by Abigail Agar
“You are reading that?” he asked.
“I was curious. I hope you do not mind,” she said.
“N-no. Not at all,” he replied, although he was still hesitant.
“Is he a relation of yours?” Pippa asked.
“Indeed, he is. My grandfather,” he answered.
“The first page is beautiful. Is the whole novel so well-crafted?” Pippa asked.
“I like to think so,” he replied. “You may borrow it.”
This surprised her, but she looked at him with wide eyes for confirmation.
“Really?” she asked.
“Indeed, you may. Perhaps it will help with your own writing,” Mr. Brooks said.
“My writing is perfectly fine, thank you very much,” Pippa shot back.
He smirked and shrugged.
“Very well, then. I suppose that means we shall have very little to do here. Now, have a seat. Let us take a look at the book,” he said, placing the tea on the table.
Pippa joined him and they had a look through the pages he’d brought.
“Now, you are obviously aware of some of the edits which I have made. I do believe these are rather important for the sake of the story,” Mr. Brooks said.
“And I disagree. My book was perfectly fine before your edits. We must return it back to what it was,” she said.
“Miss Blackwell, why are you being so stubborn? There is nothing wrong with needing a bit of assistance. The best of authors need help from time to time,” Mr. Brooks said.
“But I do not. You have made edits which take away from my work. I am not pleased with how you have tried to make these changes,” she said.
“Which ones in particular?” Mr. Brooks asked.
“First of all, the names. You only changed them for the sake of making the book appear as your own, but you have not done well in choosing new names,” she said.
“I have done perfectly well and to go through and fix every name to return it to what you chose would take far too much time and effort. The name changes remain,” he said, firmly.
“No! You cannot make such decisions. If we are going to publish this together, you must listen to me. I must also have a say in my own work,” Pippa insisted.
She was not going to give in to whatever he wanted or demanded. This was her book, primarily. His selfish demands were unimportant to her. No matter how much he insisted on being a part of all of this, Pippa wanted to prove that she deserved better.
“You may, of course, have a say. But that does not change that I know what is best and what readers search for. I do own a bookshop, Miss Blackwell. I own it for a reason. My readers trust me to give them what they want and that means that I must do so,” he said.
“And you cannot abide by the names which I chose for the characters?” Pippa asked.
“The names which I have replaced evoke the nature of the characters far better,” he said.
Pippa rolled her eyes.
“All right and what about making Maureen’s mother Scottish as opposed to Irish?” she asked.
“What of it? Mary’s mother should be Scottish,” he said.
“But that gives an entirely different connotation to the prejudice. Maureen’s mother ought to be Irish,” she said.
“Mary’s mother is Scottish,” he said with a firm determination.
“So, you have allowed me to come and make the necessary edits on my own work and yet you are telling me that none of my thoughts are correct and every edit upon which you insisted is going to remain?” Pippa asked.
“Not all of them. But these two shall,” he said.
“And the love story? Why would you get rid of the one spark of brightness against such a sad tale?” she asked.
“Because I added a different spark of brightness. Your Mary had no friends. I have given her one. A woman with whit and sarcasm and a generally blithe sense of humour,” Mr. Brooks said.
“A new character? But that is preposterous. Maureen is meant to be friendless. The romance is her only hope of escaping the traumatic events of her childhood. Why can you not see that? Besides, you say you know readers? Every reader wants a happy and romantic ending,” Pippa said.
Mr. Brooks chewed the inside of his cheek as if deep in thought before taking in a deep breath.
“I understand your point, but I do not like the hero of the story. If the romance remains, there must be significant changes to it. I shall think upon it and we may discuss it at a later time,” he said.
Pippa growled under her breath. This was not going well, and she was convinced that it was only going to get harder as they went along.
Indeed, there was nothing appealing to her about this arrangement. She wanted to be rid of Mr. Brooks entirely. She wanted to publish on her own.
But that was simply impossible.
