by Abigail Agar
Yet, it was being wealthy which meant she had time to write as opposed to having to find a position working somewhere.
What a strange irony!
Suddenly, Pippa’s mind flooded with ideas for a novel about two opposing characters from different stations and how they intersected.
Yes, she was born to tell stories. She just had to convince her mother of that.
Chapter 2
It was positively amazing. Doyle could hardly believe the beauty of the manuscript he had found when he was out on his walk that morning. It was a work of genius. Whomever the author was, he had done his duty well. The intricacies of the characters were exquisite.
He scratched at the stubble along his jaw as he read the words before him. There was something so poignant about the storyline, but it also held potential for even greater depth.
If there was anyone who knew what made for a good book, it was Doyle Brooks. As the owner of Brooks Books, he had read his fair share of works and knew what sold well and what didn’t.
This manuscript would certainly sell.
Then again, lately there were not many books selling at all out of Brooks Books. The shop was facing a great hardship. There were those who told him that it was because reading was becoming less important in a society more obsessed with image than intelligence, but there were others who told Doyle that it was his own fault.
They claimed that he was not the right sort of man to run a shop in London. He was too scraggly with his shaggy, sand-coloured hair, which he kept unfashionably loose. He wore the sort of suits which were fit for a man twice his age. In general, he did not have the right comportment for running a shop.
For that reason, and because of his own dislike of having to interact with the general population, Doyle had hired George Sinclair to run the shop for him. Doyle was able to spend his time however he wanted, be it gardening or going for walks.
George was a very charismatic young man and had all the right appearances. He was the sort who could draw people into the shop and had done his best, but the shop still needed to see a better income if Doyle were going to manage to pay George.
Perhaps a manuscript like this could do just that?
A knock at the door startled Doyle out of his intent reading and he stood and went to open the it. There stood James, his brother-in-law and dearest friend.
“Ah, you have come. Is it already so late in the day?” Doyle asked.
“It certainly is. Did you lose track of time again?” James questioned.
“Forgive me, I was busy,” Doyle said, making his way into the kitchen to make tea while James followed behind.
“Reading, I assume?” James asked.
“Yes, yes,” he nodded, filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove.
“Well, don’t worry about me. I am patient,” James reasoned.
“Of course you are; you married Clarissa, and any man would have to be patient with my sister as his wife,” Doyle teased.
“The only patience I need now is in counting down the days until she returns. I do miss her a great deal,” James said.
“Then she is fortunate, because I would not,” Doyle chuckled still in jest.
“So, what were you reading? Anything good?” James asked.
Doyle sighed and smiled as he turned to James. H leaned against the wall beside the woodstove as his friend sat on a chair at the table.
“It is, actually. I never expected to find something so good.”
“What is it?” James asked.
“Excellent question. I only just discovered it, but I shall give you more information as I have it,” Doyle said vaguely. In truth, Doyle was forming an idea and he wasn’t quite ready to share it with James yet.
“All right, then. Anyway, how is the shop?” James asked, brushing past it.
“Oh, you know. Same as usual. Not enough customers and too many bills,” Doyle replied.
“How are you going to continue if this doesn’t change? I should hate to see you have to close down,” James said.
“As would I. But what I really need is to boost the shop by adding something. A new addition to our offerings.”
“Such as?”
“Well, we have very little in the way of fiction. I would like to change that. I think fiction is the wave of the future. I know that it has long been looked down upon, but I do believe there is not only a market for it, but literary value to it,” Doyle explained.
“Certainly. I cannot see why not. And there shall always be readers who are seeking to explore something new, correct?” James asked.
“Precisely,” Doyle nodded.
“Well, it sounds to me like you know how you want to solve the matter at hand. How are you planning to proceed?”
“What I need is just the right book to show off; something to open the gateway to our new assortment of fiction works.”
“Have you purchased new works? And have you found the right one to display?” James questioned.
“I have not yet acquired all those which I intend to sell, but…but I may have just found the right book to use as a means of opening the door,” Doyle said.
