The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  “Then whatever is the matter?”

  She started to speak, then stood, walking toward the door. “Wait here.” She disappeared, the door closing quietly behind her.

  He paced in front of the fireplace, nodding to Manfred when he brought round the tea. He poured a cup, then a second later Franz Gottlieb appeared.

  “Lord Montague, Elijah, I apologize for leaving you to ponder so long.”

  “What’s going on, sir?” He set his tea on the service tray, a sourness rising in his middle. “Where’s Rose?”

  “Lying down. She’s not well. In fact, she’s been unwell for quite some time now.”

  “Unwell? How so?” He moved to the pull cord. “I’ll send for Dr. Howler.”

  “Eli, no, it’s not necessary. He won’t have the right medicine.” Franz walked the room, admiring the paintings and the gold tray ceiling.

  “What medicine does she require? Out with it, my good man. What has happened? I fear the worst.”

  “Rose is ill with anxiety. She . . .” He paused and set his pipe to his lips, but struck no match. Eli resisted the urge to charge him, demanding an answer. “I don’t know how to say this.”

  “Plainly, sir.”

  “Rose does not wish to marry you, Lord Montague.”

  He stepped back, Franz’s confession resonating. “I see. What has changed? She was most eager when I proposed and when we sailed over. She’s been well received in London and at court.”

  “Do not blame yourself, son. Rose is a tenderhearted girl. Our stay here has brought things to light. She’s come to realize she’ll leave us forever. That she’ll be thousands of miles away from her family and friends. This trip is not just another grand tour. Her mother has been coaching her on her responsibilities as the woman of the house, especially a titled woman, and she’s prepared to do what is required. But to be frank, she’s terrified of leaving home. We believed experiencing London and Hapsworth would ease her trepidation, but it seems only to have heightened.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Eli lowered himself to the nearest chair. “Shall we delay the marriage? Give her time?”

  He’d been suspicious of her apprehension but felt sure she’d take hope in her future once she saw Hapsworth and found success among his peers. Hadn’t he treated her gently if not with affection?

  “I was of the same mind until my wife informed me she’s neither eating nor sleeping. But just now, Rose confessed she does not want to marry you or become a great marchioness.” Franz tucked away his pipe, bearing the tone and expression of a concerned father. “I’ve never seen her like this, Elijah. My light, my heart, has become a fragile, sad young woman. I’m afraid for her.”

  “Then we must break the engagement. I wish her no harm or ill. I’m greatly troubled by her distress.” Upon his confession, the chain around his own heart broke, and he drew a long, deep breath. A lightness buoyed in his being. “May I speak to her?”

  While not in love with Rose, he’d carried a fondness for her and had recently begun to hold hope for their marriage.

  Franz moved for the door. “I think it fair and wise. I’ll go for her.”

  “I’ll not hold you to our financial agreement, sir.”

  He paused at the door with a sentimental grin. “She will insist you keep the financial settlement. I believe it eases her shame over her change of heart.”

  “I cannot accept. The money belongs to Rose and whomever she finally chooses.”

  “Since Rose wishes to break off the engagement, I myself will insist on a percentage of our original settlement. I’d require the same of any man who broke our contract.”

  Business. Contract. Words meant for men at Square Mile or Wall Street, not terms for lovers and marriage.

  “Marriage should be a covenant rather than a contract,” Eli said. “I’ll arrange for a return of your money and stocks.”

  Mr. Gottlieb nodded. “I am sorry, Lord Montague. I thought you and Rose made a lovely pair.”

  “It’s not meant to be.”

  When Rose appeared a few moments later, red emotion rimmed her eyes.

  “Father told you.” She entered, her countenance already a bit brighter.

  “Though I wish the words had come from you.” Feeling exposed and humbled, he was relieved to know the truth.

  “Forgive me, Elijah.” She crossed over to him. “I thought I could marry you. I’d dreamed of it since our aunts made the introduction. But it was just a foolish, girlish dream of romance. Then we entered the season and you proposed . . . such a lovely proposal . . . and I was very happy. I’d landed such a fine, noble man. But then I began to realize—”

  Tears drifted down her slender, creamy cheeks. This would never do.

