Enchanted by a Lady's Talent: A Historical Regency Romance Book

by Abigail Agar

  Doyle unsealed the letter and read through it, missing his sister deeply.

  My Dearest Brother,

  We are missing you here with Aunt Mildred. The children, as well, miss you dearly. It is bright and refreshing out here and the weather has held quite nicely since the first day when I wrote to you of the rains.

  Aunt Mildred, of course, would like to know when you are going to marry and bring her a wife. She says that two grandchildren are not enough, and she needs some from you as well. I have, of course, told her that she must be patient and allow for you to find the right woman before you say the word on a wedding.

  However, you know our aunt. When she insists upon something, she often gets her way. Be warned.

  Beyond that, I wished to write to you considering the news I received from James.

  Why have you not told me that you were working on a book which you intend to publish? I wish that I had known about it, for I am eager to read it and would have loved to do so on my journey to and from here. Even if it had not been completed, I would have read it.

  I am very excited to learn more about it. I hope that you are aware that it must be finished soon so that I will stop bothering you on the matter. Until then, you must prepare for my pestering as I am a single-minded creature, as you well know.

  We are going to be here for another month, most likely, although that is always subject to change. I do miss my darling James, so you must take good care of him while I am gone. Be sure that he is looking after himself without us. I should hate to return home to find his hair as scraggly as yours.

  Remember what Father always used to say?

  A man without a family is a man without a critic.

  Let me be your critic, Doyle. Cut that hair or, at the very least, style it the way other men do. I expect to see you improved upon my return.

  Fear not. I do not expect it at all, for I know my brother well.

  Your Loving Sister,

  Clarissa Swanson

  Doyle grinned to himself and folded the letter back up. His sister’s sarcasm and wit were always entertaining to him, even in her letters. He wanted to bring some of her dry humour into the novel as he worked to revise it.

  There would have to be a character like her. That was the element which was still missing. Something light amidst the heaviness of the storyline.

  With renewed determination, Doyle did not go to sleep, but rather got up and returned to work on the book. It was becoming an obsession, but he had no desire to tame it.

  Chapter 5

  It was a new day and Pippa was thankful for the hope of that. She had been working on this manuscript for two weeks, eager to complete a new one as a way to recover from the pain of losing her other one.

  She was exhausted and needed a break. There was very little she could do to occupy her thoughts if she did not try to focus on something else, and she decided that the very thing she needed was further inspiration through a book.

  Pippa rushed to dress and ready herself to go out. She knew that her mother would ask where she was going, but Pippa silently thanked her circumstances that society did not deem her valuable enough to require a chaperone. As a teller of stories, she could come up with a good one for her mother.

  She made her way down the stairs and found her mother seated, as usual, in the drawing room.

  “Pippa, darling, take a seat. I thought we could discuss the Frampton ball and whom you must present yourself to now that my hopes have been dashed by every other man choosing women worth half of you,” her mother said, grimacing.

  Pippa refrained from sharing her terse reply and instead sat beside her mother for a moment, thinking she could get what she wanted if she only appeased her mother with this one thing.

  “Yes, Mother, certainly. And then I must discuss another matter with you, but you must go first,” she said.

  “Very well. I thought Lord Darby may be a good choice? He is a little bit older, I know, but there is nothing wrong in that,” her mother suggested.

  Pippa tried not to react other than to blink a few times against the suggestion. While she had no qualms with marrying an older man, Lord Darby was easily in his early fifties. She could not imagine marrying someone who was so much older.

  “Mother, I fear I do not understand the reasoning for this,” she confessed with caution.

  “Oh, I know, Pippa. But he is wealthy, titled, and he is handsome enough, is he not?” her mother asked.

  In truth, he was all those things, but he was terribly boring and was good friends with Pippa’s father, as they were close to the same age. The idea of it made Pippa uncomfortable.

  “Mother, I do not care for him in such a light. I think I would make a dreadful wife for Lord Darby,” she said.

  Her mother sighed.

  “Then I shall just have to keep thinking. There must be someone, Pippa. You cannot spend your days dallying about when there are husbands to be had. All of the noblemen who might consider you are being swept up by other young ladies and you need to act quickly,” her mother warned.

