by Beth Byers
“I’ll go up to London tomorrow. He wants to see me in the afternoon, but he states very clearly he wants the book. We’re saved.”
“Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Miss Georgie.”
“By Jove, we aren’t just saved from a lack of cream, Eunice. We’re saved from goats! We’re saved my dear. Have a seat and enjoy a cuppa yourself.”
Eunice clucked and returned to the kitchen instead. They might be saved, but the drawing room still needed to be done, dinner still needed to be started, and the laundry and mending were waiting for no woman.
When Miss Marsh made her way into London the following day, she was wearing her old cloche, which was quite dingy but the best she had, a coat that was worn at the cuffs and the hem, and shoes that were just starting to have a hole worn into the bottom. Perhaps, she thought, there would even be enough to re-sole her shoes.
On the train into London from Bard’s Crook, only Mr. Thornton was taking the train from the village. When he inquired after her business, she quite shocked herself when she made up a story about meeting an old Scottish school chum for tea. Mr. Thornton admitted he intended to meet with his lawyer. He was rather notorious in Bard’s Crook for changing his will as often as the wind changed direction. An event he always announced with an air of doom and a frantic waggling of his eyebrows.
Mr. Thornton had married a woman from the factories who refused to acknowledge her past, and together they had three children. Those children—now adults—included two rebellious sons and one clinging daughter. He also had quite a slew of righteous nephews who deserved the acclaim they received. Whenever his wife bullied him too hard or his sons rebelled too overtly, the will altered in favor of the righteous nephews until such time as an appropriate repentance could be made.
Georgie had long since taken to watching the flip-flopping of the will with a delighted air. As far as she could tell, no one but herself enjoyed the changing of his will, but enjoying things that others didn’t seem to notice had long been her fate.
The fortunate news of the inheritance situation was that Mr. Thornton’s nephews were unaware of the changing of their fortunes. The clinging daughter’s fortune was set in stone. She never rebelled and thus never had her fortunes reversed, but she clung rather too fiercely to be a favored inheritor.
Mr. Thornton handed Miss Marsh down from the train, offered to share a black cab, and then left her without regret when she made a weak excuse. Miss Marsh selected her own black cab, cutting into her ready money dreadfully, and hoped that whatever occurred today would restore her cash in hand.
CHARLES AARON
“Mr. Aaron,” Schmidt said, “your afternoon appointment has arrived.”
“Wonderful,” Charles replied. “Send him in with tea, will you Schmidtty?”
“Her, sir.”
“Her? Isn’t my appointment with an author?” Charles felt a flash of irritation. He was very much looking forward to meeting the author of The Chronicles of Harper’s Bend. He had, in fact, read the book twice more since that first time.
Schmidt’s lips twitched when he said, “It seems the author is a Miss Marsh.”
Charles thought over the book and realized that of course Mr. Jones was a Miss Marsh. Who but a woman would realize the fierce shame of bribing one’s children with candies to behave for church? Charles could almost hear the tirade of his grandmother about the lack of mothering skills in the upcoming generations.
“Well, send her in, and tea as well.” Charles rubbed his hands together in glee. He did adore meeting new writers. They were never what you expected, but they all had one thing in common. Behind their dull or beautiful faces, behind their polite smiles and small talk, there were whole worlds. Characters with secrets that only the writer knew. Unnecessary histories that were cut viciously from the story and hidden away only to be known by the author.
Charles rather enjoyed asking the writers random questions about their characters’ secret histories. Tell me, author, Charles would say, as they shared a cup of tea or a pipe, what does so-and-so do on Christmas morning? Or what is his/her favorite color? He loved when they answered readily, knowing that of course so-and-so woke early on Christmas morning, opened presents and had a rather spectacular full English only to sleep it off on the Chesterfield near the fire.
He loved it when they described what they ate down to the nearest detail as though the character’s traditional breakfast had been made since time immemorial rather than born with a pen and hidden behind the gaze of the person with whom Charles was sharing an hour or two.
Charles had long since become inured to the varying attitudes of authors. Thomas Spencer, who had given Charles a rather terrible headache that had been cured by Miss Marsh’s delightful book, wore dandified clothes and had an arrogant air. Spencer felt the cleverness of his books justified his rudeness.
On the other hand, an even more brilliant writer, Henry Moore, was a little man with a large stomach. He kept a half-dozen cats, spoiled his children terribly, and was utterly devoted to his wife. In a gathering of authors, Moore would be the most successful and the cleverest by far but be overshadowed by every other writer in attendance.
Miss Marsh, Charles saw, fell into the ‘Moore’ category. She seemed as timid as a newborn rabbit as she edged into his office. Her gaze flit about, taking in the stack of manuscripts, the shelf of books he’d published over the course of his career, the windows that looked onto a dingy alleyway, and the large wooden desk.
She was, he thought, a dowdy little thing. Her eyes were nice enough, but they barely met his own, and she didn’t seem to know quite what to say. Her freckles seemed to be rather spectacular—if one liked freckles—but it was hard to anything with her timid movements. Especially with her face barely meeting his own. That was all right, he thought, he’d done this many times, and she was very new to the selling of a book and the signing of contracts.
