The Dance Before Christmas

by Victoria Alexander

  “Although as Althea was married to Alfred, I suspect there were not quite as many dashing gentlemen in her experiences as Sidney has in her stories,” Poppy murmured.

  “Millicent Forester is a young widow, Poppy,” Gwen pointed out. “It wouldn’t be any fun at all if there wasn’t the occasional dashing gentleman in her way.”

  “They’re simply not your experiences,” Effie finished.

  “And therein lies the problem.” Sidney sighed and shuffled through the clippings on the table. “Or one of the problems.” In her dismay over the earl’s scathing comments, she had completely ignored the rest of this disaster. “His lordship’s letters are not the worst of it though, are they?”

  “They are dreadful letters.” Poppy huffed. “Simply dreadful.

  Gwen sniffed. “Very nearly rude, I would say.”

  “And yet—” Sidney’s tone hardened “—not the worst of it.” She moved several of the clippings to one side. “These are the letters from the earl.” She waved at the remaining clippings. “While these responses are allegedly from me.”

  The ladies wisely said nothing.

  “I did not write these.” Sidney narrowed her eyes. “Which begs the question of who did.”

  Gwen, Poppy and Effie traded glances. Finally, Effie drew a deep breath. “It’s my fault I’m afraid. I started this. When that vile man wrote the first letter I should have ignored it.”

  “But it really was rather boorish,” Gwen defended.

  “And it did seem he was laying down a kind of gauntlet.” Aunt Effie grimaced. “So I picked it up.”

  “And wrote him back?” Sidney’s voice rose. “In my name?”

  “It seemed appropriate at the time,” Effie said weakly. “But, upon reflection, it might have been a mistake.”

  Poppy nodded. “As it did seem to incite him. The man obviously has no sense of moderation. As you can see, the second letter was even worse.”

  “He compares my stories to penny dreadfuls.” Sidney drew her brows together. “That’s not at all fair. My stories are adventurous but not nearly as far-fetched and melodramatic.”

  “You’re right, he wasn’t the least bit fair.” Gwen nodded. “You can certainly see why we all felt it necessary to respond to that particular letter.”

  “We did help Effie write that one. More than help I suppose. You might call it a collaboration.” Poppy winced. “As well as the one after that. We really couldn’t help ourselves. Someone needed to defend you. Why, the man even criticizes your style of writing.”

  Effie shook her head. “We could not let that go unchallenged.”

  “And you never thought to mention this to me?”

  “We wanted to protect you, dear.” Gwen smiled.

  “We did think his lordship would give up.” Effie paused. “Eventually.”

  “But he hasn’t given up, has he?” Sidney glared at the older ladies. “No, in fact the man has challenged me to travel to Egypt and prove that I know what I’m writing about. If I decline, he threatens to petition the Egyptian Antiquities Society to rescind my membership.” Sidney had paid little notice to the praise and attention her stories had received but being granted membership in the Antiquities Society a few months ago was an honor she cherished. Her grandparents were among the founding members of the society and, while she had not yet attended a society event, being a part of that illustrious organization was the very best part of her newfound success.

  “Fortunately, we’ve given this a great deal of thought,” Poppy said. “Indeed, we’ve thought of nothing else since the moment we saw the earl’s latest letter this morning.”

  “And promptly came here to tell you about—” Gwen gestured at the clippings “—all of it.”

  “Not promptly enough, it’s after noon.” Sidney blew a long breath. This might well explain why she’d received a note within the past hour from Mr. Cadwallender requesting she come to the Messenger offices at her earliest possible convenience. “Mr. Cadwallender wishes to see me and I suspect this is what it’s about.” She shook her head. “What a dreadful mess this is. What am I supposed to do?”

  “You should definitely pay a call on Mr. Cadwallender,” Poppy said firmly.

  Gwen nodded. “At once, I should think.”

  “And then?” The most awful helpless note sounded in Sidney’s voice. She did so hate being helpless.

  “And then.” Aunt Effie rose to her feet. “Then you shall go to Egypt.”

