by Abigail Agar
“What? Are you going to have me read one of your other little stories?” he asked, feeling a sudden panic threaten him. If he was wrong…if she really had written the novel…there was going to be a problem.
“Of course not! Then you will only steal another of my ideas. No, I am going to prove to you that I wrote Eleanor,” she said, using the original title again.
How could she have known that?
“But I wrote it,” he replied, telling the lie he had not yet come out with. It was the lie he had known he would eventually have to declare.
“No, Mr. Brooks. You did not. I did. Which is how I know that Mary was originally Maureen and her mother was Irish, not Scottish. There was a love story between Maureen and the Duke of Solesby, which you removed even though it uplifts the ending,” she said.
Doyle’s heart sunk deeper. She was telling the truth. She had either read the manuscript as originally written by the author, or she was the author herself.
“Must I give you further details?” she asked.
“Please, Miss Blackwell, I believe that you must be a very passionate reader, but there is no reason to be so upset just now,” he said, hoping that he might find a way to appease her.
“I am upset. I am deeply upset. You stole my manuscript, and you are trying to pass it off as your own,” she declared.
How had this young woman, a woman clearly of some means, written a book so deep and insightful into the human condition? How was she possibly the author?
“Admit that you found the manuscript—or that you stole it. I had it with me when I was out one day and it went missing,” she said.
Doyle took a deep breath and would not make eye contact.
“Admit it!” she demanded.
“All right! I found it,” he finally confessed, shouting.
She narrowed her eyes at him, her friend crossing her arms behind her.
“I found the manuscript you so carelessly lost, and I made it better. I went through it and found a significant number of areas which needed improvement and if it were not for me, the novel would be mediocre,” he said, exaggerating how much help the work needed.
In truth, the work had needed very little work, and the changes he had made were entirely for his own preference and for the sake of removing some of the similarities to the original work. But he was not going to tell her that. Doyle had to hold to his pride and could not show Miss Blackwell that she had done well.
“You thief! You liar! What do you think you are doing with my book? How dare you try to claim it as your own when I worked so hard on it?” she asked, her voice nearly choking with emotion.
It was clear that Miss Blackwell was deeply tied to this work and a wave of guilt washed over Doyle. But it was not enough for him to back down. Not yet.
“Miss Blackwell, I have made this work my own. It was merely inspiration which I took from your original manuscript,” he lied, knowing that she would see the truth once it was published.
Whatever claims he made now, she would eventually be able to separate his fact from his fiction. But he would have the advantage. Doyle was a bookseller, and he knew literature very well. Once he published this book, no one would know the difference.
But Miss Blackwell? No one would believe that a young woman, possibly noble or maybe just rich, would be concerned about writing something like this. They would believe her more concerned with balls and parties and finding a husband. So, he was safe in the eyes of society. He would be able to get away with this.
“I do not believe you and I do not trust you. With all the money I have spent in your shop in these past few years, I am ashamed that I ever trusted Brooks Books with my literary needs. How many of those books did you steal? Do you frequently walk into other bookshops and simply take what you need to fill the gaps in your own collections?” she asked, accusing him of further theft.
“Now, that is utterly ridiculous! I have never sone such a thing,” he insisted.
“Just as I’m sure you will tell me you have never claimed another’s manuscript as your own,” she shot back.
“I have never done that,” he confirmed, defending himself.
“Well, I do not believe you. I do not trust you. I think you are a madman and a liar, and I wish that you had never laid eyes upon my work. Now that I know you have shredded it and ruined it, I am even angrier,” she told him.
“Be as angry as you wish. It changes nothing. I am a good man and I run a respectable business. Whatever other cares you have, they are not my concern. I am simply trying to keep my business running and I was inspired by your work. You ought to take it as a compliment,” he said.
“What?” she shrieked. “A compliment? You stole my work to keep your shop alive! How is that a compliment?”
Doyle had never been yelled at or confronted in this way and he was growing weary of it. He did not respond well to this sort of anger.
“Miss Blackwell, that is enough. I am sorry that you feel betrayed, or as though I have stolen your work, but you were careless with the manuscript. I found it and I was inspired. Therefore, I have written my own version of it. Enough is enough,” he said, as if that was the end of it.
