The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  From: Queen.Brene@BarclayPublishing.com

  Subject: Wow!

  Tenley,

  My family is livid with me. I spent all weekend reading your manuscript. I’m blown away. Blown. Away! It’s like you found a piece of yourself you didn’t know existed. It’s your wit and voice, but I see shades of a deeper, more profound writer.

  The ending had me in tears!

  Now I see why you struggled . . . You were searching for that deeper place.

  This book is going to be a huge hit, Ten. I can feel it. My fingers are buzzing as I type.

  How did you land 1903 so perfectly? I tell you, I saw shades of your grandfather in your words. Did I ever tell you I wrote my senior paper on him?

  Your talent knows no bounds, girl. I sent it on to Wendall and Paul. I think we’re going to fast-track this.

  As for edits, I’ve a few suggestions. Nothing major. I’ll have notes to you by the end of the month.

  Wow, Tenley. You should be proud. This has been a hard season for you, and we’ve added pressure, but you pushed through like a pro. I have a million questions about how you came up with this story. Message me when you’re in town. We’ll have lunch at Delmonico’s. You know all the old Barclay deals were made there.

  Love,

  Brené

  BIRDIE

  OCTOBER 1907

  After four years of marriage, she knew her husband’s expressions. Tonight, in the dining room candlelight, he appeared handsome and calm, praising their fine meal but unable to mask the concern in his eyes.

  “You heard from Len today?” Birdie asked. She’d seen the letter from his London solicitor on his desk.

  “Yes.” A simple answer as he took another bite of beef.

  “Well? Are you going to keep me in suspense?”

  His father had died in the winter and Eli inherited his title. He was now the Marquess of Ainsworth, lord and master of Hapsworth and the surrounding tenant farmers and village. He’d inherited great lands and a great debt.

  “He reported on the death duties.” Eli sat back, raising his wineglass. “W-what is new in your world, darling? How was the tea for the school? Did you raise sufficient funds?”

  “We did very well, but you’re not shutting me out of the business of Hapsworth. What did Len say?”

  “You know what he said. The death duties are steep. On top of debts already incurred. It will take all of our wits and wherewithal to save us.”

  Eli used all of his wit and resources to save Hapsworth the last four years, but the death taxes would be more than he could manage.

  His mama had moved to the London house after his father’s funeral and never returned. In her grief she could not face Hapsworth and the memories.

  “I’ve lost my eldest son and my husband while living at that place. I cannot bear it. Make it your own, Eli. It belongs to you and Birdie now.”

  Papa remained adamant about withholding a proper dowry but sent a generous financial gift every Christmas. The money was welcomed and helped sustain them but was no match for the rising debt.

  “Let me write to Papa, Eli. Tell him of our predicament and—”

  “And assure him his resistance to a marriage settlement was well founded? It would only prop up his opinion of my family’s foolishness.” Eli dropped his silverware against his plate. “Isn’t it bad enough that I cannot protect you from what’s to come?”

  Birdie cast him a stern look. “I’ve told you, I do not need protecting. We are in this together. You’ve done more than most to save your inheritance, my love. Mark my words.”

  He’d ventured forward with a man bringing electricity to Yorkshire only to have the company fail within the year. They’d lost a small fortune.

  His efforts to recuperate the loss through investments also yielded nothing. Trading was a long game, and they had neither the time nor the proper skill to play it.

  “Thank you, darling, but I get no credit for trying.”

  “Then what shall we do?”

  “I’ve no idea. I feel even my prayers fall short of the mark.” He took up his utensils and sliced another bite of Mrs. Bourne’s delicious roast. “How much did you bring in for the school? I need some cheery news.”

  “Enough for new chairs in every classroom.”

  “Splendid. The children will feel like kings.”

  “I’m sure they will.” She tried to keep a straight face, but she had much more pressing good news. “I hope our son or daughter will attend the school and sit in the relatively new chairs.”

  Eli froze in midmotion, his gaze fixed on her. “Darling, what did you say?”

  Birdie went about eating, having fun with his astonishment. “You heard me. I don’t believe I whisper at this table.”

