My dear, sweet mother was a maid. And she thought it would matter to me. What a terrible reason to keep two people from marrying, but it had doomed the love my parents shared from the first day. Just as doomed as the budding feelings Nelle Wicke carried for Silas Rotherham.
At that thought, I curled up at my desk and touched my forehead to its cool surface. Lord, I give this situation to you. Do not let Nelle’s infatuation with Silas stand in the way of the man you have chosen for her. Guide her to the one who will be the perfect fit for her, helping her to blossom into what you designed her to be.
My mind picked at the corner of the next page, begging to peek into the future as God had laid it out. Heart still welling with worry and hope, I flipped the notebook to the first blank page. The best thing to fill a book was raw emotion—the kind evoked when a good friend seemed smitten with the man you loved.
Not that I loved Silas. Admittedly, I hardly knew the many secret corners of his life, and my doubts concerning him loomed large. But once again I found myself dwelling on the images of him at Shepton Mallet and ignoring any faults.
Whatever Silas was hiding, perhaps I could accept it. Maybe it wasn’t awful.
19
Dear, sweet Abigail had the sort of genuine beauty that was abundantly evident, even to the blind.
~Nathaniel Droll, Lady Jayne Disappears
“Aurelie, do you know any printers with a fine hand for invitations?” Juliette sat at the desk in the morning room, compiling a guest list as others lingered over lunch sandwiches.
“I’ve never known a single soul who knew how to do it.”
I pulled my gaze from the London Illustrated I hid behind and snuck a glance at Silas Rotherham. He bent over his lunch beside Kendrick in the far east corner. Would he think my answer a lie, with everything he knew?
“Who did you use before, for your house parties and dinners? Perhaps there’s still time to send an order away to them. At least for the place cards.”
I curled further into the couch behind my paper. “Not one name comes to mind.” Would the need for cover-ups never end? I didn’t belong—that truth became increasingly apparent every week I spent at the home of my ancestors.
“Heavens, Juliette. Are you really going through with this dinner party?” Kendrick leaned back in his chair across the room. “I personally did not come to the country to be thrown into every social event of the summer. You can cancel my invitation, and Silas’s as well.”
Juliette spun in the swivel chair away from her brother and faced me. “We shall invite Alexander. Do say you’ll play along and at least pretend to like him.”
“I promise to thoroughly like whomever I like.”
Silas bit into a cracker and coughed on the crumbs.
With a disgusted exhale, Juliette blew hair off her face. She rose and strode toward me, holding out her guest list. “I need to have some backups in case you find Alexander completely despicable. Which of these men are already in your circles from before?”
I accepted the list, knowing what my answer would be.
None of them.
Eventually I’d simply have to tell Juliette that my acquaintances before arriving at Lynhurst, my “circle of friends,” included the bottom rung of England’s social ladder.
I glanced through the list at the titled names, none of which looked familiar. Except the third one. Jasper Grupp.
“You’re inviting the man from the benefit?”
“Of course I am. I may be excitable, but I am not fickle.” She lowered her voice. “You know exactly how I feel.”
“And what address did he give you to send his invitation?” I sat forward to hand the list back to Juliette.
“His is hand-delivered.” She swiveled again, more slowly, to face me and give me a warning stare. “He’s traveling a great deal, staying at this hotel and that. He cannot say from one day to the next where he can be found.”
Of course. “Have you ever visited him at these hotels?”
Juliette’s responding glare could have stripped the pink from the rug at my feet. “Of course not,” she hissed, shielding her voice from the men with her hand.
I had crossed the enemy-friend line once again. “I’m merely asking if you’ve ever been able to verify his story. Do you know anything of him that has not come from his own mouth?”
“His credentials need no verification.”
“Certainly.” What more could I say? Nothing that would not ruin our delicate friendship.
“Perhaps the man is Nathaniel Droll.” This quip from Clem at the far table made me stiffen. “Such men of mystery, both of them.”
Silas’s soft voice carried over to us. “If that man were Nathaniel Droll, we would know it. Droll cannot remain hidden when he is among other people, for such a writer would glow brighter than lamplight among the drab people of our day.”
I looked quickly back to the newspaper in my hands. And in that moment of silence, I saw it. The literary review in the London Illustrated, which focused on the latest installment of Nathaniel Droll fiction. My eyes were riveted to the familiar name. Fingers crushing the edges of the paper, I absorbed the words as quickly as my eyes could move back and forth, then went back to linger over them. Words like “masterpiece” and “brilliant” swirled before me, bathing my heart in warmth. One reader talked of how it had made her reconsider her relationship with a grown son, and that connection was now much improved.
But two-thirds from the bottom of the column my eyes rested on a small collection of words that burned themselves into the backs of my eyelids.
I should like to publicly share my disappointment with Marsh House Press for continuing to publish the work of Nathaniel Droll. In his bid for increased production, Droll has diminished greatly in quality until he’s left with ridiculous plots and laughable prose that even a child could create. I find Lady Jayne’s distress over losing her love preposterous and, on the whole, resembling a whiny child. I admonish you that the name attached to the piece does not alone make it worthy to print in your esteemed publication.