  “But I do not love any of them,” Pippa said.

  “You do not know them all, my dear. You have not taken the time to get to know them. And if you do not accept a match soon, your father is eventually going to make one for you, whether you like it or not,” her mother replied, this threat striking far more severely than the first.

  It was an awful thing to consider that her father might choose a husband for her, and Pippa understood the importance of avoiding that at all costs.

  “Now, what was it you wished to discuss with me?” her mother asked.

  Trying to snap out of her concern, Pippa swallowed and turned to her mother.

  “Fiona had requested that I accompany her into town today to have tea at her mother’s lady’s society. She is allowed to bring one guest,” Pippa said.

  Her mother’s eyes brightened with excitement.

  “Oh! Yes! You must go. There are likely to be duchesses and the like, women who have sons and will want to introduce them to you. You must make yourself look better than this, Pippa. You must get ready and go. This could be just the thing you need,” her mother grinned.

  Pippa felt bad using her mother’s earnestness for her own purposes, but this was the only way she was going to be able to go to the bookshop without her mother complaining about her hobby.

  After a short while, Pippa departed, letting her mother think that it was for the purpose of finding a noble husband. Instead, she was excited to search for another work, potentially something from the history section this time, or even politics, in order that she might have a character in her next novel who was an advisor to the king.

  Pippa rounded the corner and headed straight to the bookshop but stopped dead before entering.

  An orphaned woman. Her sickly aunt. The cruel history which divides them.

  A story of prejudice, bitterness, and the power of redemption.

  Eliza by Doyle Brooks, coming August 12th

  The poster was large enough to capture the attention not only of those entering the bookshop, but of any and all who passed by. Although it was possible that these details were the only thing which connected this novel to her manuscript, Pippa was determined to see if there was something more sinister at work.

  With fury and determination, she burst through the door of the shop, ignoring the way the bell angrily rang to announce her presence.

  “Ah, Miss Blackwell—”

  “Enough, Mr. Sinclair. What is this nonsense on that poster?” she asked, unable to contain her rage.

  “The poster?” he asked.

  “The book which is being advertised. What is it really about? Tell me at once,” she ordered him.

  George was clearly frightened, and he leaned back away from her behind the desk.

  “It is a novel written by the shop owner. He told me about it two or three weeks ago. It is about a young woman who is orphaned and goes to live with her aunt, but her aunt dislikes her b
ecause the young woman’s mother was Scottish and the aunt dislikes the Scottish and was angry at her brother for his choice of wife,” he said.

  Scottish? In Pippa’s novel, the mother was Irish. Still, even this small detail and the difference in the woman’s name in the title were very similar. Eliza versus Eleanor. Scottish versus Irish.

  “And?” she demanded.

  “And then, years later, the aunt is gravely ill and the young woman, Mary, must come to care for her,” he said.

  Mary? In her book, it had been Maureen.

  “Is there a love story?” she asked.

  George still eyed her with anxiety.

  “There had been at first, but after much thought, Mr. Brooks decided to remove it. He said he had been trying to cater to the romantics by having it in there, but now he was not comfortable including something which was not—to him—an important part of the story,” George said.

  He’d removed the love story? But that was the heroine’s happy ending! The novel would end on such a dark note without that. How was he planning to bring any joy into the novel? Did he want it to be miserable?

  “This is outrageous!” she yelled, causing George to shrink back even further.

  “Miss Blackwell, what are you so upset about?” he asked.

  “I am upset because this is my lost manuscript. He changed the names and a couple of details and removed the entire sweeping romance, but that is still my book. I cannot believe this! What a madman he must be!” she shouted.

  “I’m sure I do not know what you are talking about. You mean to claim this work as your own, Miss Blackwell? I have read it. It would take a very skilled writer to have written this,” he said.

  Pippa shot him a dark expression and George stopped speaking at once. She seethed, feeling the heat ride up under her skin and her heart pound fast and angry.

  “Where can I find Mr. Brooks?” she asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” George asked.

  “It is very simple, Mr. Sinclair. Mr. Brooks. Where is he? How may I find him?” she demanded again.

  “I suspect he is at his home,” George said.

  “And where does he call home?” she pushed.