Chapter 8
Doyle was going to have a great deal of struggle in trying to keep Miss Blackwell’s novel under both their names. When he arrived at the bookshop a few days after they had begun working on it, he saw the look of scolding on George’s face.
“What now?” he asked.
“Hmm? Nothing. I said nothing,” George said, defending himself.
“I can see from your expression that you disapprove of me. I take it you are the one who told Miss Blackwell where I live?” Doyle scowled.
“She threatened to ruin the shop if I did not. She said that she was going to tell everybody about what happened and how she was the rightful author of the novel which you are publishing,” George said.
“And? You are unhappy with the fact that I have found a book which will exceed all our expectations for the shop and will make us a fortune? I do hope that you are not going to tell me that you would rather we suffer.”
“Would it really be suffering?” George asked.
“Of course it would. If we were not able to have the sort of life we wish for? All because the shop was to run out of business and be utterly ruined? No, we cannot allow for that. This is the book which will bring us business. I am sure of it, George. This is exactly what we need, and we are going to see the fruit of it,” Doyle said.
“But what does any of that matter if it is through a theft?” George asked.
Doyle pushed away the wave of guilt which washed over him, just as he had been doing with every wave over the past few weeks. He was tired of feeling as though he had done something terribly wrong.
Even if he had.
But he was going to live with this. He was going to make it right by allowing Miss Blackwell to have her say in part of how he edited the book. At least, he was going to let her believe that.
“I believe you ought to give Miss Blackwell the full credit which is due her,” George said.
“Did I ask you for your opinion?” Doyle asked, realising how harsh he sounded and knowing full well that he was not behaving in the manner which he would have wanted others to see from him.
“Whether you asked for it or not, I must give it. After all, we are speaking about a young woman’s hopes and dreams. If she cannot be allowed to retain them, what is any of this for? Why will you not simply give her the rights to her own work?” George asked.
“Because we need this,” Doyle said, tired of feeling the need to explain it. “We need to show London society that we are worthy of their time and of their money. Without those things, we are going to lose this business.”
“Are you certain that you are not simply eager to make a name for yourself as an author? Even if it means taking the work of another just to claim it as your own?”
Doyle straightened his back and took a deep breath. Of course, there was a part of him which felt that way, but that wasn’t important now. He needed to do this for himself and for his shop. Other reasons didn’t matter.
“George, I am telling you now, once and for all, that this work is going to be published under my own name,” Doyle said.
“What about Miss Blackwell?” George asked.
“She believes that sh
e shall share a byline alongside me.”
“And will she?” George challenged him.
“No, she will not. But I urge you to stay silent on the matter if you have a desire to keep your position.”
George looked upset and Doyle couldn’t blame him for that, but he had his reasons.
“Listen, I know that it makes me sound cruel or greedy, but that is not the truth. I must do this, George. It is one thing to sell a good book. Many people in London will buy a good book, and being the exclusive seller of a good book will only serve to exemplify the status of this shop,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” George muttered.
“But it is more than just that. You see, being the only shop in London to sell this book is going to drive up business in an astronomical way. And when my name is associated with the book, there will be many people who will come purely for that purpose.”
“The book is excellent, but you are giving it a status which shall be difficult to hold onto,” George said.
“No, I think not. The book is beyond excellent. It is unique and timely. It is different from anything else which I have ever read before, and I am making it even better, George.”
But Doyle still felt the tension in the air and understood that George was unconvinced.
“Believe me. I do know what I am doing. You shall see it soon enough for yourself. There is going to be a day very soon when people turn to this book as inspiration for the ones which they desire to write. Of that, I have no doubt. This book is remarkable and there will be none who have not heard of it.”
“You think so?” George asked.
“Undoubtedly,” Doyle replied.
He truly did. There was so much richness to the work that he foresaw the readers of London flocking to his shop for the fashionable status of discussing this novel at parties and balls. It was certainly possible. He knew that such things had happened before and could now happen for him.
“But you will not include Miss Blackwell’s name in the publishing?” George asked in confirmation.