But Miss Blackwell surprised him by rushing to the gate at his fence and coming into his garden. Her friend’s eyes widened as if to tell her to stop, but Miss Blackwell’s fury was inescapable.
“What are you doing?” Doyle asked in surprise.
“I am going inside to find my manuscript and take it home. I shall not allow you to hold it hostage any longer,’ she said, rushing past him.
“No, you will not! Shall I call the constable?” he threatened, momentarily dazed by the beauty of her eyes as he rushed to step in front of her to block her from his home.
“Yes. Please do,” she said. “Call the constable so I may have you arrested for your theft.”
“Who is going to believe you?” he shot back.
Miss Blackwell stretched up on her toes so she was facing him directly. Their faces were so near to one another that he smelled the sweetness of tea with sugar on her breath.
She opened her mouth to retort, but nothing came out. Defeat flooded those fiery eyes and put out the flame. She sunk back to her heels and looked down and away.
“You are a cruel man,” she said bitterly, unable to meet his gaze again.
And in that moment, when he had utterly broken her, Doyle felt terrible.
He imagined it must be difficult to be a woman with a dream of writing. No one would take her seriously. More than likely, her own family disapproved of her hobby. And he had taken her one chance at living her dream and had turned it into his own.
But Doyle needed this for his shop. Without this book, he may very well go under. He may lose everything he had worked for as London forgot his existence. He had to publish it under his own name for the sake of his fame and the crowd which it would draw.
And yet…Miss Blackwell did not need to know all of that. Not in that moment. Maybe, if he were careful, he could find a way to make her believe that he was going to be fair, that he was going to give her credit.
Of course, he did not only want to do this because he hated being yelled at. He wanted to go this route because it meant that he could spend more time with this young woman of such spirit and literary intelligence.
If he could convince her to work alongside him, they could make the book even stronger than before and it would enable him to have time to understand her better, to be around her.
Doyle could not quite place his reason for wanting that, but it was important to him that he have this opportunity. He was deeply intrigued by her. Miss Blackwell was fascinating.
“Miss Blackwell, I have a proposition,” he said.
She looked at him with cautious anger.
“I believe there is a way in which we may both get what we want. What if you and I work together on the final edits for this book? I am nearly finished, but I would certainly be open to spending a week or two making further
decisions together. Then, when I publish, I shall include your name,” he said.
Miss Blackwell gasped slightly and showed a brief moment of brightness.
“You mean that my work shall be published? With my name on the cover?” she asked.
“It shall be a joint publication. With both our names,” Doyle clarified.
Miss Blackwell looked at her friend, who was grinning widely at this wonderful opportunity. Then, she turned back to Doyle.
“I disagree that your name should have any part in it, but I am also aware that it would be difficult for me to get published on my own. For that reason, I shall agree to your proposition so long as we come to equal conclusions with the rest of the work,” she said.
“Yes, I understand. It is fine by me. We shall work together to make your novel stronger than it ever was,” he replied
“And when it is published, I should like to be there,” she said.
“Of course. You may come to the shop and speak as well on the night when it is released,” he said.
Doyle knew that his lie would come back to haunt him, but he wasn’t sure what else to do. Perhaps the scandal would make the book even more popular?
Either way, he was delighted that he was going to be able to publish this work and also spend time with Miss Blackwell.
Chapter 7
Pippa’s mother and father would be furious if they knew what she was doing. They would never forgive her for being so disobedient. If they were aware of her destination, if they knew that she intended to spend her afternoon with a bookseller, or any man they had not approved and accompanied her in seeing, she would be locked away for certain.
Fiona, of course, agreed to be her alibi. Pippa’s mother held Fiona in such high regards as a woman who was younger than Pippa and already engaged after her first season. So, whenever Pippa wanted anything, all she had to do was share that Fiona was involved and her mother would allow it.
So, Pippa headed straight for the home of Mr. Brooks with great determination, ignoring all social protocols. She knew that he would have no question regarding her purposes in coming. After all, she detested the man. She would never forgive him for what he had done to her.