  “You said our son or daughter. Going to school. Are you with child?” His fork clattered against his plate as he left his chair and dropped to one knee beside her, kissing her hand. “Are you well? How do you fare?”

  “Very well, so far.” She beamed, feeling the warm blush of happiness. Four years in the waiting, their season had come at last.

  “When? When will this blessed event be?”

  “The doctor believes April.”

  “You’ve brought me good news indeed, love.” He pulled her from her chair, wrapping her in his arms. “What are taxes and debt when we’ve a son—”

  “Or daughter.”

  “—on the way. Yes, a son or daughter.” He laughed and swung her around. “He’ll be the ninth Marquess of Ainsworth. If we have a daughter, I’ll go to the House of Lords and demand the laws be changed. She’ll be the first woman peer to inherit the Ainsworth title.”

  Oh, the joy in his face was worth the painful years of waiting.

  “You’ve made me very happy, Birdie.” He kissed her long, lovingly, and deep.

  “As you have and always will make me.”

  She loved him more than the day they married. More than when he brought her to Hapsworth. More than when he stayed by her side when she fell ill. More than when he wept openly over their first baby, a son, peaceful and stillborn.

  “I promise you we will have a good life for our child if we have to sell Hapsworth to do it, Birdie.”

  “Begging your pardon, m’lord.” Manfred entered. “You’ve a visitor. A Mr. Gordon Phipps Roth.”

  Birdie gripped her husband. “Gordon Phipps Roth? The American author?”

  “I believe so, your ladyship. He’s in the library.”

  “Did he give the reason for his visit?” Eli cast Birdie a curious expression. “Did you hear of him visiting York?”

  “Not at all. I hardly know the man. And you know how I feel about him.” She smoothed her hair in place, tugging on the edges of her gloves, straightening her strand of pearls. “Manfred, please send tea and sandwiches. We wouldn’t want to appear inhospitable.”

  “I’ve alerted Mrs. Bourne.”

  When the butler had gone, Eli squared his bow tie and offered Birdie his arm. “I must admit my curiosity has the better of me.”

  “As does mine.” She hesitated a step, holding Eli in check. “What could he possibly be doing here? You don’t think he’s come to confess, do you? Mercy, I can’t imagine. Darling, if I in anyway appear rude or disrespectful—”

  “Confess? It would mean his career. And you could never be rude. Or disrespectful.” His voice mellowed with compassion and a soft twinkle lit his eyes.

  But Birdie’s throat had gone dry. She could be rude to Gordon Phipps Roth. She could! “I fear I might say what I’ve bottled up the last four years.” Beneath her gloves, her fingers chilled with nerves. “And yet I wonder what in the world brought him to Yorkshire?”

  “Shall we let him say his piece? I’m sure he’ll explain. Then you can have your honest say. Now that you bring it up, I’m a bit miffed at him myself. Tell you what, if either one of us appears inhospitable, we shall clear our throats and say, let’s see, ah, how about, ‘Isn’t it a lovely evening for guests?’”
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  Birdie made a face, laughing softly. “Yes, isn’t it a lovely evening for guests.”

  Phipps Roth waited by the fireplace wearing a traveling suit, his hair the color of the night, curling and disheveled over his high forehead, the man beneath weary. Yet his eyes were bright, his step lively as he greeted Eli and Birdie with a slight bow.

  “Sorry to barge in. I forget you eat so late here.”

  “No, no need to apologize. Please, be seated.” Eli motioned to the couch by the fire. “We’ve tea and sandwiches on the way.”

  “How generous, but I didn’t mean to be a bother.”

  Birdie took her usual seat by the fire, reaching for the book she’d been reading. A prop to keep her hands occupied.

  “Mr. Phipps Roth, please, Birdie and I are curious as to the reason for your visit.” Eli stood beside her. “What on earth are you doing in northern England? Are you lecturing?”

  The author cleared his throat, his brightness fading as he took his seat.

  The library was Birdie’s favorite room in all of Hapsworth. She spent many a pleasant winter evening reading by the fire. She’d started writing again.

