The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  “He believes he will persuade me.”

  “You and I bear the same burden as the unlikely heirs to our family fortunes and legacies, responsible to carry on the names, our older brothers falling to an untimely death.” He sighed, glancing to where a spirited colt dashed with its rider through the park. “I saw it over and over in the war—a fallen, fresh-faced lad, no more than eighteen, taking with him the hopes and dreams of his ancestors.”

  “It’s a wonder men even go to war.”

  Eli smoothed his hand over hers. “I say votes for women.”

  “Hear, hear.” Birdie sat so resolved and regal on the iron bench. “Do you miss him?” she asked after a moment. “I think of William every day, often unwittingly. A moment will pass and I realize I wished him home, sharing in a birthday or some celebration. He had such a gusto about every small thing.”

  “Sometimes I fear Robert was just a figment of my imagination. He was in day school when I was a wee lad in nappies, then off to Harrow School at thirteen. By the time I joined him there, he was a leader, popular and athletic, adored by the young chaps, admired by the older.” Eli laughed at the memory. “He pretended not to know me for the first month of my first term. He claimed I had to make my own way, become my own man.”

  “I regret not being able to say good-bye. I fear William died alone and cold, longing for his mama and papa. Did he make peace with his Savior before crossing to the other side?”

  “I was playing cricket when I was called to the headmaster’s office. A place no young boy wishes to go. Robert had been missing for a day and a night. The headmaster implored me to give up his whereabouts, but I had no knowledge. They found him that afternoon, his mount standing guard. They believe he suffered from a heart condition since birth . . .”

  “We did not even know William was ill. Then a cable arrived saying he was dead—” Birdie’s confession broke with emotion.

  “I watched them carry him off, pretending he was someone else’s brother. But I cried myself to sleep for a month. I begged Papa and Mama to bring me home, but they assured me the greatest way to honor Robert was to excel at Harrow. Rise up and take his place.”

  “Death required me to pay attention to my life, to what I believe. A woman never knows when her life will be required of her.”

  “All the more reason to heed men like Whitefield and Edwards, who believed scripture. I pray Robert was at peace with the Savior when he died.”

  “I feel as if my life is being required of me now,” she said, her voice low, edged with sorrow. “With Mama insisting I marry Alfonse. Don’t you feel some the same way, Eli?”

  “I’ve been groomed for this since I was a child, Birdie. If not as the heir, as a young man in the British Empire, where country and duty trump any man’s heart.”

  “When Papa allowed me to go to Wellesley, I foolishly believed my life was my own.” She twisted her hands in her lap and he laid his arm along the top of the bench behind her back. “But alas, it’s not meant to be.”

  “Expectations, traditions, and the hopes of our ancestors fall on us.”

  “It is a burden I cannot bear.”

  “Dear Birdie, everything will be all right,” he said with no real authority. His admonition was merely a wish. He could not rescue her and to even suggest it would do far more harm than good. “Have faith.”

  She affixed a smile, turning to him. “Enough of me. Tell me, how are you and dear Rose?”

  He brought his arm back, the intimate moment passing. “We sail tomorrow for England.” He dug his hand into his pocket for a wrapped item. “I saw this in a shop and thought of you.”

  “Oh, Eli.” She pulled back the thin colored paper, exposing a petite porcelain dove. “You shouldn’t have. . . It’s beautiful. Thank you.” Her eyes glistened when she looked at him.

  “See here, the wings are raised, ready for flight.” Eli lightly tapped the tips. “Yet it is the creature’s eyes that fascinate me. Doves have excellent vision, you know. They see well at night. They are not easily distracted by looking to the right or left.” He motioned from his eyes to hers. “Keep your eyes ahead. On your desire to pen your stories. Keep looking at Christ. I am convinced more daily we cannot do anything without Him.”

  “I am growing more convinced myself.”

  “Let this dove be a reminder. See here . . .” He reached for her reticule. “It’s small enough to fit inside. You can sneak it home without raising suspicions. Though you are under no obligation to keep it.”