  “Miss Blackwell, I cannot give you that sort of information. I am sure this is all just a misunderstanding. Mr. Brooks will be terribly upset when he finds out that his book is so like your own. I trust that this will all be worked out,” George said.

  “No! Your Mr. Brooks is a liar and a thief, and I want my book back. Now tell me where he is,” she demanded.

  George released a breath that conveyed his stress and torn loyalties.

  “Miss Blackwell—”

  “I want to hear nothing aside from his location, Mr. Sinclair. It is the only way in which this will be cleared up. If you do not send me to his home, I shall stand here until he comes to the shop, even if that is days from now. I shall tell every customer who enters that Mr. Brooks is a criminal who needs to be locked up,” she warned, a growl underlying her words.

  At last, she saw something give way in George’s expression. He nodded in understanding.

  “He lives in Amshire, just past the Witby Inn. It is a small, but lovely, cottage,” he told her.

  “Thank you, George. That was all I needed from you. Now, I will go and clear all of this up and, if you are correct, there shall be nothing more to worry about,” she said.

  But Pippa knew deep down that there would be no peace in this matter until her name was on the cover of that book and her original storyline was restored. Anything which Mr. Brooks was doing to try and take the credit was a false and villainous act. She could think of nothing but getting her justice against him.

  Pippa made her way to Fiona’s home, eagerly enlisting her friend to join her.

  “No! It isn’t possible. You think he actually did this?” Fiona asked.

  “I am certain of it. There is not a doubt in my mind that he stole my manuscript and simply changed a few details,” she said.

  “Then you are correct. We must go and confront him at once. There is nothing so awful as what he has done,” Fiona said.

  “Thank you for being willing to come with me. I must apologise, for I told my mother that I was going to the lady’s society with you and your mother.”

  Fiona laughed.

  “That is always a grand excuse and you may use it at any time. Perhaps we ought to stop on the way just to ensure that we actually did visit, and my mother will give nothing away if your mother mentions it,” Fiona suggested.

  As desperate as Pippa was to deal with the matter of her book, she knew that Fiona was correct, and they quickly popped by the lady’s society just to make an appearance before telling Fiona’s mother that they were tired and intended to return to their estate to relax for a while.

  From there, they rushed to Amshire where Pippa searched high and low until she spotted the Witby Inn.

  “There is the inn!” she exclaimed.

  As they drew near, she saw the cottage just beyond the inn. It was a charming home with a lovely garden. And there, in the middle of the garden, pulling up weeds, was the handsome, unkempt man she had seen coming into the store just a couple of weeks before.

  Pippa looked at Fiona, who gave her a nod to confirm that she was ready to move forward. This was it. Pippa had never confronted a man like this before.

  But she needed her justice.

  Chapter 6

  “Mr. Brooks!” came the shout in a rather unpleasant tone.

  Doyle’s head shot up to see the shocking surprise of the beautiful young woman he had seen at the shop just a couple of weeks before. She was followed by the same friend that had been with her.

  They both looked furious.

  “I beg your pardon, are you looking for me?” he asked.

  “I believe I am. You are Mr. Brooks? Of Brooks Books?” the young lady asked.

  “Yes, I am,” he replied.

  “I am Pippa Blackwell, author of Eleanor, a novel about an orphaned woman, her sickly aunt, and prejudice, bitterness, and redemption. I demand justice,” she said, stamping a foot once she was just at the other side of his fence.

  Doyle froze. It wasn’t possible. What was Miss Blackwell thinking? Now she was going to claim the book as her own? What sort of madness was this? Who was the true author if both Doyle and this young lady were claiming to be?

  And what possessed Miss Blackwell to make this obtuse declaration?

  “Miss Blackwell,” he began, trying not to show his amusement, “I believe you are quite mistaken. Mr. Sinclair has told me that you write stories, but this is a true novel. Not some little trifling that a young woman might put together to amuse herself. My novel is a literary masterpiece.”

  Miss Blackwell’s jaw hung loose in shock.

  “How dare you insult me in such a way? Are you denying that there have been females who have authored masterpieces? I am more than capable of writing an exquisite piece of fiction, Mr. Brooks. And I can prove it to you. I shall prove it to you,” she declared.