A Charming Cavalryman for Clementine_A Historical Romance Novel Based on True Events

by Hanna Hamilton

  Robert went to his desk and picked up his manuscript, bringing it over to where Cecil was still seated.

  “At least take a look at it… please. Perhaps if you like it enough, you might figure out a way to get around this absurd impediment.”

  Cecil sighed as he took the manuscript.

  “Very well, I will take a read of it… for the sake of our friendship.”

  Robert had taken the train to London and was in the palatial offices of Hancock and Puntley House Publishers two weeks after his meeting with Cecil at Balfour.

  Just yesterday he’d received a letter from Cecil.

  My Dearest Friend, Robert,

  I have had the opportunity to review your manuscript The Adventures of & etc. And I am very pleased to say that I find it to be a most extraordinary work, and am most anxious to discuss publishing possibilities with you at your earliest convenience.

  Drop by my office when you are next in London and we can explore several ideas I have as to how we might surmount your particular problem.

  Most Sincerely Yours,

  Sir Cecil Hancock OBE

  “Sir Cecil will see you now,” his secretary said as she stood and led Robert into his office.

  “My, that was a prompt response to my letter,” Sir Cecil said, as he stood up from his desk and came to greet Robert.

  “I did not want to waste any time. You know how anxious I am to see my book published and I wanted to hear your suggestions as to how we might get around my particular difficulty.”

  “Of course.” Cecil indicated a chair by his desk where Robert stood but did not sit down immediately. He was far too anxious to sit just yet.

  “So you are pleased with my literary effort?” Robert asked.

  “I am, indeed. Very fine. Gripping and touching. I think there is a real possibility for a best seller.”

  Robert beamed as he clutched his hat to his chest. “Then how might we do this—considering your previous reservations?”

  Cecil seemed not to want to sit while Robert was standing. He held out his hand indicating Robert should sit, which he finally did.

  “I have spoken to Puntley about your situation and we have come up with what might be a possible solution for you.”

  “I am eager to hear.”

  Cecil tapped a pencil on his desktop. “You know, historically, there was another fine gentleman like yourself who was in your exact same situation.”

  “Yes, and who might that be?”

  “The Seventeenth Earl of Oxford—Edward de Vere. It was said he was quite the scholar and well educated. He was well traveled, erudite, and widely read. It was known that he had a great interest in the theater and desperately wanted to write plays for Globe Theatre, but her Majesty Elizabeth absolutely forbid it, insisting it was inappropriate for a gentleman of his station. However, he was known at court under the name of Spear-shaker. And it has been widely speculated that he took on the name of Shakespeare and used that name to author what we know today as the Shakespeare plays and sonnets. There is no proof of this, but his situation should still stand as a model for your consideration.”

  “Yes, now that you mention it, I believe I have heard the same story.”

  “I do not know how amenable you might be to what I will propose, but I think it might be your best solution.”

  “And that would be?”

  “We have a number of lesser known authors on our books. Their works regularly sell, but not spectacularly. Our suggestion is that you approach several different authors that we will suggest and sound them out about being a surrogate author.”

  “I am not sure I understand.”

  “Find an author whose name you can publish your book under. They already have an audience and a following. And if your book is successful, they will benefit by having a new best seller, and you can get your work published and remain anonymous. Of course, you will need to make the arrangement worth their while.”

  “And how might that work?” Robert asked, interested but still a little skeptical.

  “Since you will be using their name, you will need to compensate them in some manner. My suggestion would be a generous percentage of the royalties you might make on the book’s sales.”

  “I would have no problem with that idea. Money is not a concern for me. I have found I really love being an author and I want to write and publish more. So, I am looking to form a long-term relationship with this individual.”

  “But there is one other consideration…” Cecil added.

  “Yes?”

  “I feel quite certain the author you choose would wish to continue with their writing as well. There would need to be some sort of arrangement for that.”

  “But what if our styles and content differ greatly?” Robert asked.

  “That is certainly a consideration,” Cecil said thoughtfully. “We would need to give that some thought and come up with a solution. But first, we need to know if you think this arrangement might work for you?”

  Robert stood and looked out Cecil’s office window at the street below with its hustle of carriages and bustle of pedestrians.

  “Yes, I believe it might.” He turned and addressed Cecil once again. “Have you communicated this idea to any of the authors you will be suggesting?”

  “We have not. Discretion seems to be the best strategy here if you wish to remain anonymous. Our thought was that you visit each candidate personally and make whatever arrangement you wish with the author you choose. It is imperative that your arrangement be as private as possible. Would you not agree?”

  Robert sighed. “It all seems quite ridiculous to me that I even need to do this, but if it must be, then discretion is certainly called for.”

  “Excellent,” Cecil said, rising from his desk. “I shall have a list of appropriate authors drawn up for you and will send it to you in the next couple of days.”

  “And once agreements are concluded then you will move forward with publishing my book?”

  “It will be our greatest pleasure. And I foresee a great success for all concerned.”

