No surprise, that. Auntie understood the economic realities of owning land nowadays, but she found it hard to see strangers living in the house where she’d grown up. She had always loved Avermore, so much so that she’d come to town only once since Sebastian’s return to England. She had stayed long enough to welcome him home and present him with a furnished flat and a handful of servants before promptly returning to Devonshire.
He set aside the letter from Mr. Cummings and opened the one from Auntie. Sure enough, Mathilda was asking his permission to move back into the main house. She also suggested he take up residence there for the summer, a suggestion she had made many times before, and one he had always refused; but this time, Sebastian found himself actually considering it.
If a man sought contentment and peace of mind, surely there was no better place to find it than the English countryside. He’d never felt much contentment at Avermore, but his father had been alive then, and that had made all the difference. Wherever the old man had happened to be, Sebastian had always been happy to be someplace else. Auntie had been the only thing worth coming home for during holidays when he was a boy.
But now, his father was dead, and avoiding home was no longer necessary. He thought of Avermore, with its thatched cottages and farms, its wild woods and mossy dells, its streams filled with trout and its lakes filled with tench, its meandering canals and ha-has shaded by weeping willows, and he decided a trip home might be just the tonic he needed.
If all that wasn’t persuasion enough, Devonshire was far enough away from London to spare him any further visits from Miss Merrick. Sebastian pulled out notepaper and a quill, and for the first time in years, he told Auntie he was coming home.
Four days later, Sebastian was at Avermore, comfortably ensconced in a hammock by a millpond, a basket containing the remains of a picnic on the grass beside him, and a bottle of ale in his hand. The sun was shining, the spring breeze brushed over his skin, and the hammock in which he lay swayed gently back and forth. If contentment was what he sought, this was as good a place to find it as any.
No more novels. No more burdensome deadlines. No more expectations—from others or from himself. No more frustrating afternoons at his typewriting machine, trying to find something worth writing down. No more striving to find the right word, the perfect sentence, the flawless story. No more of his own obsessive demands for perfection, and no more cocaine required to silence those demands. He’d come full circle, it seemed. Had his father been alive to see this day, the old earl would have crowed with satisfaction to know his son had given up that silly writing nonsense at last.
Sebastian frowned, feeling a ripple of uneasiness as his father’s disdainful voice echoed back to him from his boyhood.
Idling away your holidays, writing stories? What is wrong with you, boy? I despair of you, I do indeed, engaging in such worthless pursuits.
Sebastian felt his pleasant mood slipping, and he forced aside thoughts of his father. He focused his mind instead on the groan of the waterwheel, the drone of the bees, and the breeze that stirred the leaves overhead, and his momentary uneasiness faded away. It was good, he thought, to be home.
“Lord Avermore?”
Oh, God. Any shred of Sebastian’s hard-won contentment dissolved at the sound of that familiar voice, and he opened his eyes, turning in the hammock so abruptly that he almost fell out of it, dismayed to find Daisy Merrick standing ten feet away.
“You again?” He groaned. “What are you doing here?”
“I have read your manuscript, my lord.”
He glanced over her rumpled green traveling suit, and it was then that he noticed the yellowed sheaf of papers tucked in the crook of her arm. He lifted his gaze again to her freckled face and the determined cast of her countenance did not bode well for his purpose in coming to the country.
“Bully for you, love. That makes one of us. I haven’t read the thing since I wrote it.” He lifted his bottle of ale in salute and took a swallow. “Did you happen to bring a cheque?”
“No.”
“Of course not. That would have made your presence useful for a change.” He fell back into the hammock with a resigned sigh. “So, what brings you to Devonshire?” he asked, sure he was going to regret the question. “Have family in the neighborhood?”
“I’ve come to discuss the manuscript with you.”
A feeling of dread settled in Sebastian’s guts. Desperate, he closed his eyes. Maybe if he ignored her, she’d go away.
“The basis of your story is solid, and it has a powerful premise,” she offered, as if he’d asked for her opinion. “It reminds me of your earliest works. Since it’s an older manuscript, that makes sense, of course.”
She fell silent, as if waiting for him to respond. He didn’t.
“That being said,” she went on, “I’m afraid there are problems with it. You’ll need to do some substantial revisions in order to make this novel suitable for publication.”
Damned if he would. “I’m not doing any revision.” He kept his eyes stubbornly closed. “I’m not changing a word.”
“My lord, I’m afraid you don’t have a choice. I cannot accept this as written. You must revise it.”
He couldn’t let that pass. He just couldn’t. He opened his eyes and turned his head, scowling at her. “Who the devil are you,” he demanded, bristling, “to tell me what I must do?”
“I am your editor.”
“What?” he scoffed, refusing to believe it. “That’s absurd. Marlowe is my editor.”
“Not anymore.” She walked to the side of the hammock, pulled a folded sheet of paper from the top of the sheaf bundled in the crook of her arm, and held it out to him. Sebastian set aside his ale, then snatched the paper from her hand, unfolded it, and scanned the transcripted lines of a telegram.
