daresay you will,” he retorted in damping tones, “if you will take care not to fall into a distempered freak whenever anyone brings you bad news. It was not your fault. Indeed, if anyone is to blame, it is I.” He turned abruptly and looked out the window for a moment before he added, “I told him after you left yesterday what I thought of his behavior toward you, and I reminded him that he had no choice but to accept your services or let his secret be known. But now, if that accursed book is to be done, you must do it alone, for according to Borland, this time I nearly sent the old man to his grave.”
“Oh dear,” Nell said, collecting herself in a sudden desire to soothe him, “but I am sure you did no such thing, sir. Your father has been extremely ill, after all, and we ought never to have allowed him to exert himself so unwisely over his novel.”
“No,” he said, turning, “and that is why I must know if you can do the thing, for from what you tell me, the entire work requires alteration. I cannot do it—that has already been established—but I intend to see the matter through, one way or another. May I see the portion you have modified? Though I do not pretend to know much about it, I believe I can tell if you have produced anything worth showing to someone who does.”
Nell was reluctant. “I cannot claim to have done anything noteworthy, sir. Indeed, I found the work most difficult. Oh, but here is my great-aunt,” she added on a note of relief when Lady Flavia entered the room just then. “She has read the whole and must be accounted something of a judge. She will tell you that the task you require is not one for me to accomplish.”
Lady Flavia, smiling and holding out her small hand, said calmly, “I shall say no such thing, sir, you may be sure, but perhaps we had better all sit down and discuss this task.”
The matter was quickly explained to her, and once she had exclaimed her dismay over Sir Mortimer’s second attack, she said, “But you are fretting yourself to flinders over finishing this novel of his, sir, and you need not be, for although my dearest Nell sets her achievements low, one is convinced that given her head she could do the thing for you, and very well indeed.”
“Excellent,” Manningford declared. “Just what I wanted to hear! Show me at once what you have done, Miss Bradbourne.”
VIII
RELUCTANTLY, NELL INDICATED THE papers on the escritoire, and Manningford moved to the chair there and began to read.
The two ladies watched him anxiously, and the instant he looked up, Lady Flavia said, “’Tis mighty promising, sir, do not you agree?”
“I think it damned foolish,” he replied with a grimace.
Nell gasped. “Well, thank you very much, I am sure, but you have already said you know nothing of such things and I never claimed you would like it!”
“Don’t fly into the boughs,” he retorted. “I don’t pretend for an instant to know anything about such stuff.” He looked at Lady Flavia. “Do you truly think it up to snuff, ma’am?”
“Certainly, sir,” Lady Flavia said stoutly. “A trifle fantastic, perhaps, but then—”
“Just as I thought,” he said, pouncing on this mild criticism. “There are bits I truly enjoyed, where the writer exhibited a turn for description or for bringing a certain character to life before plunging the reader back into stilted nonsense about wicked dukes, foreign princes, and the like. Nobody of sense could swallow such stuff as that, though.”
“Just what one has said, oneself,” Lady Flavia admitted with a sigh. “Do you not agree that if Nell is to take responsibility for the whole, she would do better to alter it so as to write about things she knows? The best bit, to my mind, is when she describes Elizabeth’s loneliness just before that young woman accepts the arrangement with Lady Dashing to accompany her to that odd country, the name of which I shall not even attempt to pronounce. I suspect that that is just how Nell herself felt at Highgate before coming to Bath, and for the most part, you know, the tale could as easily take place here, for I am sure Bath has its own fair share of villains and innocent young women, though not, to be sure, of dashing young heroes.”
Nell, whose reaction to even the complimentary part of Lady Flavia’s comment had been a feeling of acute discomfort, said tartly, “I cannot change Sir Mortimer’s story so much, and for that matter, I can scarcely be held to know anything about Bath, having spent so little time to any purpose here.”
Lady Flavia, with a gleam of intent in her eyes, said gently, “But surely, my dear, Mr. Manningford could take you about, to show you the city, you know.”
He gave a sharp nod, saying, “And in any case, you must know Bath better than you can know that fantastic land on the Continent that you and my father betwixt you have created.”
She flushed. “At least I know what your father wants, sir, and the novel is his, after all.”
“What he wants is a finished work that can be dedicated to his royal highness,” Manningford said. “Unfortunately, he can no longer dictate his own tale to you, for after this last attack he could not speak at all for a time, and though his ability to do so has recovered somewhat, his doctor insists that he must avoid unnecessary exertion. That is why, since the old man only wants the wretched thing done without his being unmasked as the author, I had hoped we might oblige him.”
“By having me write the tale.” Nell’s tone was bitter, but Manningford did not appear to notice.
“Just so.”
“Well, I cannot do it on those grounds,” she said flatly.
He stared at her. “I thought you had already agreed.”