  Chapter 2

  Diana Browning was visiting her mother’s art gallery which was attached to the front and side of their cottage style house on the corner of two streets near central Cambridge. It was time for morning tea, and Diana usually took a break from the cramped little desk in her bedroom dormer window where she wrote each morning.

  Mother was at her easel working on another landscape of rural country England which sold so well to visitors of the university.

  “Quaint country landscapes and college courtyards,” Diana sighed. “Why not try something different, Mother?”

  “Because those are what sell, my dear. Is it time for tea already?” she asked as she plunged her brush into a jar of turpentine spirits. “My, how the morning has flown.”

  “I shall put the kettle on. Come inside to the kitchen when you are ready.”

  Mother stood up from her canvas stool and stood back to admire her painting. “Not too bad… I think it needs a steeple in the distance though, don’t you?”

  “A steeple would be just splendid,” Diana said a little sarcastically.

  Mother gave her a sour look. “Now, be nice to your dear old mother.”

  “Mother, you are not old—just jaded.”

  “You will send me to an early grave.”

  “What in heaven’s name is an early grave? Is it a grave that gets up first thing in the morning?”

  Mother waved her hand at Diana. “Now it is you who is being silly.”

  They both laughed and linked arms and marched toward the kitchen, after putting a back in five minutes sign on the gallery door.

  Mother and daughter looked like sisters—younger and older.

  Diana was of medium height, with straight dark brown hair that she let flow down her back to her waist. At times, she piled it atop her head in a large bun or created a crown—often inserting small flowers from the garden. She was thin but not fragile, and per
haps her best features were her large brown eyes and her delicate mouth—which almost always had a welcoming smile.

  Ann—Diana’s mother—looked just like her daughter, only a little shorter and a tiny bit stouter. And, as there were no other siblings, the two behaved as slightly naughty sisters who loved mischief and playfulness.

  “I’ll have no cream but just lemon today in my tea,” Mother said as she set out the tea cups.

  “Cream and honey for me, please. I want some of the honey from the comb we found while out walking in the Dailey’s field last September,” Diana said as the kettle came to a boil and she poured water into the teapot.

  Mother opened a tin of ginger biscuits and sat at the kitchen table as Diana poured the tea.

  “And how is the writing going this morning?” Mother asked.

  “Well enough, but I have only just started the new book so I am still feeling my way to some extent.”

  “I loved the way you used our banker, Mr. Cropper, as the villain in your last book. Poor old dolt never had a chance, did he?”

  “Mother, it was just fiction. It was nothing personal.”

  Mother laughed. “It seemed personal to me after he rejected your father’s request for a loan.”

  “Perhaps a little personal, then,” Diana said with a sly smile.

  “Did I hear the crunch of a ginger biscuit?” Father asked as he shuffled into the kitchen in his bathrobe and slippers.

  “Are you still not dressed?” Mother exclaimed.

  “I don’t have any tutorials until this afternoon,” he replied. He reached into the biscuit tin and took out a handful of biscuits.

  Mother gently slapped his hand. “Just two, George.”

  He dropped several but kept three.

  “Would you like some tea, Father?” Diana asked.

  “I would not say no,” he said, slipping into a chair at the table.

  George Browning looked rumpled even in his bathrobe. He had a bald pate, but his ring of remaining grey hair shot out in all directions like he was caught in a crosswind. He constantly rubbed his pate with his hand as though he was attempting to polish it. He had droopy eyes from his years of reading in the poor light of musty libraries. And he kept a pair of eyeglasses that had either slipped to the end of his nose or were pushed up to his forehead where he could never find them.

  Diana poured her father his cup of tea.

  “I have not seen Adam lately,” Father said. “Has he not been coming around?”

  “I believe he has been studying for some important exam or other. And I know he is still working hard on his dissertation,” Diana answered.

  “He’s a good lad, your Adam. He’s a very promising scholar,” Father said.

  “But he wants to go into his father’s publishing house. I do not believe he wants a university position.”

  “Huh. That would be a shame.”

  “Not for him.”

  “So I suppose you like him because he will promise to publish your scribbles?” He dipped a ginger biscuit into his tea.

  “Not at all. I am already published, as you well know, Father,” Diana said.

  “Yes, that silly business. Romance and fluff and frills. Is that not so?”

  “My many readers might disagree with you, Father,” Diana said sternly.

  “What do they know? Layabouts or silly teenaged girls, I imagine.”

  Diana stood up from the table and whisked her and his teacup away and took them to the sink and began washing them. She was angry at his narrowmindedness but refused to engage with him any further at the moment. She wanted to get back to work.

  Mother, who preferred to stay out of these arguments between father and daughter stood, grabbed another biscuit, and stated, “It’s been a lot longer than five minutes and I must get back to the gallery. Ta ta, you two.” Then she left.

  Diana saw Adam Hardy coming down the street toward their house. He was carrying a pink pastry box from Delaware’s Bakery—a favorite of her family’s. Adam usually brought something from the bakery when he was either feeling guilty about something or wanted to ask a favor.

  Diana went to the front door of their house to greet him as he came through the front garden, just beginning to bloom with the first spring flowers.

