The Writing Desk

by Rachel Hauck

  “Holiday? I’m only concerned about the deadline. I must have this posted to Gordon by the morning or he’ll not have proper time to edit and add what he wills before Barclay’s deadline.” She rolled the final page out and set it on top of the others, careful of the porcelain dove Eli had given to her. She’d set it on the desk as a reminder of his encouragement and love. “And I’m not a published author. Gordon Phipps Roth is.”

  This was her third book for, rather with, Gordon. She’d found she could write a story in a year, an exceptional pace according to Barclay. Though they had no knowledge of Birdie’s agreement with Gordon.

  Barclay published their first effort together, Moonlight on the Hudson, in ’09. Their second, The House in Murray Hill, just this past fall.

  This finished work, Winter in New York, would see the bookstores around Thanksgiving of 1911. Birdie had layered many of the scenes with the magic of Hapsworth, peering out her window as the winter snow drifted slowly toward the ground.

  “He’s the face, the fame. You’re the brains. The talent.” Eli poured a glass of port and stood by the fire. “Do I sound ungrateful? I don’t mean it if I do.”

  “You’re just defending your wife.”

  “I do wish you’d let me buy you a proper desk.” He crossed the room to where Birdie sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Look, it’s battered and worn, the wood so dull.”

  “But I love this desk. It’s battered and worn because I work here.” She stretched her arm over the surface. “I’ve sort of an affection for it. This desk and I are old friends, partners. I sit here when I pray, when God inspires my stories.”

  “You mean Gordon’s stories.”

  “Don’t be a cynic. His latest book paid the wage bill and purchased us a new carriage. The one you love so well.”

  “Well, I do owe him for that, but still, I prefer to think of the books as your stories.” He moved to the sofa and sat. “What do you hear from home? I saw a letter . . .”

  “Mama and Papa are doing well. They want to come in July again.”

  Leaving the desk, Birdie stretched and rubbed the knot from the base of her neck. It was good to be done. Her back needed a rest.

  “I love that you defend me, darling.” She curled up next to Eli on the couch. “That you want to buy me a proper desk, but I have all I need right here in this room. If the rest of Hapsworth were to crumble, I’d be happy with you here, my desk and typewriter, the view of the grounds and a fire in the hearth. I love what I am doing. It gets me out of bed in the morning. It gives me purpose and joy. People say such kind, even profound, things about our stories. You’ve seen the letters Gordon forwards. We’re touching hurting and lonely people as well as providing entertainment and advancing the written word.”

  “Doesn’t it bother you, love, that it’s his name on the jacket and not yours? That he gets the newsprint articles and invitations to lectures?”

  “No, why would I want to be a lecturer? And I am in the newspaper plenty with the name Ainsworth. But one day I’ll write my own book with my name on it. Gordon has suggested it himself.”

  “Do promise me you will.”

  “I promise.” She caressed his chest and let him cradle her there. After seven years of marriage, she wasn’t sure if her heart could beat without his.

  “I wish I could give you what you really want.” His blue eyes searched hers. “A babe for our nursery.”

  “It’s not you who fails. It is I. But the doctor believes in time we will have a child. I am not sad, Eli. I do not feel I’m missing out. As long as I have you . . .” She could bear the loss of her son and daughter.

  She’d given birth to a daughter in the spring of ’08. Lady Amy Elizabeth Shehorn Percy.

  But the Lord had only gifted her with a few days. The nanny found her unresponsive in her crib, the most peaceful expression on her face.

  Birdie had not conceived since.

  “I see how the other women look at you,” Eli said. “I can only imagine their whispers. ‘Why doesn’t she have children?’ ‘What does she do with her time?’”

  “Who cares what they think?” She kissed him playfully, teasing, “We do what we must to conceive. And as often as we can.”

  He laughed and kissed her forehead. “How did I win such favor with God Almighty to have you as my wife? Now, as for Gordon and your writing, I am all for it. Just don’t let him take advantage, love. I’m glad we insisted Len draw up a formal agreement.”