  “I’ll cherish it always.” She clutched the bird to her breast. “Will I see you again, Eli?”

  For all his talk of dove eyes, he could not hold a steady gaze upon her. It hurt—physically pained him—to think of leaving her. “If God wills.”

  “You’ve given me more reasons to pray.”

  “Good, good. That makes me jolly.” He held her hands in his. “Tell me we’ll always be friends.”

  “Of course. Always. But you do love Rose, don’t you, Eli?”

  A rush of tears flooded his eyes and he looked away. To be talking to Birdie of loving someone else. . .

  “We have affection for each other. She’s busy preparing for the wedding with her mama.” Eli smiled softly. “We arrive in London at the start of the season. Rose will be the talk of the peers. My family and friends have been writing to her already, welcoming her. She is anticipating her first view of York and Hapsworth Manor.”

  “She’ll do you proud, Eli. I know it. And won’t you be glad to be home? You’ve been gone a long time.”

  “Forever it seems. I left for Her Majesty’s fusiliers in ’99 and did not return until the summer of ’02. In November I boarded the RMS Celtic for New York and my future bride, arranged for me by my mother and aunt whilst I was away.”

  “It is the life we lead, is it not?”

  “Bound by our class and rules, our traditions. Me by my peers.” Eli took her hand. “But not you. You’re determined to make your own way. I’m impressed and proud.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissing the top of her glove. “I wish you well, Birdie. May you find love and the greatest of joys.”

  “Same to you, Eli.” She cupped her hand about his face. “Same to you.”

  He stood, ripping his heart away from her tender tone and delicate touch. “Good-bye, Birdie.”

  “Good-bye, Eli.”

  He walked on without glancing back, swallowing the roar in his chest until he couldn’t breathe.

  BIRDIE

  The lines had been drawn, the gauntlet thrown down between mother and daughter, and the battle of wills commenced.

  Tension filled the Shehorn mansion, borne by every member of the household.

  Mama refused to attend the final parties of the season. She took luncheon in her room and feigned sickness. Five times she called the doctor to the house, so sure she stood at death’s door.

  Birdie dined alone with Papa night after night. “You know she’s pretending.”

  “Nevertheless, she’s worked herself up into a real fright. The doctor believes she might have a stroke.”

  Finally, after two weeks, Birdie knocked on Mama’s door. “You cannot freeze me out forever.”

  But Mama did not respond. She showed no sign of weakening.

  Society women called on her, but she denied them. Flowers and calling cards filled the grand hall.

  Then two days ago, she called for the reverend. “I need to make peace with my Lord.”

  Tonight Birdie readied for the season’s final ball, hosted by the Winthrops. Wearing an emerald green gown that caught the gold flecks in her eyes, Birdie made her way to Mama’s bedroom.

  “Mama, may I come in?” She rapped softly. “Mama?”

  Hearing a cough, she waited, expecting the door to ease open. When it didn’t, Birdie knocked again.

  “Mama?” She tried the knob, and when it gave way she peeked around the door’s edge to see Mama lounging on her couch in a dressing gown, a compress over her eyes. Birdie
knelt next to her, stroking Mama’s hand. “We’re going to the Winthrops’. Don’t you want to come with us?”

  “How can I? I’m unwell, and my only child wants to throw her life away.”

  “Mama, I don’t want to throw my life away.” Birdie pressed her cheek against Mama’s arm. “I want to do something meaningful, something of my own choosing. And if I marry, I want it to be for love.”

  Mama removed her compress, her blue eyes full of venom. “You live as if fairy tales were true. Is this about your writing? Those stories you pen when you think no one is watching?”

  Birdie averted her gaze, wiping the surprise from her expression.

  “Yes, I know all about your attic. I pay the staff to be loyal to me, not to you.” Mama returned the compress to her eyes. “Go, leave me be. I’m unwell.”

  “Papa would be so happy if you’d attend the ball tonight,” Birdie said.

  “Leave me be.” But just as Birdie arrived at the door, Mama sat up. “If Alfonse proposes tonight, and you accept him, I’m sure my recovery would be most swift.”