He had gone so far as to make her beg for credit of her very own work, and now she wanted him to understand that she was going to claim every last word of it. No matter how difficult it would be to convince him to give her the full credit, Pippa was going to have it. Even if that meant having her name on the cover along with his and then shouting for all to hear that he had stolen the book and tried to make changes to it.
By the time Pippa arrived at the home of Mr. Brooks, she was eager to get started and to hear his opinions. Despite herself, she was curious as to his thoughts on the book. What did he like and dislike about it? What was the potential he saw in it that had led him to want to claim it as his own?
There had to be a reason for it all. There had to be something which caused Mr. Brooks to want the book to be revealed under his own name. Whatever it was, Pippa was eager to find out and to learn how she could maximize her potential. If she was capable of writing something which was so desired by others, she clearly had some kind of skill.
She knocked at his door and he answered swiftly, standing tall before her, his shaggy hair hanging over green eyes that looked at her with curiosity.
Pippa cleared her throat, waiting for him to invite her inside.
“I suspect you would like to come in and have a bit of tea first?” he asked.
“I should appreciate that a great deal,” she replied.
“Very well, then. Come in,” he said.
When she stepped inside, Pippa was astonished. Every wall she could see was lined with shelves full of books. Books in the entryway, books in the parlour, and in the hall. She wondered if there was a room that did not have walls to fill with tomes.
“Welcome to my home,” he said.
“Your home? It is not a home, but a library,” she mused.
Mr. Brooks grinned and nodded.
“That is rather my goal. You see, I have long hoped to turn my home into something of a refuge for old books. There are many who come by and ask to borrow volumes. If they never return them, I simply allow for that. But most do,” he said.
“Most people bring them back?” she asked.
“Certainly. And I very much appreciate that. You see, my mother and father had a great deal of books, which I have collected. My aunt’s husband passed away and she gave me his collection. A minister I once knew gave me a great deal from his selection as well. In all, I have gathered books from twelve different men and women who were willing to donate their volumes to me,” he said.
“It is remarkable. How generous they were!” Pippa exclaimed.
She noted the way Mr. Brooks smiled proudly. There was something very handsome in his smile and her stomach did an irritating flip, which only served to frustrate her.
“Now, have a seat. I am going to get the tea and you must relax for a moment,” he said.
“Wait.”
He paused and looked inquisitively at her.
“My manuscript. I would like to see what you have done with it while you are making the tea. I want to see the changes,” she said.
He looked a little bit nervous and sighed.
“All right, but you should know that I may have exaggerated what I said before. I did not necessarily write it from scratch with only inspiration from your book. I did, indeed, use quite a lot of what you had already written.”
“I suspected as much,” she replied with a grimace.
“I did not mean to upset you. You ought to be flattered, honestly. Think about it. A man such as I am not likely to respond to work from a young woman. I know literature and if I approve of something, it must be very good."
Pippa looked him dead in the eye and cocked her head a little to the right.
“You know what else I have noticed about you?” she asked calmly and without a hint of disapproval.
“What?” he asked, as if expecting a compliment.
“I have noticed that your ego is very nearly as large as your need for control,” she replied, pursing her lips.
Mr. Brooks’ face fell, and he narrowed his eyes at her somewhat before taking a deep breath and nodding toward the settee.
“Please have a seat. I am going to prepare the tea,” he said.
“As you wish, Mr. Brooks. I shall do whatever you say, of course. Anything for a literary genius such as yourself,” she replied with the smug sarcasm she expected to use quite a bit over the next few weeks while working with him.
He paused at the door but did not turn to look at her. Within only a moment, he proceeded onward, and Pippa was left to her own devices in the parlour.
She stood and went to one of the walls filled with books, scanning through the volumes and seeing a great number of tremendous works. She found three of her favourites just on one wall.
And then she saw a book whose author was William Doyle Brooks.
Pippa pulled out the book and took a closer look at it, surprised by the fact that Mr. Brooks must be named after this man or be a descendant of his. As she read through the first brilliant page, Mr. Brooks came through the door and paused.
