Romance By The Book
Page 1
Table of Contents
Synopsis
By the Author
Acknowledgments
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
About the Author
Books Available from Bold Strokes Books
Synopsis
For a smart woman, Alex is pretty clueless. She wants the truth, but she’s looking in the wrong place. She wants love, but she’s not looking at all. If only Cam didn’t keep disrupting her life, Alex might be able to find some answers. After all, it’s not as if Cam is interested in her. Which is probably a good thing, since Cam is even more infuriating than she is charming—and she’s got plenty of charm.
On the other hand, Rosamund, Cam’s ex and Alex’s professional rival, is definitely interested in Alex, but can she be trusted? Alex doesn’t even realize the historic house she’s staying in is haunted. Perhaps a little supernatural help will lead Alex to uncover the secret of a love story hidden for over a century, and to solve the greatest mystery of all—the truth hidden in her own heart.
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Romance by the Book
© 2015 By Jo Victor. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-397-4
This Electronic Book is published by
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P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: June 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Gabrielle Pendergrast
By the Author
Revenge of the Parson’s Daughter Or The Lass that Loved a Pirate
Romance by the Book
Acknowledgments
I can’t exactly remember how I first got the idea for this story, but I know that reading Joanna Russ’s How to Suppress Women’s Writing was a big part of it. I do remember having an image come to mind of a woman standing in an old house somewhere in England, looking at the painting of a woman dressed as a Regency dandy, and somehow interacting with the woman’s ghost. The last piece fell into place when I came across a magazine article about Anne Lister and discovered that someone like the character I was imagining had actually existed in Regency England, and what’s more, had left behind diaries—in her own secret code—detailing her love affairs with women.
Anyway, that’s where Artemisia came from. I’m not exactly sure about everybody else in the story (although Grace, as you might expect, just showed up one day and proceeded to take over).
It has taken me longer than I ever expected to get this story told, and I’ve had a lot of help along the way, so I have plenty of people to thank. I am in awe of the work of Helena Whitbread, the scholar responsible for decoding, editing, and publishing Anne Lister’s writing; I Know My Own Heart, in particular, has been a major source of inspiration and information. Samantha very generously and patiently answered my long list of questions about British food. And although it’s been quite a while since high school, my friend Christine—a genuine Yorkshire native—was gracious enough to read the entire manuscript to fact check the British speech and social customs. From one Wise Monkey to another, many thanks. Any errors that remain are of course my fault.
I am grateful to everyone at Bold Strokes Books who helped make this book happen, including Gabrielle Pendergrast who created the fabulous cover. The presenters and participants at the Bold Strokes retreat provided lots of ideas and plenty of encouragement. My editor, Ruth Sternglantz, saved me from myself any number of times in addition to being generally amazing and wonderful. And it should go without saying (but I’ll go ahead and say it anyway) that I will be forever grateful to Radclyffe for not only being a huge inspiration and creating a place like Bold Strokes in the first place, but for inviting me to join the jamboree.
My second book. I can still barely believe it. It’s a huge, huge thrill.
Speaking of which, all my love, devotion, and gratitude belong to my partner. Twenty-two years and counting, sweet babe. Let’s keep dancing.
Dedication
For S., obviously.
Chapter One
Wading through the crowds at Heathrow, hauling her heavy suitcases and overfull backpack, Alex congratulated herself that she’d heeded her mother’s advice and shipped her precious books and papers directly from Boston to Leeds. Now all she had to do was pray they arrived safely, and then figure out a way to get the heavy crates to her ultimate destination. But first things first, she had to get herself out of this crazy airport and on to her first stop.
As she maneuvered past a group of flight attendants sporting British Airways uniforms, she shuddered, recalling her previous visit to England and her first experience of culture shock, British style. That particular trauma had occurred only minutes after takeoff from Logan. Considering all the firsts that ascent had represented—first trip alone, first trip to Europe, first flight—it hadn’t come as much of a surprise when her stomach began to feel a little funny. In her innocence, she had ordered a ginger ale from the extremely cute stewardess, only to collapse in a choking fit as the searing, spicy liquid hit the back of her throat like a mouthful of drain cleaner. Who could possibly have guessed that—unlike its bland American counterpart—British ginger ale would actually contain a significant amount of real, live, sinus-clearing ginger?
That had been her first lesson in the perils of taking the apparent similarities between Britain and America for granted.
Continuing to weave her way through the crowds, Alex had to smile at her younger self. She had been barely nineteen, after all, embarked on a grand adventure thanks to a junior-year abroad program, wide-eyed and eager for whatever she would find in England, land of her literary dreams. And she had found plenty, including a firm friendship, still going strong after nearly ten years, with her flatmate Fiona Montrose.