  “I feel we are the ones who take advantage. Did you see the latest check?”

  “I did, and I must say again I’m grateful.” Eli stood, moving to the fire. “Though my pride is wounded to depend on my wife’s earnings.”

  “Your latest ventures have proven worthy. We are meeting our obligations, keeping Hapsworth going, paying the death duties.” She was honored to put her talent toward saving the ancient estate. “Now, what did you buy me for Christmas?”

  “Must we do this every year? I shall not tell you. You’re worse than a child.”

  “But I simply cannot wait two more weeks—”

  Manfred entered from the far door, a small package in hand. “This just arrived for you, your ladyship.”

  “Thank you . . . Eli, is this your doing?” Birdie peeled away the plain brown packaging.

  “Not I, love.”

  Inside she found a beautiful leather-bound Bible along with a note. “It’s from Gordon.”

  Dearest Birdie,

  I’ve been reading this book of late and find its poetry and truth comforting. When I spied this copy at a local bookshop, you immediately came to mind. I pray it blesses you as the perfect Christmas gift.

  In these pages we find the story of a Savior who gave His life for all. Mine and yours. He commanded us to love like He loved.

  Such words move me, and when I think of the gift you’ve given to me and my family, I want to weep for joy. I can never repay you. The royalties are only a fraction of my debt.

  Yet I will endeavor to love you as Christ loved me. As you have loved me. Unselfishly. I vow that one day we will take your book, not mine, to Barclay for publication.

  My best to you and Eli in this joyous season.

  Merry Christmas,

  GPR

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  TENLEY

  The group gathered around the dining room table and Brené led off.

  “Can you explain this?” She pulled out a rubber-banded manuscript. “A Gordon Phipps Roth novel? Where did you get this, and why in blazes did you pass it off as your own?” She swore without a filter.

  Tenley grabbed the back of the nearest chair to hold steady. “W-what are you talking about? A Gordon Phipps Roth novel?” Fear swelled in her heart and she could taste its bitter dregs.

  Movement just beyond the dining room raised her attention. Jonas, his expression somber, his eyes full of questions.

  “Did you steal Someone to Love too?” Wendall demanded. “Did your dad write it?”

  “What? No. No! How can you say that?” She looked at Brené. “You wanted another great book and I gave you one.” She worked on her weak defense by sounding indignant and unjustly accused. “W-who said it was a GPR book? Huh? I am his great-great-granddaughter, you know.”

  Brené turned to Elijah. “Go ahead, tell her. Man, Tenley, I am so disappointed. So very disappointed.”

  Her legs jellied and she had to cling to the chair to keep from fainting, to keep from looking back at Jonas. His dark expression sank through her and she shook with repressed tears.

  Dear distant cousin Elijah produced a leather journal from a messenger bag.

  “Brené and I have lunch now and then. Last week she was bragging to me about your new novel. Because you are a foundation award winner, naturally I was curious and asked for a sneak peek.” Elijah opened the journal, setting aside loose, folded pages. “I’m going to read, if you don’t mind.”

  He was patronizing her.

  “‘July 1947. I’ve come to t
he end of myself. My health is failing. I’ve a doctor appointment this afternoon, but regardless of his medical pronouncements I shall press on, working to see this latest book to the publisher. We are titling it An October Wedding.’” Elijah closed the journal and passed Tenley a set of yellow-edged folded pages. “Read these.”

  Gripped with her anxiety, she could barely move. Keeping her gaze averted, she reached for the pages. An October Wedding. Her strength buckled and she fell against the wall.

  “Let me help you, Tenley.” Wendall took the pages and read the opening paragraph of her—rather, Gordon Phipps Roth’s—novel. “You stole his work.” Matter-of-fact. No room for debate.

  Sliding down the wall, she sat on the hardwood, her skin hot, her emotions too thin for tears.