  “Rose, don’t cry.” He passed her his handkerchief. “Not on my account. We will always be good friends.”

  Having grown up with a brother and attended an all-boys boarding school, Elijah had little experience with feminine emotions. But they moved him and he longed to comfort her.

  “I’ve dishonored you and my family,” she said, sinking down to the couch.

  Eli eased down next to her. “Rose, have no more care about it. I release you from your promise. Let there be no shame.”

  “How can you be so kind?” She dabbed her cheeks with the edge of his handkerchief, then passed it back to him. “I feel I must repay you, do something for you in kind. Father said you refuse to retain the dowry.”

  “You owe me nothing but truth and the love of a friend. Keep your dowry for the man you do choose to marry.”

  As he spoke, he knew he’d unwittingly failed his family. Without the Gottliebs’ fortune, Hapsworth would flounder.

  “I suppose we were doomed from the start. I’ve never done well away from home. Did Father tell you how he rescued me from a French finishing school? Once home, I wouldn’t let him or Mother out of my sight for a month.” She laughed softly, showing a glimpse of her true self. “I’m still that little girl, Eli, at eighteen. Some nights I ask Mother to read me a bedtime story. And Father holds my hand walking through the park.”

  “Then you must go home.” He brought her hand to his lips. “We are the better for having you with us these past weeks. One day, when it is right, you’ll fall in love and marry the right man.”

  She leaned to kiss his cheek. “I still wish desperately to repay your kindness.”

  “You repay me by living your life well and remembering me in your prayers.”

  “I will.” She stood to go. “Good night, Eli.”

  “Good night, dear Rose.”

  TWENTY-NINE

  TENLEY

  He did it again. Opened the drawer with a simple tug on the pull.

  “This is a joke. Someone is trying to convince me I’m crazy.” Tenley bent to inspect the trick drawer, pushing Jonas out of the way. “Let me try.”

  With ease, the drawer opened and closed. Opened and closed.

  “What’s the problem, New York?”

  “I’m telling you, it wouldn’t open, Cocoa Beach.” Shoving the casing in, then out, she was convinced. “Okay, it works.” But she left it open. Just in case.

  “What’s inside that’s so important?” Jonas asked, standing over her, near her, teasing her with his warmth and fragrance.

  “Stand back, let the girl have a look.” She gently pushed him aside. Space, please, give my heart space.

  The drawer contained a couple of old-fashioned pens, a porcelain dove with lifted wings, a black leather Bible with gold engraving, and a tattered manila envelope.

  Setting each item on the desk with Jonas at her side—a position she was growing to like—she took one step away from him.

  “What’s in the envelope?”

  Tenley reached for the Bible, a name engraved in the bottom right corner. Mrs. Percy.

  “The marchioness’s Bible.” Bending back the cover, she read the inscription. “To the Marchioness of Ainsworth with love from”—she glanced up at Jonas—“Gordon Phipps Roth.�
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  “Your great-great-grandfather?”

  She nodded. “My great-great-grandfather gave the marchioness a Bible? I wonder how he knew her.”

  “Maybe she was a fan. I’m sure people in elite groups wanted to meet him.”

  “Dad had a picture of him with the king of England. I suppose I have it now, in a box somewhere. But neither he nor Grandpa mentioned a family friendship with aristocrats.”

  “Wonder why he gave her a Bible?”

  “Good question. Maybe he thought she needed it. One of his grandsons did grow up to be a preacher.”

  “What about you? Do you believe?” Jonas palmed the small Bible in his wide hand.

  She shrugged. “Dad never forced it on me. We talked about it. We had faith in the house. But we weren’t Sunday church people.”

  “You should give this a read, then. See for yourself if it’s true. Start with the New Testament, Gospel of John.” He set the Bible on the desk. “What’s in the envelope?”

