The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  “Returned? But it couldn’t . . .” She launched herself toward the door, peering into a long room lined with desks. “I’ve not seen it.” Which one was the confident editor?

  “Might I suggest you check with your servants? You were away in August. Perhaps they set it aside and forgot.” Mr. Barclay pulled her into his office, gently shutting the door. “It’s beginning to snow. We should both be off.”

  “May I speak with your editor? To be sure?”

  Mr. Barclay slipped on his coat, his weighted sigh stealing a piece of her courage. At the side door he called, “Hamlisch, can you come in, please?”

  A portly man with a grand mustache and pencils stuck behind his ears entered, his gray eyes bloodshot and bleary.

  “This is Miss Shehorn. She has a question for you.” Mr. Barclay popped his hat upon his head and folded his arms.

  “You’re quite sure you returned my manuscript, A View from Her Carriage?”

  “We return all by courier. I’m quite sure.”

  “D-did you read it?” She gripped her hands into fists, waiting for his critique.

  “The one of the young lady fallen for an earl?”

  “Yes, yes, that’s the one.” She perked up, smiling.

  “It was quite good. But not for our needs right now.”

  “Should I seek publication elsewhere?” She glanced between Hamlisch and Mr. Barclay. Time had healed her heart’s yearning for Eli. She’d written a more fictionalized heroine the second time, not an image of herself longing for the man Birdie had left four thousand miles away. The man of whom her parents would never approve.

  This time the hero was nothing like Eli. She’d modeled him after her dear departed brother, William.

  “That I cannot tell you. But do keep writing, Miss Shehorn. You’ll have your name on a book one day.”

  “I have written another—”

  “There, are you satisfied? I am.” Mr. Barclay urged her toward the exit. “See the snow? I don’t want to tread through it home. Come.”

  The publisher paused to speak to Mrs. Petersheim while Birdie took the stairs to the lobby. She must drill Percival to find the location of her returned manuscript. Had it been given to Mama? Or Papa? Or burned in the incinerator?

  She didn’t want the world to read her raw, real emotions for Eli. She’d like to keep the book for herself.

  “Good night, miss.” The doorman held the door as Birdie stepped into the brisk afternoon, snowflakes swirling in the fading gray light.

  “Good night.” Tears swelled as she stood on the side of Broadway tugging on her gloves. “Might you hail me a cab, please?”

  The doorman waved down a passing hansom, aiding her inside, then shouting to the driver to carry on.

  In the rock and rhythm of the cobble streets, Birdie headed home. She’d gained nothing of her intended mission. But the words of Mr. Phipps Roth clung to her soul.

  Guard your dreams. She pledged in the moment to do just that. Without exception.

  ELIJAH

  This would be the last of it. His freedom. Once January came upon him, his obligation and duty would rule the day.

  But for this merry New Year’s weekend at the Van Cliff estate in the Berkshires, he would be the man he wanted to be. Not the one he must become.

  Leaning on his cane, he rang the bell, his valet gathering his things on the steps. “What do you think of this cottage?”

  Benedict tipped his head to see the highest spiral peak. “Astounding.”

  “Lovely country, what, this Berkshires.” Elijah motioned to the surrounding woodlands. “Puts me in mind of York and my beloved Hapsworth.”

  “Nothing will ever be as grand as Hapsworth, your lordship.”

  Elijah laughed. “It’s back to ‘your lordship’?” Benedict had been his batman in South Africa. They’d been through hell and back. Shared untold horrors of the Boer War. He was more of a brother than a manservant.

  But the dictates of war differed from the dictates of society. Arranging for Benedict to be his valet meant they both must return to the ways and customs he held before Her Majesty called him into service for queen and country.

  “You think you’ll go through with it?” Benedict had a way of cutting through formality. Which Elijah allowed.

  “I’ve given my word. So yes.”

  “For gentry and title?” Benedict’s laugh lit his eyes.

  “For hearth and home. A new battle we wage.” Elijah leaned toward him. “To keep things as they’ve been for four hundred years.”

  At once, the ornate grand door eased open, slow and heavy.