MISS MERRICK COMMA I APPOINT YOU AVERMORE’S EDITOR STOP EDIT MS AS YOU SEE FIT STOP AVERMORE NOT PAID UNTIL MS REVISED TO YOUR SATISFACTION STOP MARLOWE
“Damn Harry! This passes all bounds!” He sat up and wadded the telegram into a ball. Leaning sideways, he hurled it as hard as he could. It sailed past the trunk of the willow but missed the pond, landing on the bank several inches from the water’s edge. He swung his legs over the side of the hammock and stood up, forcing her back a step. “I refuse to accept you as my editor.”
Those brilliant eyes did not waver. “You have to,” she said quietly. “If you wish to be paid, you have no choice.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, feeling a hint of despair. “What possible difference does it make to you if the book is any good or not? Why do you care?”
“I care because you were once a fine writer, one of the finest I’ve ever read, and Marlowe has employed me to help you be a fine writer again.” She pulled the sheaf of papers from the crook of her arm and held it up. “This manuscript is capable of greatness if you revise it.”
“No, it’s not!” he roared, his voice loud enough to echo across the water and into the hills beyond. “For God’s sake, why isn’t anyone listening to me? I can’t do what you want.”
“Yes, you can. If you wish to be paid, you must.” She held the manuscript out to him, but when he folded his arms and did not take it, she dropped it onto the grass. “I have included a letter outlining the problems I have with the story, and various suggestions for how you might resolve them. After you complete the revisions to my satisfaction, I will approve the manuscript for publication and you will receive your money.”
“I’m not revising a word,” he said again. “Accept it as is, or not at all.”
She sighed. “Do I really need to quote from your contract again? Your editor—” She broke off and pointed a finger toward her chest. “That would now be me,” she reminded him, as if he could forget such an appalling fact. “Your editor has to approve your completed manuscript before you can be paid. I am not approving this until you revise it.”
“Of all the idiotic—” He broke off with a muttered oath and bent
to retrieve the bundle of papers. On top was a typewritten letter, and he yanked it out from beneath the twine. The moment he did, he appreciated the thickness of it. Tucking the manuscript under one arm, he unfolded the letter. Without reading it, he flipped through it, counting pages, and after a moment, he returned his attention to her, appalled. “Good God, what revisions are you asking for that require a twelve-page letter to explain them? Woman, don’t you know anything about writing? In composition, brevity is a virtue.”
“Quite so.” She didn’t even blink. “I was as brief as possible.”
He sucked in his breath, and returned to the first page. The letter began with the usual polite salutations—thank you for your manuscript, Marlowe Publishing is honored to receive it…Sebastian skimmed past those. He also cast only a cursory glance over her flattering opening remarks about the book—how the premise was unique and intriguing, the characters vivid, and the story thoroughly engrossing. Instead, Sebastian cut to the chase.
He flipped to the second page, and there, he found a numbered list of points she felt he needed to address. He got as far as the first one and stopped. “No dedication?” he muttered and looked at her. “That’s your most important criticism? That there’s no dedication?”
“I did not list my comments in order of importance. I listed them in order of chronology. I felt that would make your revisions easier.”
“Revisions are never easy, Miss Merrick. They are a pain in the arse.”
She didn’t even blink at his crudeness. “And,” she went on, “not all the comments in my list are criticisms. My comment about the dedication, for instance, was merely an observation. I thought you might simply have forgotten to include one.”
“I didn’t forget,” he assured her, feeling nettled and defensive, and not knowing quite why, since he didn’t care what she thought. “I never put dedications in my books. And since you seem to be quite an authority on my writing, Miss Merrick, you should already know that.”
She pressed her lips together as if suppressing a tart rejoinder. After a moment, she said, “I merely thought to give you the opportunity to provide a dedication should you wish to do so.”
“Well, I don’t. Dedications are silly, pointless, and smack of sentimentality. Lady novelists use them, I daresay,” he added, being deliberately provoking, “but no serious writer would.”
“Quite,” she answered at once. “Herman Melville was a silly lady novelist, and Moby-Dick a frivolous book.”
Sebastian decided he’d had enough. He folded the letter, pulled the manuscript from beneath his arm, and shoved the letter back in its place beneath the twine. “I won’t do this,” he said and dropped the manuscript onto the grass. “I can’t.”
She ignored that, of course. “You only have one hundred and thirteen days remaining of your extension,” she informed him, “and you have a great deal of work to do. I suggest you begin as soon as possible.”
She turned and walked away without another word, and as Sebastian watched her go, he knew he’d been right about her all along. She had been sent by the devil to make his life hell. So far, she was succeeding admirably.
Chapter 8
My God, this novel makes me break out in a cold sweat.
Gustave Flaubert
“You must be in need of tea.” Lady Mathilda reached for the teapot, a delicate porcelain thing of painted pink roses from an earlier era. “Facing down Avermore can be a rather intimidating business,” she said as she poured pale China tea into a delicate matching cup. “Especially if he doesn’t want to do a thing. Anyone would need sustenance afterward. Sugar?”
She held up the sugar tongs in an inquiring manner, and Daisy nodded. “Yes, please. Two lumps. And lemon.”
