It had grown on him slowly that his greatest joy in life was putting pen to paper. Much to his surprise, he found the writing of stories to be far more enjoyable than the frivolous life he led. For the first time, Cam gave serious consideration to his future and realized if indeed he wanted one day to be as well known as Mr. Dickens or Mr. Trollope, he was going to have to have a serious plan. After all, he knew nothing of real life outside the rarified world of England’s upper ten thousand. His first step toward the future was to take a position as a journalist with the Daily Messenger. Even though the editorial direction of the Messenger was still evolving and it was for the most part more inclined toward gossip and lighthearted fare than the more serious causes taken up by newspapers like the Times or the Gazette, Cam found it suited him. Not that he hadn’t reported his share of murder, mayhem, and corruption. In the year since he’d begun, he been shocked and appalled, amused and amazed by the follies and foibles of man, and every story he wrote became fodder for his fiction. For the works he would one day write.
Cam still didn’t understand why his father was so adamantly opposed to his choice of profession. After all, Grandmother had written a series of stories for Cadwallender’s Weekly World Messenger and went on to write nearly a dozen novels of romance and adventure. Indeed, the Cadwallender and Effington families had had a close relationship since then. A few years ago, two of the Cadwallender brothers had formed their own book publishing enterprise, the Weekly World Messenger had become Cadwallender’s Weekly Ladies World, and Cadwallender’s Daily Messenger had been launched. Still, in an effort to placate his father, and avoid undue prominence and any suggestion of favoritism, Cam used his mother’s maiden name, Fairchild, instead of Effington. Even James Cadwallender, publisher of the Messenger , called him Fairchild. For the most part, father and son now had a sort of unacknowledged truce and simply avoided any discussion of Cam’s employment.
Until tonight when Father had asked about his work. Something had obviously triggered his father’s wrath and Cam suspected they were headed toward a long postponed confrontation.
When the family had finished dinner, his mother drew a deep breath. “Cameron, your father has something he wishes to discuss with you.”
Father’s brow furrowed. “I had planned to have that discussion privately.”
“Absolutely not.” Mother shook her head. “I do not intend to take sides, but I will not be left out of this.”
“Nor will I,” Grandmother said in a deceptively pleasant tone. Obviously she too knew what this was about.
“Very well.” Father’s tone was sharp. “The rest of you may leave.”
“I believe I prefer to stay,” Spencer said mildly.
Thad glanced at Grace and Simon and nodded. “As do we.”
“As you wish.” Father paused, then his hard gaze met his youngest son’s. Unease clenched Cam’s stomach. “I have not been happy at this rift between us. So, a few days ago, in the spirit of harmony or even perhaps compromise, I read an edition of the Daily Messenger for the first time.”
“For the first time?” Cam said slowly.
“Good Lord, Father!” Grace stared. “He’s been writing for the paper for over a year and you haven’t read it until now?”
“No,” Father snapped, and glared at his daughter. “I have not.”
“Don’t you think you should have?” Simon asked.
“The rest of us have,” Thad added.
Cam stared at his father, disappointment and something that might well have been hurt rising within him. “You haven’t read anything I’ve written?”
“I have.” Mother raised her chin. “I have read every single issue since Cam began his work there.”
“And I have read most of them as well,” Grandmother said.
“As have I.” Spencer gestured at his siblings. “We all have.”
“You needn’t look at me like that, any of you.” Father glared. “I said I haven’t read the Daily Messenger. In point of fact, I have read every word Cameron has written.” Father slanted Mother an annoyed look. She refused to meet his gaze. “Your mother has clipped every story, every article for me in what I now see as a most devious attempt to keep me in a state of innocent ignorance. However, three days ago I read the Messenger in its entirety and I now understand why she went to such great efforts to prevent that.” Father’s eyes narrowed. “I have never before read something as filled with slander and gossip and salacious skewing of facts and events. Something so scandalous and so . . . so liberal. It’s appalling and not worth the paper it’s written on.”
“I don’t think it’s any worse than any other paper, Father,” Spencer said.
“The Cadwallenders are an honorable family and I do not understand how they can publish this sort of rubbish.”
“Admittedly there is a great deal of emphasis on scandal and gossip and sensationalism, but unfortunately, Father”—Thad shrugged—“that is what sells papers. It’s what people want to read.”
“It’s not what I want to read,” Father said firmly. “It’s not what respectable members of society want to read.”
“Then perhaps you would do well not to read it again,” Cam said in as calm a manner as he could muster.
“Cam’s work is very good, Father.” Thad offered Cam a smile of support. “He is an excellent writer.”
“I know that,” Father snapped. “But he should put that talent to a better use.”
“What would that be, Father?” Cam’s voice hardened. “Should I occupy myself with the family’s business interests alongside Simon and Thad and write reports on investment strategies and import regulations? Should I work with Spencer and write about the newest agricultural methods for increasing profitability of the estates?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Father scoffed. “You know as well as I you aren’t suited for any of that. You could write books. That’s respectable enough.”