  Tenley slipped the contents out onto the desk, about three hundred onionskin typewriter pages. “An October Wedding, by Gordon Phipps Roth.” She dropped to the desk chair and removed the rubber band, flipping through the thin pages. “Oh my gosh, a lost manuscript.”

  “A lost manuscript? What do you mean? Why would it be in this desk?”

  “I have no idea.” Tenley cuddled the manuscript, running to the second-floor banister. “Blanche, was my great-great-grandpa ever in this house?” Then to Jonas, “A lost manuscript . . . one that never got published.”

  “What’s all the yelling?” Blanche peeked out of the bedroom wearing a summer dress, a bright orange turban on her head, a rosy tint on her cheeks.

  “Gordon Phipps Roth. Was he ever in this house?”

  “Not to my knowledge. Why?”

  “Did the marchioness know him?”

  “Tenley, I was nine when my parents bought the house. I just remember a sweet old lady with really white hair. Odd, though, she died right after we bought the house. Most of her things were gone already but some things were left in the library. My mother adored the marchioness and refused to get rid of what remained.”

  “Right, okay.” She offered up the manuscript. “I found this in the desk. A Gordon Phipps Roth manuscript.”

  “What in the world?”

  “And a Bible. Good ol’ Great-Great-Grandpa gave it to the Marchioness of Ainsworth.”

  Blanche made a face. “Then I guess they knew one another, then.”

  “Dad never said anything to you?”

  “Never. He was a man. Didn’t pay close attention to the family tree.”

  Tenley dashed back into the library. “This is incredible.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know.” Tenley flipped through the pages, the precious, precious pages, her heart racing, her thoughts tumbling. A found manuscript. “Read it. I’m going to read it.”

  “You should find the owner. Like the head of the Phipps Roth Foundation.”

  “I’m the owner. I found it. I’m his two-times-great granddaughter.” She briefly considered the foundation run by Elijah Phipps Roth, a very distant cousin. Like two or three times removed. She barely knew him.

  “Jonas,” Blanche called up the stairs, “care to stay for supper? I’m feeling good today and I want to grill out again and bake some cookies.”

  Tenley’s eyes met his and she knew. Jonas knew. He couldn’t stay.

  “Thanks, Miss Blanche. I need to get going.” He reached for the drawer. “Look, open, closed, open, closed.”

  “Leave it open, just in case.” She walked him downstairs to the door. “I’m going to New York on Sunday for a few days.”

  “Good. Have fun.”

  “Can you keep an eye on Blanche? Maybe let your mom know.”

  “Consider it done.” He started down the stairs.

  “I’ll be on Good Morning America Monday.”

  “Really? Exciting. For your book?”

  “They’re featuring bride stuff all month and my agent got me booked on.”

  “I hope it brings a lot more sales. Do I say good luck or break a leg?”

  She made a face, still hugging the manuscript over her heart. “Gee, I don’t know.”

  “Then I wish you success. Break a leg and good luck.” With a nod he started down the stairs.

  Tenley leaned over the rail. “Thanks, Jonas. For everything.”

  He paused at the front door, peering up at her. “You bet.”

  When he’d gone, Blanche addressed Tenley below the second-floor landing, dish towel in her hand. “You’re not giving him a chance?”

  “I knew you were up to something when you sent me to the store.”

  “He’s in love with you.”

  “I’m going to read this manuscript now. Do you need me to help with dinner?”

  “You can ignore me but you can’t ignore the truth. Go, read your manuscript. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  For a moment, Grove Manor felt like home and Blanche a normal mother, like the mothers of Tenley’s childhood friends.

  “Just be sure he won’t be the one that got away.”

  “He’ll check on you while I’m gone.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Blanche gazed up at Tenley. “You’ll come back, won’t you?”

  “Do you have more treatments?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then I’ll be back.”

  Blanche smiled, revealing the chocolate bar in her hand. “Thank you, Tenley. More than you know.”

  BIRDIE

  She settled in the parlor with Mama and Papa, a cool evening breeze filtering through the window, Alfonse’s ring on her finger and Henry James’s novel The Wings of a Dove open in her lap.

