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

by Abigail Agar

  “Pippa?” Fiona said, trying to get her attention.

  “Hmm? Oh, yes,” she said, realising that she had been drifting into her own world of thoughts as opposed to following Fiona when they reached the ladies’ club, where Fiona’s mother was waiting for them.

  They went inside and were taken to be seated with Fiona’s mother and a few of her friends. The women were all indulging in a bit of sherry and gossiping about this young lady or that fine gentleman.

  It was, to Pippa, a lesson of frivolity. She was determined to never become a woman like these. She wanted to live a life that had depth to it and was full of goodness and kindness and all the things that she believed were missing from the world.

  After a short while, the woman sitting next to her, a Mrs. Smithfield, looked at the manuscript in her hands and squinted her eyes.

  “Oh, dear, what is that? You have brought reports of some kind for us?” she asked.

  The women all chuckled lightly.

  “No, no, nothing of the sort,” Pippa said with a smile.

  “Oh? What then?” Mrs. Smithfield asked.

  Pippa looked to Fiona for help. She could not share all the details of her story, of course, but she also wasn’t sure what to say about it. She didn’t want her mother and father hearing about this, knowing that they would be furious if she dared to tell these ladies that she wanted to be a writer.

  “Miss Blackwell is a genius with a pen. She loves to write little stories,” Fiona said in the same condescending way that other always spoke of it. The difference, Pippa knew, was that Fiona was only saying it that way to downplay it for these women.

  “Oh, how delightful!” Mrs. Smithfield said.

  “Yes, just little stories. But I do enjoy writing them” Pippa said.

  She longed for the day—soon enough—when these women would know just how much she was capable of.

  Chapter 12

  Doyle squeezed his temples with his thumb and index finger. He was getting another headache. The stress of his rather intense feelings was driving him mad and he wasn’t sure what to do anymore.

  When James arrived and came in the cottage, he was finally able to share his thoughts.

  “I can see that you are upset about something. Would you like to talk about it?” James asked.

  “Yes, I would. Only, I am not sure how to. I feel like such a fool. Oh, James, I have made such a grievous error and I do not know how to correct it. What am I to do?” he questioned pacing at the front of the room.

  “Calm yourself,” James said, taking his seat.

  “I cannot be calm when I am so anxious about all of this,” Doyle snapped.

  “What, precisely, are you anxious about? I am not sure what it is that you are so upset by. Please, Doyle, tell me what is going on as opposed to simply reacting in such a dramatic fashion,” James said in his standard matter-of-fact tone.

  This was precisely what Doyle needed. He knew that James was reasonable enough to give him some good advice and make him see where he had gone wrong. But how could he explain all his flaws and the fact that he was actually making an even bigger mistake than he had ever realised? He wasn’t prepared for this and it was making him anxious all over again.

  “Good heavens take a seat and come out with it. Shall I get you some tea?” James asked.

  Doyle froze in place but shook his head. At last, he sat down beside James and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly to release the tension in his shoulders.

  “James, I am not sure what to do about this book,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” James asked.

  “I mean that I did not actually write the book. I found a manuscript and I loved it. I decided to publish it for the sake of saving the store, but now I am in a mess with the original author,” he said.

  James stared at him in utter shock.

  “You…you did what?”

  “I know! It was a terrible thing. I was foolish. I really thought that I could get away with it.”

  “And now you are in a mess with the author?” James asked.

  “Yes, I am. And it is terrible. I do not know what to do to fix it or how to get out of this. Every time I think I am going to get through this, I am pulled right back in and reminded that I failed in so many ways to make this happen the way I had hoped it would.”

  “The man must be furious!” James exclaimed.

  “What man?” Doyle asked, collapsing into a chair.

  “The—the man! The author,” James clarified.

  Doyle’s face fell and he let it sink into his hands, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “That’s just the problem. It isn’t a man. It is a young woman with an incredible mind. No. Not that. She is a beautiful young woman with an incredible mind.”

  There was silence for a moment, but he did not look up, letting himself stay in his position of feeling utterly broken by what he had done.