  “I think it’s a brilliant idea.” Mr. James Cadwallender sat behind his desk in his office in the center of what had always struck Sidney as the sheer bedlam of the world that was Cadwallender’s Daily Messenger. The office itself was enclosed with walls of paneled wood beneath glass widows that rose to the ceiling, allowing the publisher to observe his domain while saving him from the endless cacophony of noise that was apparently the natural environment of reporters in search of news.

  “Brilliant?” Sidney stared at the man. Didn’t he realize how impossible this was. “It’s not the least bit brilliant. It’s dreadful, that’s what it is. Positively dreadful.”

  “Come now, Miss Honeywell.” Mr. Cadwallender chuckled. He really was a fine figure of a man with dark brown hair and eyes that were an interesting shade of amber. Sidney had always found him quite dashing although perhaps not today. “How is sending my very favorite writer off to prove she knows what she writes about anything less than brilliant. By Jove, I wish I’d thought of it myself.”

  What was he talking about? “Mr. Cadwallender,” she said slowly, “surely you have not forgotten that my work is fiction.”

  “Of course I have not forgotten but the public believes it’s all real. They believe Millicent Forester is a thinly veiled version of Mrs. Gordon.” He grinned. “And who am I to tell our loyal readership that they’re wrong.”

  Aunt Effie nodded in agreement. She had insisted on accompanying Sidney for the sake of propriety although they both knew propriety was the last thing on the older woman’s mind. She simply didn’t want to miss what happened next and no doubt had orders from Poppy and Gwen to report back every detail. “And we would hate to shatter their illusions.”

  “Exactly!” Mr. Cadwallender said.

  “Their illusions will be more than shattered when the earl is proved right,” Sidney said sharply.

  “But he won’t be proved right because you won’t let him.” Mr. Cadwallender leaned forward across his desk and met her gaze directly. “Miss Honeywell, Sidney, you and I both know you have never been to Egypt. We know your stories are loosely based on the life of your grandmother. But all those people out there who read your stories, who clamor for more, who adore every word you write, who’ve taken Millicent Forester to heart, they don’t know you aren’t her and have never stepped foot out of England. To them, you have led the life they have always dreamed of living. They count on you, Sidney, to lift them out of their tired, ordinary, everyday lives and bring them to the sands of Egypt. To allow them to take part in the discovery of ancient tombs. To illuminate the sights of that exciting land. Surely, you don’t want to deprive them of all that?”

  “Well, no, I suppose not. But—”

  “People don’t care if your stories are true or not.”

  “Then why can’t we simply tell them the truth?” Indeed, that was exactly what Sidney wanted to do when she first realized her stories were being taken as fact.

  “Because they will care if they think you lied to them.” He shrugged. “It’s the nature of things.”

  “So the lie continues to grow?” Sidney couldn’t hide the stubborn note in her voice. This deception did seem, well, wrong.

  “Not at all. This earl in his superior, condescending manner, has challenged your knowledge of Egypt and all things Egyptian. You are one of the most knowledgeable people I’ve ever met on the topic. Why, you know things most peop
le would never even think to ask. Doesn’t she, Mrs. Higginbotham?”

  “Oh, she does indeed, Mr. Cadwallender.” Effie nodded. “She’s spent years taking classes with highly notable personages at Queen’s College. I wouldn’t dare to count the number of lectures on Egyptology she’s attended. Sidney is familiar with every Egyptian artifact on display at the British museum as well as elsewhere in London. And she reads everything that’s printed on the subject.” Pride rang in Effie’s voice. “I daresay there is no one better versed in anything pertaining to Egypt—past and present—than Sidney.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Effie.” Sidney cast her a grateful smile. “Regardless of my studies and all that I’ve learned, the fact remains that I’ve never actually been to Egypt.”

  “A minor point.” Mr. Cadwallender waved off her comment. “If anyone can pull this off you can. I have every confidence in you, Sidney. By the time you return—”

  “I don’t recall agreeing to go.”