“No, George. I shall not. And I know that you disapprove of such a thing, but my decision is final. She must believe that I shall, but it would harm business if people learned that the book was actually written by a woman,” he said.
“It is such a shame. There are some truly wonderful female authors out there,” George mused.
“Yes, indeed, there are. But none of them shall ever be gifted the recognition of their male counterparts. So, you see, I am doing Miss Blackwell a favour. I am making her book sellable. And, in return, she shall be able to hold her head high in the knowledge that she accomplished such a tremendous work that all of London desires to read,” Doyle said.
Even as he said it, the excuse sounded flimsy. Doyle didn’t want to do something so heinous and immoral as what he was doing, but he truly felt as if he had no choice. No one wanted to read nonfiction anymore and that was his primary selection.
There were other shops with larger fiction sections and they already had all the customers. If he was going to try and expand, he needed this boost to the shop. Otherwise, as fewer and fewer people wanted to read history, theology, and science, he would have nothing.
At last, the conversation had come to an end and Doyle was simply relieved that he and George were understanding of one another, even if George had no say at all in how they were to proceed forward.
But everything was still going according to schedule. So long as Doyle and Pippa managed to complete their edits on the novel as soon as he had anticipated, everything would be moving along nicely, and the books would be printed in advance of the planned date of release.
Doyle looked around the shop, envisioning how he would have everything set up and the way in which he was going to prepare for the night of the book’s release.
He would invite all the important academics around the city and ensure that they were comfortably seated in the shop. He would have to rearrange quite a few things, but that was not going to be a problem at all, even if it meant clearing out some of the books or moving them into boxes where he could still access them if anyone in attendance wanted to purchase something else.
But the shop was going to need to be set up very strategically if he was going to fit everything the way he wanted. Doyle was eager to see to it that all was prepared earlier rather than later, but he also knew that he could not simply empty the shop right away.
“George, we are going to have quite a lot of work to do when the time comes,” he said.
“I was just thinking the same thing. And are you going to invite Miss Blackwell to the event when the book is released?” George asked.
Doyle sighed.
“I have a few ideas. I would like to tell her to come on the wrong date, just a day after the actual release, but the date shall be on all the posters which are in the shop and around London. I cannot imagine she would fall for that.”
“So, what will you do?” George asked.
“Perhaps I shall tell her that I am sending a coach for her and then have it arrive late and take her in the exact opposite direction of the shop,” he sighed, wondering if that could actually be a legitimate solution.
When he thought about it, he felt awful. Not only because what he was doing was so wrong, but also because that would harm Miss Blackwell. Her very soul would be wounded by his actions and he hated to think of being the cause of her pain.
And yet, he had already caused her so much. When was he going to cease in his poor decisions? When would he stop creating such madness? It was all so unfair, and yet he had gone too far now.
Doyle thought about what might have happened if he had known who she was from the start, if he had known that he was reading her manuscript.
Surely, then, he would have done the right thing, seeking to help her publish it even if she had to use a pen name. But as it was, he had taken credit before knowing anything and now he was having to feed into that lie. If he were honest now, his customers would think him a dreadful person.
But if Miss Blackwell began taking credit after the publication, he could tell everyone that she was only seeking the credit because she wanted attention as a wealthy young woman who hoped to find a husband. He could pretend that she was just trying to steal the fame of it.
Then, more people would hear about the novel and more people would come to his shop to purchase it. The drama would only assist in selling.
Whether or not those things happened, Doyle would always have to contend with his own poor behaviour. He would always have to remember what he had done and how badly he’d acted. These decisions might haunt him for the rest of his life.
They would certainly ruin any friendship which he might have hoped to find with Miss Blackwell. She would never forgive him for this and he did not deserve to be forgiven anyway.
As Doyle looked around his empty shop, a shop in which there had been nary a customer all day, he understood once more that he had no choice. This book was the only lifeline he had for staying open.
“George, please get me a pen and paper,” he instructed.