  At last, James rested a hand on Doyle’s shoulder.

  “Doyle, I cannot pretend to have any idea what you were thinking, but we need to discuss this a bit more thoroughly,” he said.

  “Yes? How so?” Doyle asked.

  “I need you to tell me everything there is to tell about this young woman. I cannot believe you did not tell me that you have developed feelings for a young lady, and I am furious that you have allowed me to suffer without knowing this wonderful detail,” James said.

  Doyle finally looked up at him, his brows drawn together. He couldn’t understand James. Didn’t James get what he had just said? It was all a mess. And now, James simply wanted to talk about this young woman? He wanted to talk about the way that Doyle felt about her?

  Was it possible that this was actually precisely what Doyle had been hoping for?

  “You want to know about her?” he asked.

  “Very much so. I never knew that you had found someone. I mean, what you have done to her is absolutely awful and we must discuss that as well, but I first want to know about her and how you came to notice how lovely you find her,” James said.

  Doyle couldn’t help but smile when he thought about it. He remembered the first time he had ever seen Miss Blackwell in the shop as he was arriving and she was leaving with her friend.

  “Well, she was at the shop with a friend. I got there as they were leaving, but I noticed her, certainly. Later, after I left the shop, I saw her still nearby. She is beautiful, but it was before that when I had found a manuscript. After that, when the shop was already advertising my plans to release the book, she came to my home and yelled at me,” he explained.

  James raised an eyebrow, clearly curious to know more about this.

  “Please, do continue with this riveting tale.”

  “Very well. So, she came, and she was terribly angry, but I did not believe her. I did not think that a young lady such as her could ever write something so deep and so evocative of the human condition.”

  James closed his eyes for a moment, looking annoyed.

  “Please, do not go into the book itself. I am asking about the story of you meeting this young woman,” he said.

  “Yes, of course. Forgive me. Anyway, if I had known that it was written by a young woman before, I would have instantly felt my heart drift towards her. But as I only found out later, when she was here with her friend, I think that I was woefully unprepared for how complicated the situation was,” he admitted.

  “You mean because you had already committed to publishing it under your own name?” James asked.

  “Precisely.”

  “Can you not undo that now?”

  “Certainly not. If I remove my name entirely, everyone will know that I had plagiarized it. They will never forgive me or trust me or shop with me.”

  “So, what are you going to do? Because there is no way that she will ever trust you again if you take full credit,” James warned him.

  “I know. That is my dilemma. You see, I had told her that I would publish under both our names. We would share, as if we
had written the book together,” he said.

  “Well, it is still not fair, but better,” James said.

  “I have made a great many changes and contributions to the book. I do believe that I warrant some kind of credit.”

  “Are you an author or an editor? To me, it sounds as though you edited the book. That does not grant you a cover credit,” James said, not willing to budge on allowing Doyle’s excuses.

  “All right, I suppose you are correct on that. So, in that case, I am merely an editor. Either way, you should understand that I had every intention of…of making her happy. But…I lied,” he confessed, worried as he released the words.

  “Lied? In what way? What did you tell her?” James asked.

  “I told her we would be sharing the cover credit, but I have no intention of doing that.”

  James scrunched his face in disapproval.

  “You do not intend to give her the credit which you promised her? You are still going to claim that it is your book?” James asked.

  “I have no choice. It is too late now. I have advertised it as my own book, and I need it for the shop. As I said, I cannot confess to having stolen the work now or no one will give me any understanding for it. People will always know me as the man who lies about his book,” Doyle said.

  “And that is who you shall be,” James warned him.

  Doyle felt shame creep up again. He knew that James was right, but it was so difficult to try and be better than this and to accept that this was a grave mistake.

  “What should I do then? What do you suggest?” he asked.

  “I suggest you do the right thing. And the right thing also happens to be what will give you the hope that is in your heart. Do not pretend that you are not in love with this young lady. She will be furious if you betray her like this,” James said.

  Doyle was shocked. Love? He had never claimed to be in love.

  “What are you talking about, James? Why would you say that I am in love with her? I never said any such thing,” Doyle pointed out.