  “Good night, Mama.”

  Everyone at the Winthrops’ was gay and lighthearted, dancing until the wee hours as if it were the first of the season rather than the last. Champagne punch was served at dawn along with a sumptuous breakfast of eggs, cheese, and croissants, and every fruit imaginable.

  Birdie danced until her feet blistered, mere adrenaline keeping her upright. She danced for Mama, for the future she battled to make her own, and for Eli, who would never be hers.

  At last Papa whispered, “Shall we retire home?”

  Gladly. She was ready for her bed. At the door, Alfonse waited for them.

  “He’s asked to speak to you at home,” Papa said.

  At home, Percival greeted them. “I take it the evening was a success.”

  “Tremendous. The Winthrops closed the season in style. Our last hurrah before the disciplines of Lent.” Papa glanced at Alfonse, nodding toward the parlor as if Birdie could not see them. “Pardon me while I check on Mrs. Shehorn.”

  Birdie turned to Alfonse, removing her hat and gloves, handing them and her coat to the footman. “If you’ll pardon me”—she started for the stairs—“I’m rather tired. I think I’ll go on to my room.”

  “Wait.” He gently held her arm. “Will you sit with me in the parlor?”

  “Are you proposing again?”

  “I’m not giving up.” Alfonse bent toward her. “You will be my wife, Birdie Shehorn.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

  Ire flashed in his eyes but he quelled it quickly. “Am I so repugnant to you?”

  “Not in the least. But I do not love you, nor do you love me.”

  The pink hue of the morning filled the foyer, draping over the mail table and a long, rather thick envelope. From where she stood, Birdie could read her name.

  Picking it up, she read the return address of Scribner’s Sons and caught her breath. Clutching it to herself, she backed toward the stairs.

  “Good day to you, Alfonse.”

  “Birdie, can’t you sit with me—”

  “I’m terribly tired.” And trembling with excitement. “Alfonse, why don’t we just agree we will not marry? Be freed from our fathers’ agreement.”

  “That’s not how it works, Birdie.”

  But she was gone, bounding up the stairs. What could a thick envelope mean? Perhaps they returned her story with suggestions for improvement before publishing.

  She was so sure The Tree would meet their standards. She’d felt so, so holy while writing it.

  Bypassing her room, she bounded up to the attic, her fingers trembling as she lit the lamp on her desk.

  If they had accepted her story, she’d shout to the rafters. Maybe even try a cartwheel under the eaves. If they had denied her, she’d, she’d . . . Surely they hadn’t denied her.

  Slicing the envelope open with a letter opener, she dropped down to the settee and read.

  Dear Miss Shehorn,

  We were delighted to receive your submission along with many excellent entries. While yours was one of the final candidates, The Tree has not been selected for our publication, though we were impressed and moved by the vividness of your piece.

  Please find enclosed . . .

  The envelope contained her story. Her rejected story. She had failed. Not even Scribner’s Sons wanted her novice work for a child’s publication.

  And she’d almost accused Barclay of stealing her novel.

  In the cold, gray light of the attic, she collapsed sideways on the settee. She’d weep if she had the energy.

  Glancing at the letter again, she thought of Eli and a collection of unbidden tears dripped from the corners of her eyes, splashing on the settee’s thick upholstery.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  JONAS

  Sitting on his back porch, cold root beer in hand, trying to figure what he wanted for supper, he thought of her.

  It’d been almost a week since the family dinner on the beach, and she peppered his waking thoughts. Which was no es bueno. Since she was engaged. Never mind she didn’t act or look engaged. The mere fact of it made her off-limits.

  You’d think he’d have learned his lesson after Cindy. Be more cautious and wary. But nooo, here he was again, falling in love, heart first.

  Tenley had caught him by surprise. He wasn’t purposefully pursuing her, only trying to be a good neighbor. His head told him to back completely away, to not even enter the friend zone. His heart, however, said so what? If all he had was until the end of July with her, then he would feel whatever his heart wanted and deal with the consequences later.