  “Adam, what did you bring us this time?” Diana asked as she accepted the bakery box from Adam.

  “Something new,” he said with a big smile. “They have just started making the most delicious, individual custard tarts—just perfect for tea or breakfast.”

  Adam was a handsome young man with dark red hair that he combed to the side. His green eyes were most appealing, and his freckled cheeks dimpled when he smiled, as he did often.

  He wore large owlish metal rimmed glasses, which made him look like he was always just about to ask you a question. However, he tended to be a bit clumsy and would trip on even the most modest door sill.

  “Come in. It’s been over a week since you stopped by,” Diana said as she ushered him into the parlor after taking the bakery box to the kitchen.

  “Just a few more months until graduation, so I have been piling on the work to get it all done in time.”

  “Please, take a chair by the fire. It’s still a bit nippy out.”

  “I’m not interrupting your writing, am I?” he asked as he sat.

  “Not at all. I am usually done for the day by lunchtime. I find I can only do so much creative writing without fading after four or five hours. Would you like some tea?”

  “Not for me, thank you. I had some in digs before I came over.”

  Diana sat opposite him and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Have you spoken to your parents about the walking tour of Switzerland?” he asked enthusiastically.

  “I have not, Adam. I have given it a lot of thought. And I know you are excited about such a trip, but I can’t, in all honesty, subscribe to such a venture. It just isn’t right for us to travel abroad together unchaperoned.”

  “But we will be going as a group. There will be plenty of people around at all times,” he insisted.

  “Yes, but they are all young people like us.”

  “Certainly, there will be some older people too. It’s not just for youth.”

  Diana stood up to emphasize her point. “I am truly sorry, Adam, but I just do not think it is advisable or wise. And besides, I am still in the early stages of my new novel and I would have to leave it for too long.”

  Adam looked dejected and hung his head and stared at his folded hands.

  “But might you reconsider if we were formally engaged?”

  “Adam, we have discussed this. You are still a student and when you graduate you will be entering your father’s publishing house and you need to establish yourself. And you will be making only a modest salary to begin with. I thought we had agreed to wait until you were a full editor.”

  “Yes, I know.” He looked up at her. “But I am so passionate about you. You know how I feel and it seems like there is an ever- receding horizon when it comes to us being together.”

  “Don’t make me be cross with you, Adam. You well know our mutual decisions.”

  “Yes, Diana,” he said in a resigned but equally complaining voice.

  Diana reached out to him. “Come, be a poppet and take me to tea at Carson and Bindell’s. You know how I love their scones.”

  Adam pouted. “But I already brought you the lovely custard tarts.”

  “Yes. And that was very sweet of you, but we’ll save those for tonight’s sweet for the whole family.”

  “You are a terrible tyrant,” he said, as he stood and took her hand.

  Diana carried two of Adam’s custard tarts wrapped in a towel to her neighbors two doors down—the spinster sisters, Abigale and Kitty Goodwin.

  Kitty opened the door. “Oh, Abigale, look who’s here—it’s the adorable Miss Diana.”

  Abigale called from inside the house, “I will put the kettle on.”

  “Not necessary,�
�� Diana said. “I can only stop a moment. I wanted to bring you these delicious looking tarts from Delaware’s Bakery.”

  “Oh, my…” Kitty said, lifting the edge of the towel to examine the treat. “Come in for just a minute, though.”

  Diana followed Kitty to their kitchen where she put the tarts onto a plate that Kitty offered.

  Abigale came over and, after taking a quick peek at the tarts, put her hand on Diana’s arm and said, “Have you heard about Mabel Stephenson?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Diana replied.

  Abigale leaned in and whispered. “She has a growth.”

  “Really?”

  “Indeed, and the doctors are not sure what to think about it,” she added, nodding with a “you know” look.

  Kitty added, “And she sat at this very table and swore it was nothing to be worried about, but how does one ever know such a thing? I ask you.”

  Diana adored the two sisters but was less enchanted with their occasional gossip. She usually tried to divert the conversation when such matters came up.

  “I noticed you have been working in your garden. Isn’t it a bit early to be planting annuals?” Diana asked.

  “Oh, we always plant by the end of March. The house shades from the north wind and the boxwood hedge helps protect from the traffic on the street.” Kitty said, then leaned in and whispered, “Now don’t tell a soul, but after dark, we pop out into the road and sweep up the horse droppings. Just marvelous for the garden beds you know.”

  Abigale came over and offered solicitously, “We were so sorry to hear about your dear father’s misfortune.”

  This took Diana aback. “I am not sure to what you are referring.”

  “Oh dear, Betsy Johnson said her husband at the bank told her that your father applied for a loan and it was denied.” Abigale patted Diana’s arm out of sympathy.

  “Thank you for your concern, but that is not something I wish to discuss outside of the family.”

  The sisters nodded. “We completely understand,” Kitty said.

  “I best run along now. I am preparing dinner this evening, and I don’t want to keep the family waiting,” Diana said as she edged her way out the cottage door.