by Abigail Agar
“You really think so?” Doyle asked.
“I have not the least doubt about it, Doyle. That young woman would have been more than happy to be kissed by you.”
“Well, I am glad to hear that, but I still cannot say that you are completely right. Perhaps, eventually, I shall decipher if she truly has a care for me or not. But, for now, I can see only that she is deeply distracted by the reality that we are working on this book together and there is a distance between us because of it,” he said, unwilling to trust that she cared for him as much as he cared for her.
Even if she had wanted him to kiss her, as her expression had suggested, that was not evidence of her wanting anything more. She was a writer, and writers found the romance of things with ease.
If Miss Blackwell had wanted his kiss, it was because of the romance of the moment, and the passion of their emotions. There was nothing more to it. He could not allow himself to believe that it was anything more or he would most certainly get hurt.
Doyle and James stopped by the post in order to send Clarissa’s letter. From there, they made their way to find a nice necklace for Clarissa, which James wanted to surprise her with upon her return.
“Do you always buy her gifts when you have not seen one another for a season?” Doyle asked.
“As often as I am able. Your sister is not the sort of woman who demands such things, but I want her to know that I thought about her each and every day while we were apart. This is one small token of being able to say that,” James explain.
Doyle wondered if a small gift for Miss Blackwell would be appropriate. Perhaps it would be a way of telling her how much he had enjoyed working on the book together and that he hoped they would continue on good terms after the book was finished.
Would she think of it that way?
He decided to forget about it for now. He wasn’t sure if he was making everything into something that it wasn’t and there was no point in trying to find ways of appeasing her in any regard other than the book for now.
“Do you think you shall see her again?” James asked.
“What? Why? Should I not expect to?”
“I only ask because she was humiliated when she left. Maybe you will get your book after all, if she refuses to help any further on it,” James said.
Doyle had not thought about that, but now he was worried. Maybe everything was ruined. Maybe he should have kissed Miss Blackwell when he’d had the chance.
Chapter 15
“My goodness. What happened to you? You look as though you have seen a ghost,” Fiona said.
Pippa collapsed on the settee. Fiona’s mother was out so they were able to freely discuss what had taken place. Still, Pippa was nervous to tell Fiona because it meant confessing that she had feelings for Mr. Brooks.
“Not a ghost, Fiona. I saw…I saw Mr. Brooks.”
“Yes? You see him often, do you not?” Fiona asked.
“Not like this. I went to his home when he was out with plans to steal his copy of the manuscript. I wanted to take it so that he would not be able to publish it under his own name and he would have no choice but to return all the credit to me. I thought that it would help me feel better about all that he has done.”
“You went into his home? When he was not there?”
“I know, I know. I sound like a mad woman, but I was desperate, Fiona. I needed to have that manuscript back for myself. I cannot share the credit. I was going to try, but I decided it was better that I speak with a publisher and do this under a pen name. Other women have done it in the past. Why could I not do the same?” she asked.
“But in order to do that, you would have to ensure that Mr. Brooks does not publish it first,” Fiona said, understanding.
“Precisely. So, I went there to get it back. Only, I did not realise, when I was searching, he had come home. He found me…in his bedroom,” Pippa confessed, adding the last part in a low voice which was typically reserved for scandalous information.
Fiona gasped, her eyes bugging out of her head and a hand flying to her mouth.
“No! Surely you did no such thing,”
“I fear that I did. I know that it was a foolish and nonsensical thing to do, but I was so desperate. It was as though a fever had overtaken me and I needed nothing so much as I needed my manuscript,” Pippa said.
“And then what? What happened next? Did he say something?”
Pippa sighed. She thought about that moment. He did not merely say something.
“We argued. There was regret from us both. But then…then there was this moment of perfect clarity, Fiona. I knew, without a doubt, that my heart belongs to this man. This foolish, shameless man who stole something so precious to me.”
Fiona smiled from one corner of her mouth, her eyes softening.
“I suppose I would not have expected it, but I should have,” she said.
“I never expected it either. But why would you say that it makes sense?” Pippa asked.
“Because the two of you are so alike. Stubborn, loving appreciation, and obsessed with literary works of genius. It really only makes sense that you would come to care for one another. I think that he must have liked you for some time as well. Why else would he put up with you like this?” Fiona teased.
“Oh, hush,” Pippa said. “I am not stubborn, and I am the one who has to put up with all of this difficulty.”
She knew that what Fiona said was true. She really was stubborn, and she had made Mr. Brooks suffer just as she had been determined to see to it that the book was well-looked after. She liked him and, perhaps, it was because of their similarities every bit as much as their differences.
“What am I to do about this?” she asked.
“First of all, tell me when it all began. Have you liked him for long? When did this start?” Fiona demanded to know.
“I cannot say. I suppose, when I think back, I always found him attractive,” she admitted.
“Ha!” Fiona scoffed, before quickly covering her mouth in apology.
“You do not think him handsome?” Pippa asked.
“He would be incredibly so if he would see a barber and a tailor,” Fiona said.
Pippa grinned, dreamily.
“His lack of fashion is one of the qualities which I find so…endearing. He is not like other men, but that is an asset to him, I think.”.
“Well, that is very fine for you, but I cannot imagine any other young woman feeling the same way,” Fiona said.