“Hello,” he said rather cheerily, hoping that his tone would set her at ease.
She glanced up at him and then back down, her gaze darting around his office again. Mr. Aaron wondered just what she was seeing amidst all of his things. He wouldn’t be surprised to find she was noting things that the average fellow would overlook.
“Would you like tea?”
Miss Marsh nodded, and he poured her a cup to which she added a hefty amount of cream and sugar. He grinned at the sight of her milky tea and then leaned back as she slowly spun her teacup on the saucer.
“Why Joseph Jones? Why a pen name at all?”
Miss Marsh blinked rather rapidly and then admitted, “Well…” Her gaze darted to the side, and she said, “I was rather inspired by my neighbors, but I would prefer to avoid their gossip as well. Can you imagine?” A cheeky grin crossed her face for a moment, and he was entranced. “If they discovered that Antoinette Moore wrote a book?”
“Is that you?”
“Pieces of her,” she admitted, and he frowned. The quiet woman in front of him certainly had the mannerisms of the character, but he couldn’t quite see Miss Moore writing a book and sending it off. She was such an innocuous, almost unnecessary character in the book.
Was Miss Marsh was a literary portraitist? He grinned at the idea and wanted nothing more than to visit Harper’s Bend or wherever it was that this realistic portrayal existed in real life. What he would give to have an afternoon tea with the likes of Mrs. Morton and her ilk.
Mr. Aaron glanced over Miss Marsh. Her old cloche and worn coat were not lost on him, and he supposed if he’d met her anywhere else he’d never have looked at her twice. Having read her book, however, he suddenly felt as though she were far more charming than she’d otherwise have been.
Her gaze, with ordinary medium brown eyes, seemed to have untold depths, and her freckles seemed to be an outward indicator of a woman who could look at her village and turn it into a witty caricature, acting as a warning that this was a woman who said nothing and noticed everything.
He grinned
at her. “I read your book, and I liked it.”
Her eyes flashed and a bright grin crossed her face, and he realized she was a little prettier than he’d noticed. It was that shocked delight on her face that made him add, “I like it quite well indeed.”
Miss Marsh clasped her hands tightly together, and Mr. Aaron did not miss how her grip camouflaged the trembling of her hands.
“Tell me about it,” he said kindly. “Why did you write it? This is a portrait of your neighbors?”
It was the kindness that got Miss Marsh to open up, and then she couldn’t seem to stem the tide of her thoughts; they sped out. “Well, it was my dividends you see. They’ve quite dried up. I was struggling before, but they’d always come in and then they didn’t, and I was quite—” Miss Marsh trailed off and Mr. Aaron could imagine the situation all too easily. “at my wit’s end. Only then I thought of Louisa May Alcott and the other lady writers, and I thought I might as well try as not.”
The world was struggling and Miss Marsh, who may have escaped the early failing of things, had eventually succumbed as so many had. As she said, her dividends had dried up. He could imagine her lying awake worried and uncertain or perhaps pacing her home. There was something so unpretentious about her revelation that Mr. Aaron was even more charmed. She’d come to the end of things, and she’d turned that worry into the most charming of stories. Not just a charming story, but one filled with heart and delight in the little things. He liked her all the better for it.
Also By Beth Byers
The Violet Carlyle Cozy Historical Mysteries
Murder & the Heir
Murder at Kennington House
Murder at the Folly
A Merry Little Murder
New Year’s Madness: A Short Story Anthology
Valentine’s Madness: A Short Story Anthology
Murder Among the Roses
Murder in the Shallows
Gin & Murder
Obsidian Murder
Murder at the Ladies Club
Weddings Vows & Murder
A Jazzy Little Murder
Murder by Chocolate
A Friendly Little Murder
Murder by the Sea
The Poison Ink Mysteries
Death by the Book
Death Witnessed
Death by Blackmail
Death Misconstrued
Deathly Ever After
The 2nd Chance Diner Mysteries
Spaghetti, Meatballs, & Murder
Cookies & Catastrophe
Poison & Pie
Double Mocha Murder
Cinnamon Rolls & Cyanide
Tea & Temptation
Donuts & Danger
Scones & Scandal
Lemonade & Loathing
Wedding Cake & Woe
Honeymoons & Honeydew
The Pumpkin Problem
Also By Amanda A. Allen
The Mystic Cove Mommy Mysteries
Bedtimes & Broomsticks
Runes & Roller Skates
Banshees and Babysitters
Hobgoblins and Homework
Christmas and Curses
Valentines & Valkyries
The Rue Hallow Mysteries
Hallow Graves
Hungry Graves
Lonely Graves
Sisters and Graves
Yule Graves
Fated Graves
Ruby Graves
The Inept Witches Mysteries
(co-written with Auburn Seal)
Inconvenient Murder
Moonlight Murder
Bewitched Murder
Presidium Vignettes (with Rue Hallow)
Prague Murder
Paris Murder
Murder By Degrees
Copyright © 2019 by Amanda Allen, Beth Byers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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