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

by Abigail Agar

  George went and grabbed the items, setting them beside the ink on the desk where Doyle now sat.

  He began writing to some of the gentlemen’s clubs, the lady’s societies, and the men who dwelt in literary circles. They were the ones he needed to reach with the news of this work.

  The time had come for Doyle to truly make this happen. He was going to do so. He was going to make this work.

  He was going to publish this book under his own name.

  Chapter 9

  Pippa’s hair was pinned up as best as it was going to be. She looked at herself in the mirror and thought she appeared rather boring. She was identical to any other young woman who was likely to be attending the ball that evening.

  Her white dress, with short sleeves that went just past her shoulder, was nearly identical to the one she knew Fiona would be wearing. Her mother was wearing one very similar as well. They may as well have all been dressed by the same tailor.

  Yet, Pippa knew that this was a requirement from society. She had to do this if she was going to be taken seriously. She had to attend all the balls and show off her wittiness, but only to the extent that she did not frighten off the men with whom she was told to dance.

  “Pippa, what is taking you so long?” her mother called in frustration.

  Pippa sighed and hurriedly made her way out of her room and down the stairs to where her mother and father awaited her.

  “Forgive me, Mother. I was not satisfied with my hair.”

  “Well, it looks fine now. Just be quick. We need to arrive shortly because I do not wish to be so late that all of the gentlemen have already filled the cards of other young ladies,” her mother said.

  Pippa’s father leaned over to her, giving a wink.

  “If there is no other man to dance with you, I believe you shall just have to indulge your father. What do you say?” he asked.

  Pippa grinned at him, thankful that he was being so thoughtful. In truth, she often found her father to be every bit as shallow and determined as her mother, but now and then, he showed a softness. That character in him warmed her and reminded her that people could be deeper than they showed at first.

  By the time they arrived at the ball, Pippa had her list of men to be noticed by. As usual, her mother had done her research to insist upon specific men whom Pippa ought to interact with. Doing so was going to require a great deal of patience and an attempt at being a more exciting version of herself.

  A version which captured the narrow minds of society.

  “Oh, look! There is Fiona. And she is dancing with her intended. They do look so charming,” Pippa’s mother said, looking to the dance floor.

  “Yes, they are a lovely couple,” Pippa nodded.

  “You know that you have a chance for the same. If you would not be so strange with all your books and nonsense, you could absolutely have the same thing which Fiona has. Do you not think it is better?” her mother asked.

  “Better than what?” Pippa questioned.

  “Better than spending your days working on your books and trying to find some sort of meaning in them,” her mother said.

  Pippa pursed her lips together, not wanting to waste time arguing with her mother about the fact that her books absolutely did mean something. Even if her mother was never going to give her any credit for that, Pippa knew the truth. She knew that her books had value.

  She knew that one of them was going to be published and there was nothing which could stop her.

  “You know, Mother, I could just be a writer as I wish. I could enjoy my life and marry when the time is right, when I find a man who understands me and who appreciates the love I have for this work,” she said.

  “Darling, are you hearing this?” her mother demanded of her father as they stood near the edge of the room.

  “I am. My dear, I must agree with your mother. You need to set aside this foolishness and find a husband. That is all that matters. You are a lovely young woman with so much potential for being a good wife. Why are you allowing yourself to drift into thought of squandering that?” her father asked.

  “Squandering? I would do no such thing. As I said, I am happy to marry when the time is right. It is only that I do not think that time is now,” Pippa said.

  “Well, we disagree, my dear. The time is long past. You must go now and dance with some of these perfectly agreeable gentlemen,” her mother instructed, looking around the room.

  Pippa sighed and nodded as her mother tried to send her off. The dance which had been going was just coming to an end, so she made her way to see Fiona and Mr. Burroughs, hoping they may steer her in the direction of an eligible man.

  “Pippa! So glad you have arrived. You must dance,” Fiona declared.

  “Indeed, Miss Blackwell. You should enjoy yourself. Is your card full yet?” Mr. Burroughs asked.

  “Not at all. We arrived a bit late, but my mother and father are urging me to find someone with whom I may dance, and now I feel as though I want nothing more than to run off and vanish,” she confessed.