  “I-I found the manuscript in the desk upstairs. I searched online, asked you guys if you’d heard of An October Wedding. No one had. So yeah, I took my grandfather’s story. I wanted to make it my own, but it was so good . . .” She buried her face in her hands. “I typed in every word. I only changed things that didn’t work for today’s reader.”

  The silence in the room was stifling. It was broken only by the soft click of the front door opening. Jonas was leaving. She didn’t have to see him go to know. She felt his presence slip away.

  “Well, what are we going to do?” Brené said with a heavy sigh. “I knew your book sounded like Phipps Roth. I convinced myself it was because his blood flowed through your veins. I never imagined you’d steal someone’s work. I just had marketing and promotions increase their budgets. Sales is ready to sell thousands of units into retail outlets. We’ve gone to auction on foreign rights.”

  “Don’t kill me here,” Charlie said. “But why not go with it? Phipps Roth is dead—”

  “Because she didn’t write it.” Wendall gaped at him. “If I ever find out you were in on this—”

  “He wasn’t,” Tenley said. “I promise. This was my doing.”

  Elijah folded the pages, returning them to the journal. “The family has looked for the rest of this book over the years, wanting the foundation to publish it, but never located it.”

  “Begging your pardon, Elijah, but family did find it,” Charlie said. “Family is trying to publish it.”

  She could kiss him for trying so hard.

  “Under her own name.” Elijah was incredulous. “We’re not going to let her steal GPR’s work.”

  “We’re publishing the book for the Phipps Roth 125th anniversary,” Wendall said with a direct, stern glance at Tenley. “However, we will not be publishing your next novel.”

  ELIJAH

  NOVEMBER 11, 1918

  He folded the cable, flooded with relief. The war was over. The killing. The destruction. So many young Englishmen lost. So many good sons never to return home.

  His knee had kept him from serving but not from remembering. What those boys faced . . . he knew all too well.

  He had passed this war with the old guard, recounting their Boer stories, pretending they still mattered. But they were the past, worthless to their boys in arms. All they could do was pray. And, well, wasn’t that the most ardent warfare of all?

  Across the library, Birdie sat at her desk, hammering the keys of her typewriter. He’d come to love that sound. The click-click of his darling writing stories that changed their world.

  Eli tucked the cable into his vest and crossed over to her, reading as she finished the sentence she was writing. She kept the porcelain dove sitting atop the Bible Gordon had given her on the desk’s corner.

  She glanced up at him. “Now what has you looking jolly?”

  “You, of course.” He picked up the last page she typed. “The Berkshires. Scandal and intrigue among the rich and famous. Did Gordon receive Barclay’s approval for the title?”

  “Just. That was his cable Manfred brought round this morning.”

  Eli returned the page to the pile. “Yet he’s still not told them about you.” Six novels Birdie had written for him, but his pledge to aid her publishing aspirations remained void.

  “Don’t make waves. I don’t care. Need I remind you of our accounts?”

  “Still, you work like no other woman of your station.”

  “They have children and their gossip. What do I need with it? Oh, did I tell you Consuela Churchill, Lady Marlborough, went on and on about the latest Phipps Roth book?” Birdie’s sweet chortle brightened his spirit. “She adored it.”

  “In front of you? How did you keep from bursting out?”

  “And endanger the secret? No. Besides, I rather like being the only one who knows. I still felt quite proud to hear her praise.”

  Eli’s heart filled with pride. It was her writing and his management of the funds that saved Hapsworth and restored a part of their wealth.

  He had intended to marry Rose Gottlieb for her wealth and pray he fell in love. Instead, he married for love and God brought him the wealth he needed to save the family estate.

  Birdie stacked the pages, preparing to send them to Gordon. “Do you think Mama and Mack Van Buren will recognize themselves on the pages?”

  “Surely you fictionalized their story,” Eli said.

  “Of course. I would never expose Mama, but Elise and Marcus’s story is very similar.” Drawing from real life created the best stories. “Papa still doesn’t know the truth and I pray he never will.”

  Birdie’s parents sailed over every other year for a month in the summer. July. When Birdie was not writing.