  “Your lordship, welcome.” The Van Cliff butler, Sheldon, stood aside for Elijah to enter, commanding a footman to aid Benedict with his bags. “Begging your pardon, but a cane?”

  Eli tapped his knee. “The war had its way with me.”

  “Then we are grateful for your safe and sound return.”

  “As am I.” He removed his gloves, handing them to Benedict, whose tall, broad build dwarfed the young footman beside him. He too bore the marks of war. A bayonet cut ran from his left ear down his cheek and around his jaw to his chin. “This is my man, Benedict.”

  “Very good. Your rooms are ready. Alfonse is in the library, your lordship. He said I was to send you in upon your arrival.”

  “Then off I go. Benedict, make yourself useful to the house. Hosting a large party is sure to strain the staff.” Benedict needed to be busy. It was his way of fighting off shell shock.

  “Of course, your lordship.”

  Eli followed Sheldon through the expansive main hall with the grand staircase to his right and a large fireplace with a sitting area to his left.

  Though a set of tall and wide doors, he entered the library.

  “Lord Montague, sir,” Sheldon said with a bow, closing the doors behind him.

  Alfonse, an American mate from Cambridge, folded his newspaper, a spry grin on his handsome mug.

  “My good man.” Alfonse embraced him. “Welcome to our humble abode. How’d you find the ocean journey?”

  “Cold and windy. I’m glad to be on land.” The friends sat in adjacent chairs, the fire crackling in the marble fireplace.

  “Are you looking forward to the season? Mrs. Astor’s ball is after the first opera of the year. Are you on her list?”

  “I’ve been informed I am.” Eli stretched his hands toward the fire. There were moments when a chill ran through him no heat could reach. A remnant fear of his enlisted duty.

  Alfonse passed Eli a glass of port. “You never said in your letter, but I assume a young lady is the main reason for your journey.”

  Eli leaned his cane against his chair and sipped the dark drink. “I’ve been given new orders. Apparently while I risked life and limb for my queen, my mama and Aunt Sylva arranged for my future. What are matters of the heart once the women have taken the reins?”

  Alfonse did not laugh. “For men like us, marriage is about joining powerful families, adding wealth to the coffers, making alliances that cannot be broken.”

  “Yes, and all the royal marriages across the continent have prevented us from war.”

  “There’s the cynical chap I remember.” Alfonse smiled, sitting back, motioning to Eli’s knee. “You won’t be drawn into many quadrilles with that knee.”

  “Proof my luck hasn’t completely run ashore.”

  “So, who is she?”

  Eli hesitated. “Do I have your confidence?”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “A Miss Rose Gottlieb.”

  “Rose Gottlieb?” Alfonse’s expression conveyed his approval. “Beautiful girl, if not a bit young. Just came out last year. She’s rich as the dickens. Her father is the newest of the Wall Street tycoons making waves.”

  “Seems he’s most agreeable to send her to England with a large dowry in exchange for a title. A countess and future marchioness.”

  “And you’re skeptical because?”

  “How can a marriag
e be founded on one partner’s need for capital to rescue his family’s poorly managed estate and on the other’s desire for social recognition and esteem? A title if you will. Doesn’t it leave you rather cold?”

  “Not at all. I’m looking at a bride myself. Brokered not because we’re moony-eyed in love but because our families are a match. Because we bring power, fortune, and I daresay good looks to the union. We are the future of our nations, Eli. Don’t begrudge your duty. Embrace it.”

  “I’m an Englishman. Of course I embrace it.”

  “Have you seen her? Rose?”

  “In a photograph.” He carried it in his pocket during the voyage over, wondering if theirs was a love matched in heaven. “She is quite lovely.”

  “I think she’ll win your heart.”

  Eli saluted his friend with his port. “I’d like nothing more.” He’d given his heart to a lady once. But they’d lost touch during the war. How? A question to which he had no answers.

  “If all else fails, marry for money, then seek the one you love. Take her as your mistress.”

  Eli gulped his drink. “Is that your plan, my man? Do you aim to say so to the lass as you’re proposing? Otherwise, you defraud her.”

  “What? Have you gone moral on me? What happened to ‘as many lasses as possible’? Our escapades in London—”

  “War has a way of purifying one’s heart. In the darkest of nights there is only one thing on your mind—Should I be required to stand before the Almighty, will I find myself in His favor?”