I closed my eyes, but the words speared through the darkness and buried themselves in my heart. Ridiculous plots. Laughable prose. What had I written about Jayne’s angst over Clavey anyway?
I’d used the pain of losing my father.
Preposterous. Resembling a whiny child.
I again skimmed the glowing reviews, but those last words pervaded any trace of peace. Tears clogged behind my eyes as I tried in vain to force what I’d seen from my mind. But in truth, I knew I’d never un-see those words. They would haunt my writing time and shape the way I saw each scene I penned.
Silas rose, brushing off his shirt front. “I would enjoy a turn about the gardens while the horses rest. Would you ladies care to join me?”
“Miss Harcourt can accompany you, Mr. Rotherham.” Juliette tucked the hair behind her ear and bent over her list again. “I may join you later when I’ve finished this.”
Kendrick frowned. “My dear sister, I’m sure he would enjoy the company of a longtime friend more than an acquaintance. No offense intended toward our little cousin.” He crossed the room and dropped his final words toward Juliette as he passed her. “Be careful or you’re liable to lose what you so easily ignore.”
Silas approached us then, straightening his coat at the lapels. “You needn’t worry. My feelings toward Juliette are the same now as the day I arrived, not to be altered by a single walk.” The man approached me and offered his arm, a polite question tilting his eyebrows. “That is, if you care to accept.”
I found myself unwilling to say no, despite my desire to run and hide in my room. I desperately craved distraction, and conversation with one who appreciated me. “I suppose I could. Sunshine would be a wonderful cure for a dwindling imagination.”
With an amused smile flicking over his face, he led me through the garden doors and down the patio steps. Silence reigned until we had passed through the flower-covered trellis and down onto t
he lower patio where we’d talked before.
“I feel like I can breathe again.” Silas loosened his neck cloth an inch with one finger and smiled down at me. “Sometimes I think I should have stayed in London. At least there, I only have to endure this sort of mess on social evenings, and I have the day to myself.”
I pointed to the rose hedges where the gardener trimmed them into perfect red-spotted boxes. “Shall we walk that direction? I haven’t seen the roses yet.” We veered casually toward them in a wide arc. “I must admit, it is relaxing to be here among the flowers and fresh air rather than inside, always worrying about—” My better judgment cut off the end of the sentence. I should not share so much.
“It is not a life either of us were built for, is it? Dressing, speaking, behaving in the way we ought, worrying about offending rather than living comfortably and naturally. If only they could see how foolish it is, running around attempting to please strangers and acquaintances.” He paused, hands clasped behind his back. “Miss Harcourt, why don’t you write about that?”
Panic tingled along my spine. “About what?”
“Life at Lynhurst. Make characters of the people here and their idiosyncrasies. You spin such wonderful stories in conversation, and perhaps some of them should be written down. What a delight to readers to have this inside view of one of England’s country homes.”
Turning my face away, I breathed through the pounding in my temples. “I have often regretted the times I have based any stories on real life. It is a dangerous undertaking.”
“But think how nice it would be if you could make a living at writing and not have to worry about pleasing your family or anyone else. Have you considered publishing?”
“Readers are often harder to please than family.” So far I had not lied.
Pausing beside a hedge that hid us from view, he took both of my hands in his. “Every story you create has been wonderful and captivating. Why not reveal to the world what you can do, what you’ve already done, and be proud of it?”
He knew. He must know. “I was never good at receiving negative remarks. Especially about my stories.”
“It isn’t as if they are rejecting you personally if they do not enjoy your work.”
Dipping my head, I struggled to word a response. How could I explain the heart of a writer? An artist’s life and work were woven together to make up the very fabric of his being. Condemning his work was to also condemn him personally. For it was everything about me that had created the work that was under scrutiny—my experiences, the love and pain of my true heart, the culminating effort of my entire life.
I breathed deeply of the rose-tinted air. “Logically I can accept that a person may simply not like my work, but it is nearly impossible to wrap the emotional side of myself around that fact. Especially when my feelings about my own writing fluctuate so easily and often. That’s how it is with any type of art.”
“I see. So it is your own criticisms that have so bound you. Miss Harcourt, you can collect all the compliments in the world, but they make no difference until you believe them.”
I hesitated before the three stone steps. He could not understand, for he had money. I did not have the luxury of alienating my family or my readers.
“If you will not consider publishing, perhaps you would entertain another idea I’ve had in mind for some days now.” With gentle pressure he guided me around an outcropping of lilies toward the terrace. “I hope you will not find it presumptuous of me to ask.”
Straightening my shoulders, I nodded for him to continue, searching his face for hints. In the background of my mind, answers to all possible questions raced around.
“What do you think of Miss Wicke, the little seamstress on the estate?”
Nelle? For several empty seconds, my shoes whipped grass blades. That was his presumptuous question? “She does very fine needlework.”