Cam’s jaw tightened. “One doesn’t just sit down and write a book. It’s not that easy.”
“Balderdash.” Father waved off the comment. “Your grandmother did it.”
“Thank you, dear,” the dowager said in a wry tone.
“I don’t have anything to write about.” Cam drew a deep calming breath. “I have led a life of privilege and wealth. I have been well educated and have been fortunate enough to have had the means to travel. All in the comfort we are accustomed to. I think one should know the world in its fullness, the good and the bad, before one attempts to create worlds of one’s own. But I know nothing of the real world and the real people in it. I know nothing of life.”
“I thought we were real people,” Grace murmured.
“Stuff and nonsense.” Father huffed. “Your grandmother knew nothing of life and yet she—”
“She,” Grandmother said sternly, “had a mother who died when she was quite young and a father who gambled and drank away the family fortune and honor. A father prepared to sell his daughters to the highest bidders to finance his vices. She and her orphaned sisters lived in a country house that was barely held together by little more than prayer and hope. She knows what it’s like to have little to eat, no dowry, no prospects for improvement, and no future. I should think that would give me some sense of life beyond the privileged world we now inhabit.”
“My apologies, Mother.” Father grimaced. “I had forgotten about all that.”
Cam stared in surprise. This was a story he had never heard before, and judging from the looks on the faces of his siblings, neither had they.
“It’s best forgotten, really.” Grandmother shrugged. “It was a very long time ago and most of my life has been quite lovely. But those early days taught me a great deal about life I never would have known otherwise.” She turned toward Cam. “Every experience, every new person you meet, every new situation you observe is all fuel, Cameron. Muses are notoriously hungry, but if you feed them they will shower you with inspiration.”
“Thank you, Grandmother.”
Father stared for a moment. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Why, I wrote as a young man. Certainly, I never had anything published—”
“They do say certain talents are known to skip a generation, dear,” Mother said pleasantly.
“Regardless, I had no need for a muse.” Father snorted.
“Which explains a great deal,” Grandmother said under her breath.
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Jonathon. I am an old lady and I deserve respect if nothing else.” Grandmother pinned him with a firm gaze. “I’m not saying anything you don’t already know. Although I will say, your writing was better than your father’s poetry.” She shuddered. “Sentiment is not the same thing as good, although he did try, the dear man. And while you may have been a dreadful writer, you have been an excellent duke. The family is as sound as the Bank of England itself, thanks to your leadership, in terms of its finances and reputation. And I am extraordinarily proud of you.”
Father’s mouth dropped open and a stunned look crossed his face. “I don’t think I have ever heard you say that before.”
“Don’t be absurd, Jonathon.” She picked up her sherry. “I say it all the time.”
“Well, that’s that then,” Mother said brightly, and started to rise, her sons getting to their feet as well. “I think we should all retire to the—”
“Sit down all of you, I am not finished.” Father glared and they all sat back down. “I have yet to make my point.”
“I thought he made any number of points,” Grace said in an aside to Simon beside her.
“Exactly what I hoped to avoid.” Mother sighed. “Very well then, go on.”
“I intend to,” Father said sharply, then turned to Cam. “Regardless of the fact that you are writing under a different name, this reporting of yours for that disreputable rag of a newspaper is scandalous and embarrassing and puts this family in the poorest of lights.” Father’s tone hardened. “You will resign your position at once.”
Mother groaned. “Jonathon!”
Cam braced himself. This was it then. “No, Father. I’m afraid I can’t—I won’t—do anything of the sort.” He shook his head. “I still have a great deal to learn. With every word I write I am honing my craft. There is no better teacher than experience.”
“I believe you’ve said that on more than one occasion, Father,” Spencer pointed out.
“Well, on this particular occasion, apparently I am wrong.”
Cam rose to his feet. “I am sorry, Father, but I am twenty-seven years of age. You have long bemoaned the fact that I was doing little more than drifting through my life. Now I have found my calling, my passion as it were, and there will indeed come a time when I give up my position and turn to the writing of novels, but not yet. If you cannot accept that”—Cam met his father’s gaze directly and squared his shoulders—“then I fear we are at an impasse.”
“Oh, sit down, Cameron, and stop being overly dramatic.” Father cast an annoyed glance at his wife. “He gets that from you, you know.”
“He gets all sorts of things from me,” she said sharply. “But he gets his tendency to overact from you. Now, sit down, Cameron.”
Cam sat.
“Obviously, I am not pleased, but neither am I surprised by your refusal. Therefore I have considered what my response would be should you decide to ignore my wishes.”
“Sounded more like a command to me,” Simon murmured.
“I am not about to disown you or exile you from the family or cut you off without a penny,” Father said. “While four sons may seem like a great many to those who have none, I am not going to toss one aside for choosing his own path, even if I disagree with said path.” He paused. “I was not aware that you seem to have something of a plan for your life in place. In truth I had feared this was yet another thing you would try your hand at and then abandon.”
“I have at last found what I want to do with my life,” Cam said. “It is not a passing fancy.”