  “You did not have to. You brighten when you speak about her and you care a great deal about the fact that you are betraying her. I am not going to pretend that I cannot tell you love her. I am not so foolhardy as that,” James said.

  “But I do not love her. I never said that,” Doyle repeated.

  “And you do not have to. I can see it, Doyle. You love her and there is nothing which can be said otherwise on the matter. You deserve to be happy, but only so long as you do the right thing. If you continue the path you have chosen for yourself now, you do not deserve such happiness. You deserve whatever consequences you are going to face,” James said.

  “Love,” Doyle scoffed.

  But even as he mocked the notion, Doyle knew that there was every possibility that James was right. He did care for Miss Blackwell more than he had ever expected to. She was truly lovely and beautiful and kind. She had been far more patient with him than he deserved, and he was starting to wonder if there was a reason for that.

  Maybe she could see that he liked her? Maybe she had known that before he had?

  When he tried to think about these feelings, Doyle was overcome with wondering if it was actually possible. Had he grown to care for her? Yes. But love?

  “Doyle, I want you to think long and hard about your next steps. You know that Clarissa would want you to do the right thing and to either tell Miss Blackwell the truth or—better yet—fulfill your promise,” James said.

  “Yes, I know. You are right. She would want me to do that. And I want to do that, I really do. I am not sure if I can,” Doyle sighed.

  “You can. You are more than capable of doing the right thing, Doyle. Just think about it, but do not take too long to think about it. You want to have made your decision before the books go to print,” James reminded him.

  Doyle nodded. He really would have to think about this soon. The day of the book being launched was approaching and he had to be sure that everything was in order before that. If he made a mistake, if he changed his mind last minute, he would have to pay for a whole new batch of the books to be made, and that was not something he could afford.

  He thought about his priorities. Was Miss Blackwell near the top? Or would she always be second to his shop?

  Chapter 13

  If anyone had seen what Pippa was doing, they would have told her that she was mad. Even Fiona would not support this. And yet, she knew that she had to do it. This was the only choice she had for taking back what was hers.

  The more she thought about it, the more Pippa realised that what Mr. Brooks had done was wrong. Yes, she wanted to be published. She thought that he could help her to do that, but she also realised that if he saw this potential in her manuscript, she might be able to sell it to publisher who would be willing to give her a pen name.

  That way, even if the name on the front of the book belonged to someone who did not exist, it would still be her. She would know and it would not have the name of a thief written across the top.

  Pippa was down the street, waiting until she saw Mr. Brooks leave his home. She knew very well that this plan may not work and that she was probably being foolish, but she could not seem to help herself. When she thought about everything that she had been through and how he had treated her, this felt like the only option.

  At last, she saw him. He was coming out from his home, donning a hat as he departed. He looked very handsome, which frustrated her to no end. She noticed him even from this distance and wondered how other women did not recognise his appearance for being both unique and quite lovely.

  Soon enough, he was gone, and she was ready to do what she had come to do. It was time for her to get every last note and word of her manuscript from him. She would take it all and be gone from his life and he would never have the opportunity to claim that he was a part of this.

  Once more, a wave of sadness washed over her as she realised that this would be the end of their friendship, but Pippa had to accept it. She had to come to terms with the fact that this was for the best. If she did not do this, he was going to get a great deal of credit for writing a book that she had put her entire soul into.

  That was deeply unfair. He deserved this.

  Pippa crept along the road and slyly made her way toward his home. There was no one else around who might see her sneaking into the cottage, for which she was extremely grateful.

  In the back, she found a window which she could slide open and come through, sneaking inside the house.

  Longing to look through all the books which lined the walls, Pippa sighed when she remembered that she was not here for that and she could not touch them without being discovered.

  She made her way through the hall and found the study, a quaint room, with a desk and stacks upon stacks of books. Her manuscript had to be in this room somewhere. It was the only place that made any sense for it to be stored.

  Pippa wandered into the room and began to look without touching anything at first. When she could not see a single thing which resembled her manuscript, she began to search a little more closely.