What’s more, Fiona’s grandfather Ian turned out to be both London based and hospitable, welcoming them to his home during various holidays. Fiona was in Australia now, married and expecting her first child, but Alex was looking forward to seeing Ian again.
Finally reaching the subway—oops, Under
ground—Alex set aside her nostalgic musings to focus on the practicalities of ticketing and boarding. As the train sped along, she thought about everything she had to look forward to over the next year: Her first sight of Yorkshire, whose wild and desolate beauty had inspired so many literary greats. A chance to get some real work done on her dissertation, with no teaching responsibilities or part-time job to distract her. Best of all, she would actually be living in Artemisia’s house! Sleeping under her roof, eating in the same dining room, perhaps even sitting in the very chair she used to sit in.
Even now she could hardly believe that she, Alexandra Petrocelli, had been able to capture the Brockenbridge Scholar-in-Residence Fellowship. Not that Artemisia scholarship was as overcrowded as some specialties, but there was still plenty of competition, especially for an award as prestigious as the Brockenbridge. She was still a little dazed, particularly after having discovered that she was only the third American ever to win the award.
Perhaps that was why some of her professors had discouraged her from applying. At least Barbara had stuck by her. Thinking of Barbara made her sigh, so she decided to focus on something else instead. Like Quality Street chocolate assortments, and the delights of Indian take-away; she hadn’t been able to find anyone Stateside who could make chicken tikka masala the way she liked it, despite diligent searching. And Ian’s housekeeper Mrs. Glendale’s roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, her lamb with peas and mint, and best of all, her attention to the manifold delights of a proper tea, right down to clotted cream for the fresh-baked scones. These thoughts happily filled Alex’s mind for what was left of the journey.
Once she’d hauled herself and her bags off the train and out of the station into the noise and bustle of downtown London, it took surprisingly little time to hail a cab, and in next to no time, Alex found herself at Ian’s front door. The warm welcome she received from Ian and Mrs. Glendale felt like a homecoming, and in a way it was. She was back in England, the home of her heart.
*
Mrs. Glendale showed Alex to the guest room and left her with the admonition that tea was almost ready. She had barely started to unpack when she heard Ian calling her to come down.
The next three-quarters of an hour or so were a happy jumble of mutual reminiscence and sybaritic wallowing in a tea that exceeded even her fervent expectations, complete with anchovy toast, crumpets laden with butter and homemade marmalade, the longed-for scones with—yes—clotted cream, and best of all, a magnificent Queen of Sheba cake that Mrs. Glendale had baked in honor of her visit.
When the glorious meal had been reduced to a few wretched fragments and the first flood of conversation had died down, a comfortable silence descended, broken only by the hiss and crackle of the fire in the grate and the ticking of the mantelpiece clock.
Alex sighed, partly from contentment, but also with a little regret for days gone by. She wasn’t nineteen anymore, which was mostly a good thing, probably, but she couldn’t help thinking of the last time she had been sitting in this parlor, when the three of them—she and Fiona and Ian—had been together, laughing through one of their mock-serious arguments over something dear to all their hearts: Emily versus Charlotte Brontë, perhaps, or which of Gilbert and Sullivan’s operettas was the silliest. Now Fiona was far away, happily settled and moving on with her life, while Alex was still trying to figure hers out, still on the move, still trying to find a place to belong and, she hoped, someone to belong to.
Ian at least seemed unchanged, a little grayer perhaps, a little thinner, but just as sharp, still full of vigorous good humor from his riot of curly hair to the toes of his old-fashioned boots. His beard and the inevitable tweed jacket gave him rather a professorial air, although as far as she knew, prior to his retirement, he had spent his whole life as a banker. His shrewd gray eyes were fixed on her with an expression she found hard to decipher.
“So, Alexandra. The Brockenbridge.”
“I still can hardly believe it.”
“Not I. It didn’t surprise me one bit to see your name on the candidates’ list—you always did have a head on your shoulders.”
“Candidates’ list? When did you see that?”
“Why, when it was put before the trustees for discussion and vote, naturally. When else would I have seen it?”
“I don’t understand. Why would they show it to you?”
“Because I’m a trustee, of course! Maybe I should take back what I just said about your intellect.”
“I had no idea you were involved with the Artemisia Foundation…But wait—if you were on the selection committee, is that why—” Alex broke off too late, miserably aware that she had either just grossly insulted Ian’s integrity or offered him the chance to confirm her worst fear, that she didn’t truly merit the award. She still sometimes worried that it was all a mistake that was going to be corrected as soon as someone realized they had overlooked the real winner.