  She read the opening line a dozen times, the diamond on her finger catching the firelight and casting a strange glow on the page. On her.

  Mama had won. Birdie was trapped. Caged. Broken after the exchange in the attic and the destruction of her desk and personal papers, she lost her will to fight.

  Why was she resisting anyway? She had no options besides marriage. No publishing career. No other suitors. No job or future to speak of other than her charity work. She had joined the suffragettes and planned to fight for the woman’s vote.

  So when Alfonse knelt in front of her again and slipped the ring on her finger again, Birdie said yes.

  He turned amiable and sweet, even a bit romantic. Last evening, he brought her a diamond bracelet from the Van Cliff vault.

  “It was my great-grandmother’s. I thought you’d like it.”

  Unable to focus on her book and the inspired words of James—oh, that she could write with such eloquence—Birdie glanced up when Percival entered.

  “Mr. Van Cliff has arrived, sir.”

  Mama glanced at Papa, then Birdie. “Were you expecting him? What a surprise.”

  Papa stood, adjusting his waistcoat. “Send him in, Percival.”

  Upon Papa’s word, Alfonse barged into the room, his coat unbuttoned and flowing, his eyes glowing.

  “I’m sorry to disturb, but I have no choice.”

  “What’s this?” Papa motioned for him to sit down as he reached for the decanter of port. “You seem troubled.”

  “When were you going to tell me, Shehorn?” He paced to the quiet fireplace, running his hand over his hair. “I’m shocked you’d keep such a thing from me once Birdie agreed to marry me. You know secrets have a way of unearthing. As did this one.”

  “What are you talking about, Alfonse? Sit down, speak plainly.” Papa handed him the port, which he drank in one gulp.

  Birdie focused on the page of the Henry James book, a tension filling her. What troubled Alfonse?

  Mama sat in a statuesque pose, needlepoint in hand.

  “I’m not sure how to begin.” Alfonse commanded their attention, his typically gallant nature eclipsed by frustration and ire. “I have recently learned that Birdie is of, s
hall we say, questionable birth.” He glanced at her, pressing his lips in a tight, pale line.

  The light in the salon dimmed as Birdie gripped the arm of the divan, Alfonse’s voice a hollow echo chasing his words. She could not draw a deep breath.

  Did he know? How could he possibly . . .

  Papa guffawed as he filled his glass from the decanter. Birdie brought her focus back to the room, a dewy perspiration springing over her neck.

  “Who on earth have you been listening to, Alfonse? My enemies? The slanderous papers?”

  “I was at the club when Mack Van Buren decided to make a spectacle of himself.”

  Perhaps Mama’s quick gasp was lost on the men, but it burned in Birdie’s ears.

  “Van Buren? You can’t trust half of what he claims on a good day. After what he did to your father, to me, you should have no regard for his claims.”

  Birdie gripped the side of the couch, clutching her book to her chest, whispering prayers.

  Please, make him be quiet.

  “My thoughts precisely, but when one speaks so boldly . . .” Alfonse paced around and around and Birdie wished he would just sit. “Is it true that he is Birdie’s father? She is his offspring?”

  “Upon my word!” Papa thundered across the salon, confronting Alfonse nose-to-nose. “In front of the women! You may be engaged to my daughter, but you are not free to come into my home and slander us.”

  Alfonse reared away from Papa’s ominous countenance.

  “Why do you think I’ve come? To learn the truth. At the very least you must know the stories he is telling. I heard Van Buren with my own ears explain in great detail a liaison he shared with . . .” He motioned to Mama, unable to finish.

  “Oh my—” Mama mopped her brow, swooning over the arm of the chair.

  Papa rushed to her. “My dear, are you all right?” He patted her hand, reaching for the pull. “See what you’ve done? Upset my wife.”

  Percival entered and Papa ordered a glass of water and a cool, damp cloth. “Mrs. Shehorn isn’t feeling well.”

  “I apologize,” Alfonse said, a stutter in his words. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

  Papa faced him, fists clenched. “I assume you challenged him, Alfonse. Defended your future mother-in-law.”