  “No need for that. Come, I shall introduce you to my cousin, Lord Gilby. He is a decent man,” Mr. Burroughs said.

  Within just a few moments, introductions had been made and Pippa tried to be polite to the young man who was reasonable looking, even if he was not handsome exactly. If he had a good personality, Pippa figured she could see past his appearance.

  “Miss Blackwell, thank you for this dance,” he said as he led her out to the floor.

  “Certainly, Lord Gilby. I am grateful that you asked,” she said, knowing that even if she did not like him, this would help to appease her mother and father.

  “Yes, well, I am sure that you are glad for the dance. Most young women here this evening are eager to meet a baron, as they cannot have an earl,” he said dryly and with a hint of bitterness.

  Pippa looked at him with curiosity and saw that there was hurt in his eyes.

  “What do you mean by that?” she asked.

  “I am no fool, Miss Blackwell. The only reason any young woman dances with me is for the hope of establishing a title for her family. A baron is the lowest possible level to marry into, is it not?” he asked.

  Pippa did not think about it like that at all. Yet, she knew that so many did. Her own mother had wanted her to dance with a baron because she thought that Pippa might manage to catch someone with a title who was at a lower rank.

  “I assure you, Lord Gilby, that is not my intention,” she said.

  “No, indeed, I can see that. But it is your mother’s,” he replied.

  She could not deny that.

  “It is all right. I understand. I have had twenty-five years to learn that having even the smallest title makes a man desired for something other than who he truly is at the heart,” he said.

  “But I do not wish to leave you so disrespected.”

  “I take no offense from you, Miss Blackwell. Rest assured that I am perfectly content to dance with you and I feel no pressure. But you must know that myself and any other baron here tonight feel much of this same thing,” he warned.

  For the rest of the dance, they spoke quite openly about her thoughts and feelings in regard to society. By the time the dance had come to an end, however, Pippa was perfectly happy to conclude it.

  Even though they both disliked the expectations on them, she understood that they had very little in common. This was not the sort of man she wanted to marry.

  However, when she was asked to dance again, by another baron, Pippa accepted for the sake of her mother’s wishes.

  “Hmm, well, you do dance as a young woman ought to,” Lord Barnaby said in a monotone voice.

  “You think so?” she asked, turning about as the moves required.

  “Yes, I do. You are precisely the sort of dancer that I should like to have with me at a ball,” he said.

  “Very good, as we are here together at the moment,” Pippa replied.

  “Yes, yes, I suppose so,” he said, offering nothin
g more.

  He was frightfully dull. There was nothing at all interesting about him. She could not bring herself to care about a single word which came out of his mouth.

  Despite feeling terrible about that, Pippa couldn’t help it. She just wanted to get away and to spend some time with her friends, or to leave the ball altogether.

  “Lord Barnaby, you must tell me more about yourself,” Pippa said, hoping that she could get him to say anything at all which might make her believe him worth her time and the dance.

  “Oh, yes, well, I am a baron. I work in the accounts of the city office,” he said.

  “How fascinating. What sort of accounts?” she asked, attempting to make more of it than it likely was. Pippa hated anything to do with accounts.

  “You would not understand. It is the sort of thing that men such as me are capable of, but not young ladies,” he said in a very condescending tone.

  Pippa clenched her jaw and ground her teeth.

  “And you? What do you enjoy doing with your time? I know that young ladies have so much time on their hands,” he quipped.

  Pippa was surprised that he was showing any interest at all in how she enjoyed spending her time, but she had every intention to tell him about it.

  “Me? Oh, I very much enjoy writing novels. I have quite a few manuscripts which I am glad to have written. I would love to have the opportunity to write properly, as a true career,” she said.

  He laughed at that, but in a gentle way, as if she were no more than a child. The patronising expression on his face made her terribly annoyed.

  “Is that funny?” she asked.

  “Oh, it is just so sweet that you believe you could have a career as a writer with your little stories. My dear, sweet Miss Blackwell, you ought to read the great works of England. They are written by men alone,” he said.