  Hey, maybe the more time he spent with her, the more he’d not like her. That worked for some people. Married people. With that in mind, he pulled out his phone and started a text.

  You free? Bob Newhart night? I’ll bring the ice cream.

  But instead of hitting Send, he deleted the message and tossed his phone onto the wrought-iron table by his chair. No. Just don’t. She’s engaged! Ring or no ring.

  Brooding, he decided to call Rob. See if he wanted to grab a burger. Just as he reached for his phone, it pinged with a message. Tenley? Nope. It was Mom.

  You busy? Need you to do me a favor.

  TENLEY

  She woke from a dream, her face pressed against the smooth surface of her writing desk, her laptop screen dark.

  What time was it? She snatched up her phone. Five o’clock.

  Well, another day of writing shot to smithereens. Worse, she’d dreamed of walking on the beach with Jonas, his arm around her as he whispered she was beautiful.

  Tenley mashed her hand against the wad of hair on top of her head. She was a hot babe all right in her man robe and slippers. But she couldn’t find the motivation to change.

  She wanted to hide. Pretend life had no deadlines, no cancer, no slick roads of black ice. No absent fiancés. No sexy furniture makers.

  Uncurling herself from the chair, she stood in the golden light flooding the library, her heart still beating with a longing for Jonas inspired by the dream.

  “Get out.” She conked the heel of her hand against the side of her head. “Get out, get out, get out.”

  She’d not seen him since the family picnic on the beach almost a week ago.

  This morning, Tenley had taken Blanche to see her primary doc about her wrist. Dr. Rocourt was pleased with how well she was healing. All things considered.

  Now it was Monday afternoon and she’d drifted off to sleep. What was it about doing nothing that made her want to do nothing?

  She’d forgotten all about her Téa Jones story. Where was she going with that anyway? She surfed the Internet for articles on writing, on overcoming writer’s block.

  “Write, don’t think,” was her favorite. What a bunch of baloney.

  She’d been trying that for months and still had blank pages for a manuscript.

  Brené e-mailed with an idea. “Just give
me a rough, rough draft. Don’t worry about perfecting the story, we’ll do that together. Just spit it out.”

  Barclay was doing everything possible to help her. If only Tenley had an ounce of spit.

  Then she did something stupid. She searched her father’s and great-great-grandfather’s works. They were prolific, beloved authors. Dad’s last release still averaged five-star reviews. One of Gordon Phipps Roth’s books, The Girl in the Carriage, was featured in a New York Times article about the upcoming anniversary edition.

  Then she got even more stupid. She peeked at her own reviews. The one-stars. There weren’t many, but they were blazing.

  “. . . she’s published only because she’s Conrad Roth’s daughter and a descendant of Gordon Phipps Roth. I could write this sh—” Yeah, yeah, whatever.

  Next one.

  “Clearly all it takes to get published is to slap together four hundred pages of drivel, drop your father’s and great-great-grandfather’s name, and voilà, you’re on the New York Times.”

  “I wanted to love this book. I did. But the writing was bombastic and juvenile. Don’t bother. We won’t see anything else from this one-hit wonder.”

  Bombastic? Ha! Well, your review is bombastic.

  Tenley slammed the laptop closed, covering her face with her hands. “Dad,” she growled, “what do I do? Help me!”

  After a moment she sat up, glancing at the photo resting on the back corner of the desk of the marchioness and marquess. Captured in the noir of black and white, they spoke of a time gone by. Of a life Tenley could not touch or even imagine.

  Studying the marchioness, Tenley sensed the woman had a secret voice, a yearning to say something. But what?

  Tenley surveyed the library. The marchioness had been in this very room. Sat in the light falling through the windows. Pulled books from the quirky shelves.

  She set the picture back on the desk. “Did you sit here? Write letters? Address your Christmas cards?” Maybe the answers were in the stuck drawer.

  She gave it a quick yank. “Hi-yah!” But nothing doing.

  Grabbing her empty Diet Coke cans and stained coffee mug, Tenley started downstairs. Blanche must be up because yummy fragrances wafted from the kitchen.