  “Really, dear.” Effie leaned close and patted her hand. “I don’t see that you have any particular choice.”

  “That’s not entirely true.” Mr. Cadwallender studied her for a long moment. “You have several choices. You can choose to admit publicly that his lordship is right—that you don’t know what you’re writing about—”

  “And allow the beast to win?” Effie straightened in her chair. “Never!”

  “In which case there would be a nasty scandal. You would lose your readers who would feel betrayed by you. Cadwallender Publishing and The Daily Messenger could not continue to publish your work. We do have a reputation to maintain.”

  As the Daily Messenger did seem to base most of its articles on little more than scandal and gossip, apparently reputation was in the eye of the beholder. “You’re the one who convinced me not to tell the truth when this misunderstanding began,” Sidney argued.

  “Water under the bridge, Miss Honeywell.” He waved off her comment. “No sense fretting about what’s over and done with. We simply must move forward from here. As I said you have choices. Confess the truth and face the consequences—”

  Effie shuddered.

  “—or you can kill off Millicent and end the stories altogether—”

  Effie gasped in horror.

  “—or you can go to Egypt and make the Earl of Brenton eat his words. He started this—beat him at his own game. Prove to him and the world that he’s wrong. It would serve him right. Certainly, you’ve never been to Egypt in person but you can’t tell me your mind, your heart, your very soul hasn’t been there.”

  “Her spirit.” Effie nodded.

  “Exactly. Sidney.” Mr. Cadwallender’s gaze locked with hers. “Carpe diem. Seize the day. Isn’t this the opportunity you’ve been waiting for?”

  “Yes, yes, yes!” Effie jumped to her feet. “She’ll do it!”

  Sidney could only stare at her.

  “Of course she will.” Mr. Cadwallender grinned. “I didn’t doubt it for a moment.”

  Sidney’s gaze shifted between Effie and Mr. Cadwallender. He was right—she did have a choice. And an opportunity. This was her chance to set things right. To have the adventures, to be the heroine her readers believed her to be.

  For the first time since reading his lordship’s challenge, the idea of travel to Egypt seemed not only possible but probable. And why not? She was a thirty-two-year-old spinster with no particular prospects for marriage. No family to speak of except for Aunt Effie and her friends. And absolutely no good reason not to at long last follow her heart. She had nothing to lose and at the very least, the adventure of her life to gain.

  “Very well, then.” She swallowed hard. “I’ll do it.”

  “Excellent.” He grinned. “The Messenger will pay for all your expenses and we will, of course, send a reporter along.”

  “A reporter?” Effie sank down into her chair.

  Sidney widened her eyes. “Is that necessary?”

  “Absolutely. This, my dear girl, will be the story of the year.” He paused. “Have you heard of Nellie Bly?”

  Sidney shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “You do need to get out more, dear,” Effie said under her breath.

  “Nellie Bly is an American female reporter who attempted to travel around the world in less than eighty days a few years ago. She managed it in only seventy-two.” Mr. Cadwallender’s eyes sparkled. “It was quite a story. One that captured the imagination of the reading public in America and very nearly everywhere else. I anticipate the story of the Queen of the Desert’s return to Egypt to be every bit as profitable.’

  Sidney’s brow rose. “Profitable, Mr. Cadwallender?”

  “Profitable, Miss Honeywell,” he said firmly. “This story will increase readership and therefore generate greater revenue. Stories like this sell newspapers and books. While our mission is to enlighten and inform our readers, we cannot do so with inadequate funding. Nor can we afford to send our correspondents on trips to Egypt.”

  “Regardless, don’t you think yet another observer watching my every move is dangerous?”

  “I have every confidence in you, Miss Honeywell. If I didn’t, I would neither finance nor encourage this trip. In point of fact, your being accompanied by one of my reporters is in your best interest.” He grimaced. “Frankly, if I don’t send someone along to document this venture, make no mistake, The Times surely will. I suspect you would prefer a reporter who works for me rather than a competitor who would like nothing better than to discredit all of us.”