  Mama even shipped over her desk when the scuttlebutt of the wedding died down. It now sat in the far corner by the bay windows overlooking the grounds, a new typewriter at the ready.

  “Nothing as grand as lecturing. I was in London on business. As you know, Barclay recently opened a London office.” He reached inside his jacket pocket, retrieving a long envelope. “It was then I concluded this was the best time to give Miss Shehorn, rather, Lady Ainsworth, or is it Marchioness Ainsworth?” He passed the envelope to Birdie. “I apologize, I’m not quite sure how to address you.”

  “Birdie will be fine.” She eyed the envelope, then Eli. “What is this, Mr. Roth?”

  “Open it. You will see, Birdie. And please, call me Gordon.”

  Eli retrieved the letter opener from his desk, handing it to Birdie. “Go ahead . . .”

  She started to slice open the flap, but sighed, setting the letter and the opener in her lap. “I’m sorry, but I feel I must speak up. Mr. Roth, it seems—”

  “Please, call me Gordon.”

  “—something peculiar happened with your book, The Girl in the Carriage.”

  “Birdie, open the envelope, then we can talk,” he said.

  But her adrenaline flowed. Her pulse thumped in her ears. She had courage. Or at least some profound bravado.

  “You are a renowned and fine author, yet I could not help but notice how similar your book was to mine. The same one I submitted to Barclay. Do you recall that day outside Daniel Barclay’s office? We spoke, briefly.”

  “I remember. Open the envelope, Birdie.”

  “I’d gone to see Barclay about my own manuscript. One I submitted to him and never saw again. And your title was my title. Or close enough to it.” Her confession would not be tamed.

  Beside her, Eli cleared his throat. “Isn’t it a lovely evening for guests?”

  She peered up at him. No . . . “It took me two years to finally read your book and I was dumbstruck to see my story between the binding.” She peered up at Eli. “Wasn’t I, darling?”

  “Yes, you were.” He reached down for the letter opener. “Let’s see what Gordon brought round to us, shall we?”

  She sighed. Yes, of course. With one quick flick, she opened the letter, her jaw set. How could he steal another author’s work? No matter how unknown she might be. It was an outrage. Now that she had a chance to speak her mind, she was going to do so.

  “It’s a check,” she said. “A very generous check.” She passed the bank note to her husband, then addressed Gordon. “I don’t understand.”

  “That is your share of the royalties from The Girl in the Carriage. I wish it could be more, but I spent a good portion upon my marriage in ’05. I’ve also recently become a father, you see . . .” He gazed toward the fire, his hands clasped on his lap. “I feel rather humiliated by it all.”

  Birdie rose to her feet. “So The Girl in the Carriage is my story? Daniel Barclay claimed my manuscript was returned to me. But I never found it.”

  “He gave it to me the day you and I met in his office, though upon my honor I didn’t know it was your manuscript.” Gordon sounded contrite, his frame shrinking into the large red couch. “Though I am without excuse. I clearly knew the work was not my own. Barclay convinced me he’d hired someone to . . .” Gordon shoved his hand through his wild hair, a bead of perspiration on his brow. “To solve my problem. He assured me it was all completely aboveboard.”

  “But you’re the great Gordon Phipps Roth. What problem could you possibly encounter?”

  “I came upon a severe case of writer’s block. My intended at the time had rejected me after years of pursuing her, and I fell into despair. Try as I might, I could not produce one coherent word. Barclay was desperate for another book, and when I went to his office to tell him he’d have nothing new from me, he handed me your manuscript. ‘Do something with this,’ he said. I read the most wonderful, fresh chapters. The story engaged me. I was envious of the writer’s skill, really. Barclay suggested I rewrite the story, make it my own. Being the weak man that I am, I agreed. I’m ashamed now, but I was desperate enough to listen to him. My pride, my foolishness, my desire for fame and fortune . . . I’ve borne my guilt these past years and will continue to do so, but I must do something to make it right. The book has been a phenomenal success. More than any of us imagined. So, I come to you and your husband with some penance. Truth is, I loved the book so much I changed very little.” He raised his gaze to Birdie’s. “As I’m sure you are aware. Anyway, this money is small pickings compared to what you have in your accounts, but I hope it may bless you and ease some of my pain.”