“Then you deluded yourself, sir, for the situation is greatly altered now, as I am sure you must see for yourself if you will only take the trouble to do so. When all I was doing was writing down Sir Mortimer’s words, there was nothing for anyone to cavil at. Even when I agreed to revise parts of his story, I did so with his plot, characters, and setting firmly in my mind. What you are now asking me to do is to discard the bulk of his work and submit my own tale to Mr. Murray as that of an author whose work he knows and admires. I cannot do it.”
There was a heavy silence. Even Lady Flavia seemed to have nothing to say, for she turned her face to the fire and sat staring at the crackling flames. At last, Manningford sighed and said, “You are right, of course. I failed to perceive as much before, because I was concerned only with meeting my father’s demands without submitting him to further anxiety. I see now that that cannot be done.” He slumped in the chair, looking defeated and very tired.
Nell’s temper subsided instantly. She had a strong urge to run to him and put her arms around him, to comfort him (just a
s, she told herself firmly, she would comfort her brother in a like circumstance), but she resisted it; and, although she could think of nothing to say that might cheer him, her mind began to grapple with the problem he faced. Only a moment’s reflection was needed to tell her she could do what he wanted; she was not by any means certain she could do it without compromising her principles.
He was watching her. “What is it?”
She met his look. “Merely a fantasy, sir, and nothing to stir your hopes.” When he continued to look at her, she sighed, adding, “I cannot deny that I should like nothing better than to do as you wish. Moreover, I can see that it might be possible to make more extensive revision than I have without altering the main portion of Sir Mortimer’s story. What has presented the greatest difficulty, after all, is my effort to keep the setting and characters as he would want them without knowing exactly what was in his mind when he created them; therefore, had I the freedom to alter those where necessary—even, perhaps, to use Bath, not as a brand new setting but as a model for things I wish to add to his setting—I believe I could do what you ask of me. The style of writing is and would remain his, of course, since having listened to him as much as I have, it is no great thing for me to imitate it.” Noting the spark of hope that leapt to his eyes, she added quickly, “But it is of no use to be thinking I shall do any such thing, sir, for I could not make the attempt without his leave, and he will never permit it.”
Manningford frowned and said, “Do I understand you to say, then, that if left to your own devices, you could transform his work into an acceptable novel?”
“By no means,” she retorted. “I am saying only that if I can do so in good conscience, I should like very much to try. I have no reason to be certain the attempt would succeed, and I would need both his blessing and his help.”
He looked at her for a moment before he said more gently than she had expected, “There may be a way to accomplish the deed without compromising either your scruples or his. Will you see what you can achieve in the next few days if I will promise faithfully to explain matters to him in the meantime, to tell him frankly what you are attempting to do on his behalf, and discover what his wishes might be?”
Nell’s first impulse was to refuse, but a look of near desperation in Manningford’s eyes stopped her. At first, she had assumed that his only reason for having anything to do with the novel was his apprehension that Sir Mortimer would otherwise refuse him money he required. Despite that assumption, however, and Mr. Lasenby’s hints that he must be longing to get away from Bath, she had seen no sign either of resentment or restlessness. That seeing Sir Mortimer’s book completed had become a personal matter with him was as clear to her now as though the information had been printed upon his countenance. She said quietly, “I will do as you request, sir, but—forgive me—do you think it wise to speak to him so soon after …” Delicately, she allowed her voice to fade into silence.
He smiled at her ruefully. “I do not know the best course, ma’am, but although Borland did not spare me, the doctor said it was more likely the old man’s having attempted to get out of bed that caused his fit, an opinion that would seem to be supported by the fact that the attack did not occur until some hours after either you or I spoke to him. In the event, I will promise you to keep my temper in check, and if it appears that my proposal is distressing him unduly, I will abandon it. Will that suit you?”
Nell had little confidence in his ability to control his temper if Sir Mortimer, as seemed only too likely, were to lose his, but she could not resist the pleading look in his eyes, and she nodded.
He sighed in relief, arose from his chair, and said briskly, “I’ll leave you now to get on with it, for Sep means to depart for Brighton in an hour, and I promised I’d see him on his way. To remind him to go, actually,” he added, smiling wryly at Nell. “Oh, and you need not continue your daily visits to the crescent now. No doubt your great-aunt has been unhappy about them and will be glad to see them curtailed.” He bowed to Lady Flavia.
“As to that, sir,” she said, “Nell is quite her own mistress, and will do as she pleases, and one supposes oneself old enough to cease to heed what the quizzes may say. Do you pull that bell, if you will, and Sudbury will show you out.”