  “That makes sense I suppose.” Sidney sighed. This was becoming more and more complicated. “Will this reporter know the truth? About my experience with Egypt that is.”

  “Absolutely not, Miss Honeywell.” Disbelief shone in Mr. Cadwallender’s eyes. “I would never allow one of my reporters to actively mislead the public.”

  “Which means it’s up to me to actively mislead him as well as the earl.”

  “Oh, the earl isn’t going. While he is willing to publicly denigrate your work, he is not willing to see this through personally. He’s sending a representative, a nephew I believe, a Mr. Harry Armstrong. Apparently, Mr. Armstrong visited Egypt in his youth.”

  “Wonderful,” Sidney said under her breath.

  “I strongly suspect the earl’s criticism was a direct result of his nephew’s prodding.” He paused. “If Mr. Armstrong provides proof as to your legitimacy, I’ve agreed to publish his book.”

  Sidney widened her eyes. “He’s a writer?”

  “Of allegedly true stories about his experiences in Egypt.” The publisher sighed. “God help us all.” He met her gaze directly. “You can do this, Sidney. Show the man around Egypt. Take him to the pyramids and maybe a tomb or two. Just enough to establish your expertise. It’s not as if you have to discover a pharaoh’s treasure.”

  “Oh, that would be perfect!” Effie enthused.

  “You have the knowledge and, I have no doubt, the courage to pull off an endeavor of this nature. To be the heroine of your own story. You are Millicent Forester. You need to remember that.” His tone softened and he met Sidney’s gaze directly. “We both have a great deal to lose if you aren’t successful. My family started Cadwallender Publishing nearly a century ago. I would hate to be the Cadwallender to preside over its demise.”

  Sidney studied him for a long moment. Did she have the courage to carry off an escapade of this magnitude? Did she have the knowledge to step foot in Egypt for the first time and convince at least two people she did indeed know what she was doing? Still, aside from the deceptive aspect of it all, wasn’t this exactly what she had spent years preparing for? Isn’t this what she had always wanted? Didn’t she owe her readers at least a valiant attempt to be who they thought she was? And apparently, more than just her own future was at stake. She squared her shoulders. “I shall not let you down, Mr. Cadwal
lender.”

  “Excellent.” Effie beamed. “The Lady Travelers Society will make the arrangements at once. Oh, we will be a jolly little band of travelers.”

  “We?” Mr. Cadwallender shook his head. “I’m afraid you misunderstand, Mrs. Higginbotham. I will not be going along to Egypt.” He scoffed. “I have a newspaper to run.”

  “Of course you do, Mr. Cadwallender. And no one would expect a man of your responsibilities to abandon his duties even for something as important as this. But I’m afraid you are the one who has misunderstood.” The glint in Effie’s eyes belied the pleasant tone of her voice. “My friends and I cannot allow our dear Sidney to wander off to the land of the pharaohs without the proper accompaniment. Chaperones if you will.”

  Mr. Cadwallender’s brow furrowed. “Chaperones?”

  “Of course. Lady Blodgett, Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore and myself will be joining Sidney’s party.”

  “Not necessary, Mrs. Higginbotham,” Mr. Cadwallender said blithely. “Why, Nellie Bly went around the entire world completely on her own.”

  Effie sniffed. “Miss Bly is American. Such things are to be expected from an American. Subjects of Her Majesty do not adhere to such slipshod standards of propriety and deportment.”

  “Might I point out that Miss Honeywell writes as Mrs. Gordon, a widow.” His lips quirked upward in a subtle show of triumph. “Therefore chaperones are not expected.”

  “And might I point out that your less than reputable rivals might portray this venture—an unattached female, regardless of whether she is a widow, heading off on a journey of unknown length with a gentleman and a male reporter—as something rife with the possibility of inappropriate activity. Why, the entire venture would be fraught with scandal.” Effie shook her head in a chastising manner. “As much as your paper seems to delight in laying out all the juicy details of whatever scandal comes along, I wouldn’t think you would want the Daily Messenger itself exposed to that sort of thing.”