  “Or women who write under a pen name. And there are plenty of female authors out there. Some did not come out with their true names until after they gained their fame.”

  He shook his head with a grin on his face as he spun Pippa in the dance.

  “Yes, well, it is nice that you think so greatly about the opportunities of life, even the ones which shall never be afforded to you,” he said.

  Pippa bit her tongue and continued the dance without another word. She was furious that this boring man would say such things. Who was he to make judgements against her?

  At last, this dance, too, came to an end. She was able to curtsy and walk away from him and forget that the dance had ever taken place at all.

  By the time she reached her mother and father, ready to depart, Pippa just wanted to undo the entire evening.

  “May we please go home?” Pippa asked.

  “My dear, you have only danced with a few men. You need to give them a chance,” her mother insisted.

  “I have mother,” she whined.

  “If you have given them a proper chance, why are they not coming to speak with your father and myself?” her mother asked.

  From there, Pippa’s mother went off with a lecture regarding Pippa’s behaviour.

  She was used to hearing this, but Pippa simply wanted to return home.

  She had a book to finish.

  Chapter 10

  “No. I disagree,” Doyle said.

  “It is my book,” Miss Blackwell reminded him.

  “It was. You lost it. I found it. Now, it is up to me to make it right. You think that this love story is so important, but it is not. I do not care if the readers are expecting it or hoping for it. The love story is an unimportant distraction from the true story at hand,” Doyle insisted.

  There had been many points of contention between the two of them. However, this had been the worst.

  Doyle knew that his opinion may be harsh, but he had to stand by it. After all, the shallow quality which the romance brought into the novel was outside the nature of the very book itself.

  He didn’t want to see the entire novel ruined by this additional storyline. It was just something which Miss Blackwell had put into the book for the sake of what others expected. She had known that a romance was a popular addition and believed she had to play into that.

  But he didn’t want her to feel such pressure. This was her book, as she kept reminding him. Why was she willing to cater to the expectations of others?

  The book was more effective if it was simply about the young woman and her aunt. That was the primary storyline and there was no need to detract from it.

  “Miss Blackwell, what do you want this book to be about? Is it about the redemption between our antagonist and protagonist? Or are you wanting it to be a romance with a side of complicated family drama?” he asked, trying to challenge her to think about what she really wanted with this novel.

  “I have made it perfectly clear to you that I want for this novel to be about Maureen and her aunt,” she said.

  “Mary, you mean,” he replied hotly.

  “Oh, why must you always cause these problems? Can you not just be content with how I wrote this novel to begin with? I worked so hard on it and you have come in and you have butchered it at every turn. You have changed the deeply important details and now you want to be rid of one of the only bright spots simply because you think that your additional character is all that the book needs,” she said.

  “And?” he challenged again.

  “And you are wrong,” she replied, looking him close in the eye.

  How could he make her understand? What could he do to prove to her that this was a better decision?

  It was clear to Doyle that Miss Blackwell didn’t want to hear what he had to say. It was clear to him that she had already made up her mind and was willing to sacrifice the integrity of the book for the sake of the readers.

  Then again, was that not his whole reason for taking on the book? Had he not made this choice because he needed to sell it?

  Still, the idea of bothered him greatly.

  “Miss Blackwell, I understand that you are very attached to this book and that you wrote it because you care about the storyline and the characters. I understand that you believe this is for the best. But you must also understand that there is more to it than you realise,” Doyle said.

  “Such as?” she asked.

  “Such as the integrity of the piece. You must find your balance between writing what the readers want and writing what they need. So, while you are working away at trying to give them what they want, they are going to miss out on a far more complex story,” he said.

  “Why should it have to be so complex?” she asked. “Is it not complex enough? And I believe that removing the romance only decreases the complexity. It takes out an entire aspect.”

  “But it is an easy aspect. One which blinds the reader and detracts them from the true tale,” he said.

  It was clear that Miss Blackwell was at her wits’ end with him and Doyle was not nearly ready to give in.

  If they were going to keep the romance, Doyle was not going to have it be a nobleman. The hero could not have some great wealth which he would use to rescue the heroine. He refused to have his name on a book like that.