“Excellent! Well, that is all very good for you. You are going to see success yet, I am sure of it. Besides, who could possibly turn away from your shop when you have such a reasonable business? Your prices are no worse than any other and you now have that obnoxiously handsome young man to lure in the young women,” James chuckled.
Doyle laughed and pulled the kettle from the stove as it began to whistle.
“Yes, George is rather a frustrating reminder of our missing youth, is he not?” Doyle asked.
“Precisely. I do wish that I could have had half his good looks when I was a young man,” James said.
“You are still a young man, James,” Doyle replied, noting that James was just thirty years of age to Doyle’s thirty-one.
“Regardless, I should very much like to ensure that your sister never sees him,” James said with a laugh.
“You have had Clarissa’s heart since we were children. I think you are secure.”
“I suppose so. Anyway, tell me about this novel,” James said.
Doyle was still cautious, not knowing how much he should share.
“It is…it is, as yet, unpublished. In fact…” he stumbled through how to say what he was planning and wondered just how much he could say without confessing to his diabolical scheme.
“Yes? What is it? You are behaving so strangely,” James commented.
“I know. Forgive me. I just have a lot of thoughts. You see, I have some work to do with the manuscript. I have quite a bit of editing and revising.”
“You are publishing something which you have written?” James asked in astonishment.
“Well…” he trailed off.
Thus far, he had not lied. He never claimed to have written the manuscript, only said that he was going to edit and revise parts of it, which was true.
“I am going to publish it,” he confirmed, which was also true. There was no need for Doyle to share that the rest of the novel had not been written by him but had been abandoned by some foolish man on a trail by the river.
“That is so exciting! I should very much like to read it. When will it be ready?” James asked.
“Oh, I have not decided just yet. I do hope that it shall be published within the next three months,” he said, trying to think about how many edits he needed to do prior to having the book printed. In truth, he may be able to finish it sooner if he worked hard enough.
Then again, Doyle had not yet finished reading the book. He may end up needing to make significant changes to the ending, after all. But he fully intended to finish reading it within the next two days. After that, he would have a better idea as to when it would be ready to appear in the bookshop.
“When did you begin writing it?” James asked.
“Oh…well, you know, it is difficult to put an exact date on it,” he answered with a nervous laugh.
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“Of course, I understand. When you have such a project, it must be hard to keep track of such things. I do hope that you are able to publish it very soon, as I would truly love to read it. Oh, I am so proud to have a brother-in-law who is not only the owner of a bookstore, but the author of a book as well!” James exclaimed.
Doyle was entirely uncertain as to what he could say in reply. It was overwhelming to get himself caught up in this lie and not know where he should go next with it. After all, if he had not made up this tale about being the author of the book, or rather allowing James to think that was the situation, he wouldn’t have to worry.
But Doyle realised that this was going to continue for the foreseeable future. He would have to continue his lies if he had any intention of publishing the book as he intended to.
He would have to lie to his customers, to his friends, and his family. He would have to fool the entirety of London into thinking that he had been the author from the start.
And if the man who actually wrote the book ever confronted him? Well, Doyle would have to convince him as well. He was going to need to make changes, but just enough to shift parts of the book. Perhaps the names of the main characters, as well as removing the budding love story and shifting the perspective, which was currently being told by the young woman who was the lead character?
If he made these adjustments, perhaps he really could put the work out there as his own? There were a great many tasks ahead in order to do that, but Doyle was confident that he was more than able to take it on.
He would just have to be patient and be bold, and if this book did bring his shop back into a position in which it was viewed with respect and dignity, all the better. He would manage to afford to maintain his life as it was, as well as continue to pay George’s salary.
He could even repair the back window, which was beginning to show a separation between the glass and the wall, letting in a draft. In a bookstore, he could not give way for damp to cause mold. He would lose everything.
Yes, this book was going to be the key to having everything he wanted for his shop and for his life. He only needed to find a way to make everything come together exactly as he wanted.