Father nodded. “Am I to take from what you’ve said that you do not intend to pursue this journalistic endeavor forever?”
“For a while but not forever,” Cam said cautiously.
“And then you intend to write books?”
Cam nodded. “I do.”
“And I shall be the first to purchase the first edition of your first book.” Thad studied him curiously. “Do you intend to be the next Charles Dickens then?”
“Are you going to write about orphans and poverty and war with heroes or heroines who die tragically in the end?” Grace asked.
“No.” Cam shook his head. “If I have learned nothing else thus far, my eyes have been opened to the fact that the world is often a dire and dreadful place beyond the gates of Roxborough Hall or the walls of fine London houses. I think what people need in this world, and what I want to do, is give them a respite from their daily troubles. I didn’t know this when I began, but now I realize I want to write about the oddities and absurdities of life. I want to make people laugh or at least bring a smile to their faces, if only for as long as it takes to read a book. No, I do not intend to follow in the footsteps of Dickens, although I deeply admire his work.” He drew a deep breath. “I would much rather follow in the footsteps of Mark Twain.”
“You want to be a humorist?” Surprise sounded in Simon’s voice. “Although I should have known. I’ve always found you most amusing.”
“Mr. Twain’s humor is delightful, but he is American and we have such excellent English writers,” Grace said. “Some of them extremely amusing. Why, Shakespeare wrote a number of fine comedies.”
“I don’t think he wishes to be Shakespeare, Grace,” Thad said with a smile.
“I like him. Twain that is.” Spencer nodded. “A great deal, really.”
“As do I.” Father studied Cam for a long moment, a slight smile lifting the corners of his lips. “But then you knew that, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes.” Cam distinctly recalled his father attending a banquet for the American during his visit to England when Cam was a boy.
“You do realize if you had confided in me as to your plans in the beginning, we could have avoided all this unpleasantness.”
Cam shifted uneasily in his chair. “Possibly.”
“I am still not happy with your position with the Messenger . If it were the Times perhaps but . . .” Father considered him for a long moment. “I shall make you a bargain, Cameron.” Father leaned toward him. “You want to write books, then write me a book. A book that proves to me this is indeed your future and not another lark you have embarked upon. I have been impressed with your writing thus far, but a brief article where the facts are laid out before you is a far cry from a work of fiction. Prove to me this is your passion. I shall give you, what?” He glanced at his mother. “A month?”
“At least two I would think.” Grandmother cast Cam an apologetic glance. “It doesn’t have to be long, you know.”
“And if I can’t?” Cam asked.
“If you can’t, you resign your position at the Messenger.” Father’s smile was decidedly smug.
“I see.” Cam thought for a moment. He had not yet tried to write a book. In truth, the very thought was daunting. Still, there was no reason why he couldn’t. And if he didn’t believe in himself, how could he expect anyone else, especially his father, to? “And when I do?”
Father grinned. “If you do, I shall not say another disparaging word about the Messenger, nor shall I insist you resign. Indeed, I shall willingly support your efforts in whatever way you wish.”
“Nor shall you throw this in his face should the rest of the world discover Cameron Fairchild is really Cameron Effington, son of the Duke of Roxborough,” Mother added. “Should his work—how did you put it? ah yes—cast this family in the poorest of lights, bringing embarrassment and humiliation down upon us all.”
Father hesitated, then sighed. “I will agree to that.”
“Very well then, Father.” Cam adopted his most confident tone. “You have yourself a wager.”
“Oh, I’m willing to wager on that myself.” Simon grinned.
“Simon Effington, you will not wager against your brother.” Mother huffed.
“I would never do that, Mother. Besides, I think he’ll pull it off.” Simon chuckled. “But I am willing to bet Father can’t keep up his end of the bargain.”
“Really?” Father’s brow rose. “And you are willing to put up your own money to back that up?”
“I’d be willing to wager, oh, ten pounds on it.” A wicked gleam shone in Simon’s eyes.
“As am I,” Thad added.
“I’m in.” Spencer nodded.
“What about you, Grace?” Father glanced at his daughter. “Are you too so lacking in faith as to your father’s ability to abide by his word?”
“Oh, Father, I would never say such a thing.” Grace scoffed, then grinned. “But it does seem too good an opportunity to pass up.”
Grandmother nodded. “My thoughts exactly.”
“You too, Mother?”
Grandmother shrugged.
“What about you, Fiona?” The duke looked at his wife. “Are you going to join the rest of my traitorous family?”
“Of course not, dear. I said I would not take sides. Besides”—Mother smiled—“I am already planning to do something completely frivolous with the money you shall collect from our children.”
“Thank you.” Father shook his head in a resigned manner. “It’s so gratifying to know I have the confidence of my family.”
Cam glanced around the table and smiled. “That it is, Father, that it is.”
It was indeed good to know his family had faith in him even if their confidence might exceed his own.
Because, while any number of ideas were constantly simmering in his head, at the moment, he had absolutely no idea what he would write about.
The Daring Exploits of a Runaway Heiress Page 3