  Iris Shehorn had softened toward her daughter, especially after baby Amy died, and the two managed a cordial relationship.

  His own mother came for weeks at a time throughout the year, finding she actually missed her memories. She and Iris had become friends and July was a happy month at the manor.

  He was a blessed man. Indeed.

  “Darling, what is it?” Birdie turned, kissing him, examining his expression.

  He retrieved the cable from his coat pocket. “It’s over. The war.”

  “Eli. . .” She reached for the message, reading aloud. “Thank God, oh, thank God. Why are you just now telling me? This is wonderful news. Our boys will be coming home.”

  “It’s the best news.” He folded the cable back in his pocket. “But not all of our boys will be coming home. Only those who remain.” He turned for his chair. He’d become something of an old man lately, nearing forty, preferring slippers and a good book by the fire to a London party or a house full of dinner guests. “Too many are buried on the battlefields of France. England may never recover, Birdie.” He sat, releasing a heavy sigh. “Let this be the war that ends all wars. Having lost two babies, I cannot imagine how the parents of killed soldiers endure. Their futures gone with a single shot.”

  “So we will continue our prayers. And we will recover, love. We are England.” She came to him, perching on the arm of his chair. He settled his hand on the familiar curve of her hip.

  “We are England?” He smiled up at her. “My American darling . . . How did I deserve you?”

  “I’m the lucky one.” She stood, pacing away. “Eli, I thought I was expecting again.”

  He leaned forward, an anxious feeling in his chest. “Why do I sense a contradiction coming along?”

  “There is no contradiction,” she said with a slow smile. “I’m just past my third month.”

  “What?” Dare he believe it? “And you’re just now telling me?” He charged from his chair, taking her in his arms. “Are you sure? We’re going to have a baby?”

  “Dr. Morris believes we are past danger. So yes, Eli, we are at last going to have another baby.”

  Tears welled in his eyes and he did not blink them away. “You . . . you continually make my world right.”

  “Because I am the most loved woman I know. And you know there is no force more powerful.”

  He kissed her with the same passion he’d felt upon their very first stolen kiss. The war was over, he was to be a father, and he shared Hapsworth
with the love of his life.

  TENLEY

  When her judge and jury left, Tenley locked the door, frozen and numb, turned off the TV, and climbed the stairs.

  At the library door she gazed toward the desk, where the worn Bible and porcelain dove remained. But nothing else. Elijah had asked for the original manuscript, which she handed over.

  Elijah, along with Wendall and Brené, even Charlie, gave her a stony silence between awkward conversation and tense glances.

  Easing across the library, Tenley brushed her hand over the desk, letting her tears fall freely. “I know you know the whole story, but whatever it is, the words are hidden in your scuffed surface. And tonight wasn’t your fault. I knew better.”

  A slick of guilt covered her and she sank to the chair, the tears breaking, loneliness and fear wrapping their arms around her.

  Stupid, stupid . . . She felt the magnitude of her decision when Jonas left, the click of the door a resounding gavel. His disgust was written all over his face.

  When she’d wrung out her tears, she clicked off the Tiffany lamp and shuffled to her bedroom, exhausted.

  Slipping off her shorts and top, she reached into the bedroom closet for the robe and slippers.

  Draping herself in the red-plaid garment, she crawled into bed, tried to sleep. But in the dark, one thing became exceedingly clear.

  She was a liar and a cheat. And she was in love with Jonas Sullivan.

  Hearing Wendall fire her tonight hurt. But not nearly as much as realizing she’d done exactly what Jonas’s best friends had done to him. The fact that GPR was dead sixty years didn’t matter.

  There was nothing left to do but go home and find a new life.

  JONAS

  Wednesday morning Jonas powered on the overhead fans, their motors blending with the song on the radio. With passion and poetry Jeremy Riddle sang about a holy God.

  After popping open the mini-fridge for a water, Jonas stood in the giant doorway of his shop, facing the river. For the hundredth time today he thought of Tenley.