When the decision was first announced and some of her older, more established—and, with few exceptions, male—colleagues had whispered, not quite out of her hearing, their surprise that the award hadn’t gone to a serious scholar, part of her had silently agreed. Of course, she had also overheard Barbara’s spirited defense of her achievement, which was gratifying, if bittersweet.
Ian gave a bark of laughter. “What, do you think I put one over on the committee for you? Hardly! Why, every one of us knew at least one of the candidates, and most of us knew several. Not that that was an advantage in some cases, believe me. But that would be telling tales out of school.” He paused, then continued in a more serious voice. “In any case, it was your own work that won it for you, Alexandra, not my support, though of course you had that. A first-class proposal, and a fresh look at Artemisia’s work into the bargain. Not the sort of thing we see every day, more’s the pity.”
“Oh.” Alex’s head was spinning.
“Cheer up, Alexandra. By fair means or foul, the fellowship is yours now to do with as you will. I for one look for great things from you over the next year.”
“Thank you, Ian. Coming from you that means a lot. I hope you realize I’ve always looked up to you, and to know I have your confidence makes me feel better.” She laughed ruefully. “I confess I’ve spent half the time floating in a daze of bewilderment and the other half wondering what the hell I’m going to do with myself for all that time, especially after the first few months. I’m not really looking forward to a winter alone on the moors.”
Ian laughed in earnest. “Alone on the moors? My dear, Dawson House isn’t Wuthering Heights! Even in Artemisia’s time it was only a short walk from the village, and by now they’ve built right up to the edge of the property, including the most appalling little collection of souvenir shops, ye olde tea rooms, and a so-called museum to compete with the official one at Highgate Hall. You should consider yourself lucky if the tourists obey the Private Property signs.”
“You can hardly blame me, Ian. I’ve never been to Bramfell. I’ve never been anywhere in the North, really.”
“Then you’ve a treat in store. Bramfell’s still a lovely little village, despite what they’ve done to it for the tourist trade. Not much different than when I was a lad, when we’d spend part of every summer in Bramfell with Great-Aunt Oona. And the moor is right there, practically at your back gate, whenever you fancy a ramble. Crags and rocky hills and the vast expanse of cloud-patterned skies, with the whistling wind for company mile after mile after mile. Nothing like it, for my money, anywhere else on earth. Be sure you don’t miss it, shut up with your books and papers.”
“I certainly won’t. As soon as I arrive I’m planning to hike up to Bram Tor and recite Artemisia and Emily Brontë to the hares and hawks. No coward soul is mine and all that. I’ve been looking forward to it since the day they announced the award.”
Ian smiled. “That’s how my own interest in Artemisia got started. Oona used to tell me stories about her as we tramped over the moor.”
“But Artemisia
died in 1843! Just how old was Great-Aunt Oona?”
“As you can probably guess, I thought she was ancient, but I doubt she was even seventy when I first started visiting her. She’d never actually met Artemisia, of course, but she knew people who had. Why, her mother had actually been present when Artemisia died, though she was only about ten years old at the time.”
“What? I don’t remember seeing any little girls in Artemisia’s Farewell”—she mentally reviewed the painting whose image was tattooed on her brain—“but then I’ve only ever seen prints of it. I’ll take a careful look at the original when I visit Highgate Hall. Maybe she’s lurking in one of the dark corners.”
Ian snorted. “From what I remember Oona saying, the painting is full of errors—who was in the room, the way things looked, what happened. Apparently the only thing the artist, Smithson, really got right was that Artemisia was present at her own death scene.”
“Sacrilege! You’d best be careful, Ian, that no Artemisia Society members are lurking behind the drapes.”
He looked over his shoulder in mock alarm, then leaned forward to stage whisper, “You don’t mean that some of Artemisia’s true and loyal admirers might object to a bit of plain speaking, do you?”
Alex laughed. “Object? For voicing such heresy, they’d probably tear you limb from limb. You know as well as I do that the story of Artemisia’s Farewell is the real basis for most of the theories about the nature of Artemisia’s relationship with Lady Melissa. Forget the rumors, forget the evidence—it was all pure and high-minded admiration with none of that messy, all-too-human adultery to sully their idol.”
“Adultery? Don’t tell me that’s the way you see Artemisia’s relationship with Lady Melissa. And you’re worried that I could get in trouble for speaking my mind. We may have to post a guard at Dawson House during your tenure.”