“Doyle?” James asked, breaking him from his thoughts.
“Hmm?” he murmured in reply.
“I was just asking what happens in the story and how the novel ends?”
That was something Doyle still did not know the answer to. Until he figured it out for himself, he certainly could not share it with James.
“Well, the beauty of a good book is that the reader does not want the author to spoil the ending. You shall read it for yourself in due time.”
“I suppose that in due time, all of London shall be reading it,” James replied with enthusiasm.
Doyle was hoping that it would be all of England, because this book, with or without his hand, was a glorious work and it needed to be published.
By him.
Chapter 3
Depressed about everything that had taken place of late, Pippa was relieved when Fiona suggested that they go to the bookshop for a while.
“You are a genius, Fiona,” she said.
“Not a genius. It is only that I know you so well,” Fiona replied, her eyes bright and eager.
“That you do. But I mean it. You are a great genius because you know that this is the very thing which will cheer me up. Oh, if I cannot have my manuscript back, this will at least help me to find inspiration to find something else which I may focus my attentions on,” Pippa said.
“That was my thought, precisely. However, I also thought that you may need a break. What is it you always say? Something about a writer only being as good as the last book they have read?” Fiona asked.
“Exactly. I must find my inspiration, Fiona. I cannot come up with all of these ideas without feeding into my love for books.”
Since losing her manuscript, she had felt utterly blank, at a loss for what to do. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore and she needed to get her thoughts back on paper. She needed plots and storylines in her head. She needed characters to learn about and grow into real people.
But none of that was possible without inspiration, and inspiration had to be nurtured.
So as Pippa and Fiona reached the lane on the edge of town where the bookshop was, she felt a spark in her heart, reminding her that this was precisely where she belonged.
They went inside, where there was a little bell at the door to alert the shop keep that customers had arrived. Out came George Sinclair to greet them.
He flashed a smile with perfectly straight teeth and a cleft in his chin. He was broad and had quite a bit of charm and charisma. Pippa had certainly heard rumours that there were young women around town who came to the shop for no other purpose than to see George.
“Oh, is it my favourite customer again?” George asked upon seeing Pippa.
“Favourite?” Fiona remarked teasingly, looking at Pippa and raising her eyebrows.
Pippa blushed slightly under the attention. She had no real interest in George and found him to be much the same as most other men in town, but it was still strange to receive such a comment and she did not entirely dislike it.
“Of course she is my favourite. Miss Blackwell never leaves here without making a purchase. She is the best kind of customer for a shop like Brooks Books,” he explained.
“And does Mr. Brooks agree with that assessment?” Fiona asked.
“He has never had the pleasure of meeting Miss Blackwell, to my knowledge,” George said, still smiling at Pippa even though he was answering Fiona.
“Well, I should like to thank him for having such a fine establishment, even if he has no idea who I am,” Pippa finally reasoned.
“I shall be sure to pass along the sentiment. Now, what may I assist you ladies with today?” George asked.
“I am hoping to find something new in your…forgive me, but may I use the word ‘paltry’ to describe your fiction section?” Pippa questioned.
George winced.
“It is a painful description, but I fear that it is also accurate. Such a shame that you are in the mood for fiction so often when we have a far greater selection of non-fiction,” he said.
“I know, and I do love so many other offerings which you have, but I am in need of something which will inspire creativity today,” she replied, feeling the weight of her sadness all over again.
“It is all right, Pippa. You will be able to rewrite it,” Fiona said to her.
“I could never do it justice,” Pippa sighed, shaking her head.
“Then you shall write something new and better,” Fiona insisted.
“Has something happened?” George asked.
“Oh, it is nothing,” Pippa replied, shaking her head. “Anyway, I should like to take a look at the fiction even if there is not much on display.”
“Very well, please come and have a look,” he replied.
Pippa went over to have a look at the books and George returned to his place near the front by the desk. Fiona drew near and spoke in a low voice.