“Come now, that isn’t what I mean.”
I sighed and released the information he wanted. “As a person, Nelle is even grander than her needlework. I’ve only been acquainted with her a few weeks, and I already love her dearly.” I could not lie about Nelle.
He lifted a tangled clematis vine for me. “I think you should help her open a shop.”
The jarring suggestion sparked a number of thoughts and uncertainty. “A shop. Do you think I’m made of pound notes? I have fewer resources than she does.”
“I didn’t say you should finance it but help her. A wild imagination is more valuable than all the money in the world with something like this.”
“What makes you suggest such a thing? And why Miss Wicke?” Confusion pelted my mind at his sudden interest in Nelle, of whom he’d never spoken before.
“A suitable match—brilliant one, actually. Your colorful imagination, her delightful talent . . . Possibly even a better match than the marriages Juliette’s attempting to secure for you.”
I blushed, but pressed on. “I haven’t the slightest idea how to open a shop. And besides, there are a few ‘complications’ on Miss Wicke’s end that have kept her from pursuing this before. Those hindrances still exist.”
“Nothing that can’t be overcome by a magnificent imagination and a big heart. Both of which you possess.”
An odd mix of pride and angst spun through my heart. The thought of Nelle’s sweet face brought the question to my lips: Do you know she’s becoming attached to you? This would be the perfect opportunity to warn him, but the words escaped me. If I were planted at my desk, empty pages and pen before me, I could come up with the right phrasing. There may be plenty of cross-outs and rewritten sentences, but eventually I’d craft exactly what should be said.
“It’s a shame for talent that remarkable to remain hidden away.”
Just like Lady Jayne, the beautiful flower covered in the black-and-white uniform of service. Or perhaps he meant me, staunchly hidden behind the nom de plume of my father.
“Speaking of talent hidden away, have you heard the gossip on Nathaniel Droll? I thought you’d be interested.”
Instantly my face warmed and I regretted relaxing my staunch boundaries. “I’ve heard everything Glenna has to say about him.”
“Actually I was referring to public gossip about him. It seems the man is planning to take back the rights to his work to reprint them, and he has no plans to complete Lady Jayne’s story.”
Fear tripped through me, head to toe, and I pictured the pockmarked man in the dusty suit with vivid clarity. I dipped my head to hide my emotions.
“Miss Harcourt, what has upset you so? You look white as a ghost.”
Swift feet carried me back to my bedchamber where I pulled notebooks off the shelf and flipped through them. Nathaniel Droll had begun to rattle my brain and shake my nerves. Was he the imposter, or was I? Did he even exist? The torn-out pages with messages from Nathaniel Droll fluttered to the ground. Flipping madly through the remaining notebooks, I found one more:
Follow your heart. It’s rarely wrong, you intelligent girl. Do not lose your life to solve the murder. All I can tell you is this: Darling Aura, fair Aura, I’m too soon dead.
Nathaniel Droll
Fear spiked up my back. I stared at the word dead over and over. Nathaniel Droll was . . .
But he’d called me Aura, just as Papa had. But why didn’t I recognize the writing?
And that’s when the truth filtered through my thoughts. For all the stories we’d created together, everything we’d dreamed up and put on the page, I’d never seen a single written line of his own hand. Only his voice conveyed his captivating, wild stories.
I dug through the desk like mad, pawing through odd papers and trinkets. Surely he must have written something while he lived here. He’d been creating stories since before my lifetime. But no trace of his handwriting existed in the room.
20
“But it is impossible to be in love with the wrong man,” cried Lady Jayne. “For the very fact that I love him makes him the right one for me.”
Lady Jayne was ultimately a liar. That was the only way the new storyline would work. I glided through the small forest of wildflowers where Silas had left me hours before as the sunshine warmed my uncovered face.
Diving deep into the world of my story was the only way to settle my mind as it insisted on swaying to so many troubling things. My mind picked up the threads of storyline as ideas flared by force. I had to finish this story immediately and dash it off to the publisher before the imposter sent a new book to them. That required fast thinking.
For starters, Jayne Windham had come to Lynhurst pretending to be a lady, hiding who she really was. Which made her a liar. What reader would not feel betrayed by this girl they had pitied and worried over, to find her so lacking in character? It would be a difficult twist to execute. Maybe Abigail would be the heroine after all, and Charles Sterling Clavey would fall in love with her.
I briefly imagined Silas and Nelle embracing and the thought left me cold.
No. The hero loved too deeply to pass his affection around like a bag of beans. Jayne must have the spotlight in the romance thread. Brushing the heads of daisies with my fingertips, I considered the words I’d use to aptly describe my heroine as a relatable woman who sometimes had to lie.
I sighed. This changed everything, but it was lovely when a heroine had the depth of character to take over her own story, wrangling the plot away from the author. And Lady Jayne had become so real. I could almost hear the girl’s voice, the way her laughter would sound—light and joyful, bubbling up with ease. It was so clear in my head.
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