  Numbed by his confession, Birdie searched for a proper reply, her ire fading. “I-I don’t know what to . . . Barclay truly stole my manuscript?”

  “We suspected it all along,” Eli said.

  “He saw something in your writing similar to my own and he was desperate to get a book out of me. He admitted his deed earlier this year. Confessed he thought an heiress didn’t need her book published. She already had more than most. He believed your endeavor to write was merely a passing fancy. But I, the great Gordon Phipps Roth, was the next great American author.” Gordon crunched his hands together. “The book has changed my career. I was acclaimed before, but now newspapermen and scholars alike regale me as quite possibly one of the enduring literary voices of our time. The sales have brought great reward.”

  “Because of my book?” Birdie’s trembling legs could hold her no longer and she sank slowly to the nearest chair.

  “Because of your book. Well, our book. I did a good bit of editing.” He forced a laugh. “You are quite a talent, Birdie. I sensed it that day in the foyer. Any young woman who’d wait to speak to the great Daniel Barclay unintimidated . . . I do hope you’re writing even now.” He glanced at Eli. “Are you encouraging her?”

  “Most assuredly. Just recently she’s returned to her writing.” Eli nodded toward her. “Birdie, darling, what do you make of this?”

  She glanced between Eli and Gordon. “I hardly believe it . . . Why did you come now to tell us? Why not just keep the secret?”

  Manfred entered with tea and sandwiches. Gordon moved to fill his plate and pour a spot of tea. “I turned in my latest book six months ago. I was quite proud of it. It’s been several years since I’ve written a full-length novel. I’ve been traveling, guest lecturing. By the way, our story is beloved in France and Germany.” He carried his sandwiches and tea to the fire. “At one time I feared I’d never write again. I owe a great deal to you and to my wife and son. Anyway, Barclay rejected the book.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “Said it didn’t have the voice of The Girl in the Carriage. That’s when he revealed your name and his dastardly scheme. I believe he considers himself safe now that you’re away, a grand marchioness in England, a peer and member of an establ
ished aristocratic family.”

  “You’re a trusting soul,” Eli said, pouring himself and Birdie a cup of tea. “What’s to keep us from taking this news public?”

  “Nothing at all. In truth, I’ve considered taking it public myself.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Birdie said. “You’ll discredit yourself and disappoint readers everywhere.”

  “Were it not for my wife and child, I’d write the story myself and send it to the papers. But I must consider them.” He sipped his tea, staring toward the fire. “But confession would ease my guilt and shame. And there is the fact that I live on the royalties your magical voice brought me, Birdie.” He finished another sandwich, shaking his head. “Barclay hides it, but he’s ready to do away with me. All of my prior works combined could not match the success of The Girl in the Carriage. I’ve concluded it’s best to exit the publishing world on a success rather than a failure. We writers are too prone to despondency, are we not? But no, you, you seem quite happy.”

  Eli pressed his hand to her shoulder. “She told me tonight she is with child.”

  “Congratulations!” He jumped up to shake Eli’s hand and to kiss Birdie’s. “How thrilling. Our son is our greatest joy.”

  “But we have other woes.” Birdie peered at Eli. “Death taxes and—”

  “We’re fine, Birdie.”

  Gordon’s expression relayed surprise. “Then my payment came at an opportune time?”

  “We’re grateful.” Eli sipped his tea. “What will you do now that your book has been rejected?”

  “Find work. Come clean to my wife about the full extent of my troubles with Barclay.” Gordon replenished his own tea. “I can seek a teaching position. Perhaps pursue another publisher, but that option comes with implied risks.” He leveled his gaze at Eli and Birdie. “I fear I’ve lost my gift. My biggest success was not my own.”

  The room fell silent save for the ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire.

  “You should trust your wife, Gordon. She will help bear your burden.” Birdie slipped her hand through Eli’s. “And might I offer a solution that would help us all?”