When he had gone, Nell said, “You know, ma’am, I cannot help thinking we are making a grave mistake by fancying I can improve upon Sir Mortimer’s work. I am but the veriest amateur.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” Lady Flavia replied comfortably. “You have only to pretend that Sir Mortimer’s characters are people to whom he has introduced you, and then improve upon their natures as you will. I declare, it would make one feel quite powerful, would it not? But all any novel is, after all, is a few good characters, an interesting setting, and some sort of plot. Only the last bit, surely, can be at all difficult.”
Nell remembered the discussion she had had with Sir Mortimer on the subject of plots. “An innocent heroine,” she murmured, only half aloud, “saved by a properly virtuous hero from an utterly wicked villain.”
“What’s that you say?” Lady Flavia demanded. “Speak up, child. You young people mumble so, and one is not hard of hearing, whatever ill-natured persons might say to the contrary!”
“No, ma’am, certainly not. I was just remembering something Sir Mortimer told me, and my imagination began to stir. If you will excuse me,” she added, gathering the manuscript pages, “I shall go to my bedchamber and see what I can contrive.”
“No, no, stay here. ’Tis far more comfortable for you, and I was, after all, on the point of going out to pay calls when that handsome young man arrived. I had thought to invite you to accompany me, because someone is likely to invite us to dine, but I quite understand that you want to see what you can accomplish before Monday. No doubt, Mr. Manningford will be all agog to see the result.”
Nell agreed vaguely, but her imagination was stirring so that she scarcely paid any heed, other than to bid Lady Flavia to enjoy herself, before sitting back down at the escritoire. For a few moments she sat there, staring into space, thinking. Then, turning to the first page of the manuscript, she began to read and to make notes to herself. A quarter-hour passed, then another, and the longer she worked, the more excited she became, until she could not bear it any longer but simply had to begin again at the beginning, with a fresh sheet of paper.
From the moment her nib touched the paper, the pen seemed to take on a life of its own and fairly flew along with scarcely more than a second’s pause each time she had to dip it into the ink. For the most part she was copying the original, but she found herself adding and deleting words, then altering scenes and characters—some slightly, others more drastically. The writing was no longer frustrating or difficult. Nor was it a matter of simple self-amusement. It flowed now from a sense of urgency to get the words down on the paper before they faded from her mind. The hours passed swiftly, and she did not even look up when Sudbury opened the drawing-room door and looked in to see if she wanted anything.
The butler, noting her abstraction, shut the door softly and went away. The next time it opened, it was to admit Lady Flavia.
“Gracious me, child, are you still at it?” she demanded, startling Nell and causing her to splatter her work.
Reaching automatically for silver sand to sprinkle on the blots, she looked over her shoulder in surprise. “Back so soon, ma’am? I thought you’d be gone for hours.”
“And so I have been,” Lady Flavia declared, shutting the door behind her and going to sit in her chair. “I even stayed longer than usual, for Maria Prudham has been telling me she was set upon by footpads last evening, at the top of Avon Street! If one is not safe in the center of Bath, one is not safe anywhere.”
“How dreadful! Was she hurt?”
“No, for they only took her money, but she was sadly frightened, for she was in her chair and the bearers ran away, which, as you may guess, they are not supposed to do. But do not tell me you have been writing all the while I ha
ve been away!”
Noting the time on the mantle clock, Nell exclaimed, “Good gracious, I can scarcely credit it myself, ma’am, but I have not stirred since you left. I feel as though I have been sitting only a few minutes, however, and there is more that I should like to write down before it goes out of my head. Will you be vexed if I continue?”
Lady Flavia looked interested. “I shall endeavor to stay as quiet as a mouse, my dear, if you will allow me to glance through what you have written today.”
Nell hesitated. “I have not read it yet myself, ma’am.”
“Oh, I shall not expect perfection, you know,” Lady Flavia said. “I just thought I might amuse myself so that you could continue with your work.”
Making no further objection, Nell handed her the finished pages and turned back to her work.
If Lady Flavia was surprised, after Nell had watched her so anxiously before as she read, that she did not seem to be paying any heed to her now, she did not say so, and soon the only sounds in the room were the scratch of Nell’s pen, the turning of pages, and the occasional crack of a spark on the hearth, where coals from the morning fire lay dying for lack of attention. In the next hour, these sounds were augmented several times by a gasp or a chuckle from her ladyship, and once by a choke of laughter, but Nell did not hear these, so absorbed was she in her work. And when Sudbury entered to announce dinner, she was startled again, and laid her pen aside with obvious reluctance.
Smiling ruefully at her great-aunt, she said, “’Tis the oddest thing, ma’am, for when I tried to keep everything as I thought Sir Mortimer would want it, I struggled with every word. Now the pen just flies! All at once, I knew how I ought to do the thing, and after that, the hours passed like minutes and a great number of pages got written. Oh dear,” she added, with a look of dismay when her gaze came to light upon the pile of pages by her great-aunt’s chair, “I quite forgot you had been reading.”