  “So the Earl of Montague, the future Marquess of Ainsworth, has found religion.” Alfonse shook his head. “I never imagined I would see the day.”

  “Not religion, my good chap. But faith. It comforts me at the deepest level.” Especially when he was to marry a woman he did not know or love.

  “You’re a better man than I.” Alfonse refilled their port glasses. “Now, give me the truth. How was it? The war?”

  “Beyond the pale.”

  “As I feared. I did, and it may surprise you, offer prayers on your behalf. I’m most glad you’re home safe and sound.” His cheeky grin sprang up. “Bum knee aside, you’re still the handsomest chap I ever knew.”

  Eli laughed. “Don’t start. We’re not university men anymore. That was another time. Another life. A different Elijah Percy.” He raised his cane to the library shelves. “The library is impressive.”

  “Mother had the house commissioned by Rotch and Tilden. I’m sure it seems small to you, being an English lord living in a castle, but it’s quite spectacular for us Yanks.”

  “I was impressed at first sighting.” Elijah pushed out of his chair and wandered the lengthy, well-stocked library, a portrait of Mrs. Van Cliff adorning the high wall between two bookcases. “Your collection rivals Hapsworth’s. And you have modern conveniences. Plumbing and electricity.”

  “Father insisted. Cost him twice the price, but we’re fixed for the future.” Alfonse lit a cigar, sitting back, relaxing, looking like Eli’s father rather than his friend.

  “Who’s the lass you’re pursuing?” Eli reached for a Gordon Phipps Roth novel. He’d read one on the way to Africa. Enjoyed it immensely. The romance of the story reminded him of Birdie Shehorn and how she made him feel alive.

  “I’m not at liberty to speak yet. Discussions are not concluded, but as soon as I’ve the final word, you will be the first to know. It’s a good match. She’s from an old family, educated, beautiful. Has a mind of her own, I’ll tell you.”

  “She’ll have to have her own mind to be your wife.”

  Alfonse laughed. “Let’s hope Rose is the same. You’ll need a strong woman to make the transition from American heiress to British peer.”

  Sheldon entered, carrying a silver tray. “Coffee and cake. I thought you’d want refreshment from your journey, your lordship.”

  Alfonse anchored his cigar in his teeth, rising to inspect the refreshment, thanking Sheldon as he exited. “When you visit, Sheldon is on his best behavior. I think he misses jolly ol’ England.”

  “He’s better off here.” Elijah poured a cup of coffee, sweetening it with cream and sugar. “Many estates are failing. The mines are depleted. American agriculture competes with ours, thus the value of our crops is a quarter of what they were. Meanwhile, our wage bills increase. Not that we have as many workers as before. Service workers are migrating to the cities for positions in factories or the shops.”

  “Thus your financial quandary.” Alfonse took up his coffee and a slice of cake, returning to his chair.

  “Yes, thus.” Elijah joined him, his stomach rumbling, the idea of cake and coffee stirring his appetite. “We have to change our ways. Many estates have been destroyed.”

  He thought of longtime family friends, the Tarboroughs, who lost everything at auction, then had to stand by while dynamite tumbled their precious Blanton Castle.

  “Eli!” Gertrude, Alfonse’s young sister, burst into the library, her smile like the sun. “You’re here. At last, the party can begin.”

  “Alfonse? Who is this vision of loveliness?” He greeted Gertrude with a kiss. “Surely not your younger sister, Trudy?”

  “Stop, you’re only feeding her already lofty opinion of herself.”

  “He’s jealous because I inherited the good looks in the family.” Gertrude made a playful face at her brother. “Did you tell him?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Tomorrow night the party is in your honor. Mother is bursting with pride that you’re here. Is it true? You won the Victoria Cross?”

  “Word travels fast across a vast ocean.”

  “As good news should. We’ve told all our guests.”

  “So just who is coming to the celebration weekend?” He glanced at Alfonse. “You never told me.”

  “Just a few families. The Shehorns, Vandergriffs, and Martins.”

  “The Shehorns?” He fought to suppress his grin. “How pleasant. We know them. From their ’98 grand tour. They stayed at Hapsworth for a month.”