Lady Mathilda added the requested ingredients to Daisy’s cup. She stirred the tea with a tiny silver spoon. “I hope my nephew wasn’t terribly rude?”
“Not rude, no. Though it was clear he wasn’t happy to see me. Thank you, by the way,” she added, taking the teacup, “for sending your carriage to meet my train. Lord Marlowe had already informed you of the situation, I understand?”
The older woman nodded. “Marlowe’s at Torquay, and he and his wife called upon me a few days ago. I understand you are a friend of the viscountess?”
“Yes, ma’am. Lady Marlowe and I have been acquainted for many years.”
“An excellent woman, and a fine writer. Her second novel has just been published, you know. I understand you are an aspiring writer as well, Miss Merrick?”
“Yes, ma’am.” She paused, then added, “Is there a room in the house where I could work? I could use my bedroom, but—”
“Your bedroom? Oh, no, my dear, that won’t do. There isn’t a writing desk in there, only a dressing table. I would suggest you make use of the library.” She waved a hand toward the adjoining room behind Daisy. “It’s just through there, and it has several nice large desks. Plenty of light, too.”
Daisy turned to look over her shoulder, but the pair of tall walnut doors behind her were closed, blocking any view of the room beyond. She returned her attention to her hostess. “Your nephew doesn’t use that room himself?”
“For his writing, you mean? Oh, no. Sebastian has his own private study, not that he has ever done much writing at Avermore. His father, my late nephew, never looked kindly upon having a son with literary ambitions. Writing was all very well as a hobby, but he felt Sebastian’s main concern ought to have been his position as the future Earl of Avermore. Sebastian, however, was not content to write simply as a recreation. He wanted his books to be published, and the two men had countless rows about it.”
Daisy nodded in understanding. “My sister is rather like that. Very concerned with the practicalities.”
“Ah, yes, Marlowe mentioned you have a sister. She must be worried about you journeying across the country alone and staying with strangers.”
Lucy’s concerns had been mainly centered upon the fact that her younger sister would be sharing a house with a man of Sebastian Grant’s notorious reputation, but she decided it would be best not to say so. “Once Lady Marlowe had assured my sister you were willing to act as chaperone during my stay, her worries on my behalf were assuaged,” Daisy said instead, and was rather proud of her tact.
“I am happy to do it, my dear. I can only hope that Marlowe is right and that you can help my nephew with his work. I don’t envy you your task, I must say. Sebastian is a dear boy, but he is also temperamental and often quite intractable where his work is concerned. He is an artist. Very much like his grandfather, my brother. Henry was a poet, and he had the same qualities.”
Daisy wasn’t certain she agreed with Lady Mathilda’s description of Avermore as a dear boy, but the adjectives temperamental and intractable seem apposite.
“Sebastian,” Lady Mathilda continued, “has always insisted upon doing things his own way, and it’s exceedingly difficult for him to accept help from anyone, even when he needs it. He’s always been that way. Devilishly proud. And most particular about his books, too.” She laughed. “I remember the very first story he wrote that he allowed me to read—he was eleven, I think—and oh, the fuss when I suggested perhaps the main character in the story should be an ordinary boy instead of a warlock! Why, I believe he spent a week telling me all the reasons that wouldn’t work. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I discovered he’d taken my advice to heart and he’d rewritten the story using my suggestion.”
“Do you have any advice for me, ma’am?”
She considered that for a moment. “Marlowe feels Sebastian’s last few books have not matched the caliber of his previous works. He feels they lacked heart. I understand you agree with that assessment?”
“Yes, I do.”
“So do I.” She paused for a moment, then went on, “Marlowe feels that you bring a certain insight to Sebastian’s writing that neither he nor I can claim. Being only recently acquainted with Sebastian, you can be more objective than either of us
.”
“I hope so, Lady Mathilda.”
“I have a great deal of affection for my nephew, Miss Merrick, and I have been worried about him for a long time. He changed when he went abroad. I don’t know why. He began writing at a breakneck pace, and produced a substantial body of work as a result, but the quality of the work did suffer. His letters home became less and less frequent, and when he stopped writing altogether, I knew something was terribly wrong, though I did not know what. I’d been hearing gossip from Italy for years, of course, but—” She stopped. “That’s neither here nor there. You asked me for advice? My advice is to always give him your true opinion. Don’t try to be kind and sugarcoat things for him. He’ll see through that sort of nonsense in an instant.”
“I have my flaws, ma’am,” Daisy said ruefully, “but sugarcoating things is not one of them.”
The old woman gave her a shrewd look. “No doubt that’s why Marlowe chose you for this task. If my nephew respects your opinions, he will consider them, though he might argue with you to high heaven. But stick to your guns if you think you’re right. Don’t allow him to bully you or drive you away.”
“He’s already tried that. He hasn’t succeeded.”
“Good. You’re made of strong mettle, I see.” Lady Mathilda lifted her teacup, studying Daisy over the rim. “Still, it’s best to batten down your hatches, my dear. I fear there are storms ahead.”
Daisy thought of Avermore’s eyes, the resentment that had darkened their color to the gunmetal gray of thunderclouds, and she couldn’t help but agree.
With Seduction in Mind Page 10