  A treasured memory. He first met Birdie at the Cranston’s. He had walked into their ballroom expecting the usual peers when he spied a vision of beauty.

  Miss Birdie Shehorn. She captured him completely. To his dismay, she had the same effect on half of his London peers. From ballroom to ballroom, night after night, Eli was met with the question, “Have you been introduced to Birdie Shehorn, the American? She’s a delight.”

  Seeing an opportunity to marry Eli to American money, Mama invited the Shehorns to Hapsworth Manor for a month’s stay. Eli thought he’d touched a bit of heaven when they agreed.

  But Mr. Shehorn had no interest in investing the Shehorns’ well-earned fortune into the failing system of British landed gentry.

  When Birdie left, peering at him through the carriage window, he feared he’d never see her again.

  “Eli’s to marry Rose Gottlieb, Trudy,” Alfonse said. “What do you think of that?”

  “I think Rose is a lucky girl, but we’re coming upon 1903. It’s high time you men learn women are not merely your commodity to be traded for favors and money.” Gertrude huffed as she sat on the couch with a large slice of cake.

  Alfonse pointed to his sister. “She’s training as a suffragette.”

  “Good for you, Trudy.” Eli moved to the dessert tray to pour a cup of coffee. “I agree, women are not the commodity of men. Even in marriage.”

  “So the future Marquess of Ainsworth is a modernist?” Trudy eyed him, looking beyond his thin veil. “Might I make a prediction?”

  “Oh no, not this. Tell her now, Eli. You don’t know what crazy fortune she’ll tell.”

  “I’m not telling fortunes, Alfonse. You need to talk less and listen more.” Trudy faced Eli. “You will marry for love. No matter who it is. Mark my words, it will be for love.”

  “Love is a very expensive commodity,” he said. But her expression, her tone, the vibrating intensity in her blue eyes captured him.

  “M
ark my words.”

  “So I will. And I hope, my dear Trudy, you are correct.”

  FOUR

  TENLEY

  She rode the train to Larchmont. To her best friend, who lived in a white cottage with red shutters and a picket fence.

  “What are you doing here?” Alicia made a face as Tenley barged through the door into a cozy country kitchen. “At five in the afternoon?”

  Alicia lowered her one-year-old, Addison May, into the high chair and poured a mountain of Cheerios onto the tray.

  “Holt wants to go to Paris.”

  “The rat fink. The nerve . . .” Alicia retrieved two Diet Cokes from the fridge, then yanked a chair out from under the table, stomping the legs against the tile. “Paris! What’s he thinking? Taking you to the redneckville of Europe.” She passed Tenley a cold Diet Coke. “I tell you, he’s trouble.”

  “Very funny.” Tenley popped the top of her drink as a gulp of sunlight fell through the windows. “You know I love Paris.” Seeing the City of Lights had been her college graduation present from Dad.

  “Then why are you here, not home packing, calling me from your phone, shouting, ‘I’m going to Paris’? Is there a better place in the world to write? In the shadows of Hemingway and Fitzgerald . . . the Eiffel Tower. Think of the lights, the music, the French bread. Never mind the romance.” Alicia swigged her pop as if parched and drained. “What’s the problem?”

  Tenley averted her gaze. “Blanche called. She’s going through chemo and asked if I’d come to Florida. Help her out.”

  “Blanche?” Alicia sat forward. “The woman who abandoned you wants you to help her? Oh, the irony.” Alicia pulled a face. “Is she intent on ruining your life?”

  “She’s going through chemo, Alicia. And I don’t think she’s intent on ruining my life.”

  “You defend her?” Alicia shook her head. “Look, I’m sorry she’s battling something as heinous as cancer. I wish her well. But how does that put you on the hook to help her? She abandoned you twenty years ago. You’ve seen her—what? A dozen times since then? Each time she waltzes into your life on her terms and exits the same, leaving you with emotional whiplash, wanting nothing but her love and approval. Neither of which she has ever given you in any great measure. I say go to Paris and I’m sorry if that sounds selfish. No. No, I’m not. I blame your dad for this. He taught you to forgive her.”