But Pippa didn’t care. She appreciated him for exactly who he was and his style was a part of that. She liked the way his hair flopped over his eyes and how the stubble at his chin was perpetually growing. On days when she would meet him and he had recently shaved it, it was still there, just shorter than it had been two days prior.
“I know that he may be a little bit different from other men, but I appreciate that, honestly. He is…refreshing,” Pippa said.
“He has the strangest behaviours though,” Fiona reminded her.
“He is not strange. Just…different,” Pippa said again. She was struggling to come up with the words to describe what she thought of him and how she appreciated his uniqueness.
She had seen him act in ways that others might deem strange. He was oftentimes burying his face in his hands, which was a slightly more expressive handling of his emotions than most Englishmen would do.
In fact, the English way was to complain over petty things and then pretend that life was perfectly fine and well with the bigger things. The way he sighed over every little toil and how frustrated he could get when he felt confused by something that he, himself, had done, was all amusing to her.
He also had a very contrary arrogance. While he was insecure and overly emotional on some things, he was perfectly proud of himself in his understanding of literature. No wonder he believed that he could make Pippa’s book better.
Mr. Brooks was handsome, unfashionable, strange, confident, and insecure all at the same time.
“The
expression on your face when you think about Mr. Brooks is like nothing I have ever seen from you before,” Fiona said.
“I know. I have never felt this way before. Fiona, I just like him so much and I never expected to think about a man this way,” Pippa confessed.
“George shall be rather disappointed,” Fiona reminded her, although it wasn’t necessarily said in sympathy to him.
“Yes, well, I suppose that is something which we shall just have to accept. I do not care for him romantically, even when I really thought about trying,” Pippa said with a laugh.
“What would your mother and father say?” Fiona asked.
Pippa faltered on that. She knew precisely how they would respond.
“They would be furious,” she said. “They would tell me what a fool I am and that I must forget about him altogether.”
“And would you?”
“How could I? I think it would be impossible, but they want me to find a husband from a ball, someone they can understand. Someone like your betrothed.”
Fiona smiled at the mention of her intended.
“Mr. Burroughs would be more than happy to speak in support of you, I am sure. If you want him to speak with your mother and father, I trust that he would,” Fiona said.
“No, no. I could not ask for something like that. Indeed, I think it would shock and anger my parents even more. They would not listen to him, even if they do respect him. They want me to marry someone from their society, not someone who would support me in my silly dreams,” Pippa said, imitating her mother on the final words.
“I cannot understand their lack of support for you,” Fiona replied.
“I can. They think that a woman should not have hopes for anything aside from marrying someone who is above her station.”
“That is such a small life,” Fiona said.
“I know.”
Fiona sighed and fidgeted with her hands.
“I worry sometimes that people will believe that is all I care about. I mean, I have found a man whom I love dearly, but when I see all of your hopes and aspirations, I wonder if I am just another young lady falling to the whims of society.”
“What? Of course not! How can you say that?” Pippa asked.
“Because what else do I have?”
“You have a great many things! You are an exquisite dancer. Do not pretend that you only dance because it is expected of you at balls and such. I know you and you have danced for me in the most beautiful motions. And what about your singing voice? That, too, is not just a product of your position,” Pippa argued.
“You think?” Fiona asked.
“I am certain of it. And yes, you met a man at a ball and you are now going to marry him. That is not shameful, Fiona. It is wonderful! Not only because society tells you that it is wonderful, but because you are deserving of the love you have for him and he has for you,” Pippa insisted.
Fiona smiled, clearly grateful for Pippa’s explanation and belief.
“I hope so. I hope that I am meant for more than just being a wife, but I know that no one shall ever see those other things. People will see your words on a page, Pippa. You ought to be proud. You never know, you may garner such respect that your mother and father shall let you marry whomever you wish.”
Pippa doubted that such a thing would ever come to pass, but she appreciated the sentiment, nevertheless. She found herself hoping that Fiona would learn to trust herself in terms of her talents and to indulge in them as much as she wished.
She also began to think more and more about finding a husband in society, someone who would be there for her and who would support her, while also being approved by her mother and father.
Did such a man exist? Would she ever be able to find happiness with someone like Fiona’s Mr. Burroughs?
Pippa couldn’t imagine it, but she tried. If she were able to find someone who made her happy, she would fight for the match. But if she spent all her days longing for something more and striving to be happy against her mother and father’s wishes, her life would be fraught with difficulty and rejection.
She would still be happy, wouldn’t she? If Mr. Brooks were the one she spent her life with, if they wrote books together and sold them in his shop and tried to hide all scandal, couldn’t she make a life that way? Couldn’t she prove to others that she had a mind of her own?
“Oh, you did not tell me,” Fiona said suddenly.
“Hmm? I did not tell you what?” Pippa asked.
“What happened when Mr. Brooks confronted you about snooping around his home. What did he say? What did he do?” Fiona asked.
Pippa pursed her lips in thought.
“He…I think he was going to kiss me,” she confessed.
Fiona gasped again, clearly delighted.
“Going to? So, he did not actually do it?” she asked.
“No, there was someone in the hallway. His friend, I suppose. We were interrupted at the worst possible moment, putting my reputation on the line,” she said.
“What did you do?”
“Well, I ran. I left as quickly as I could and I have no idea what Mr. Brooks said to him about me or about the fact that I vanished,” she said.
“I am certain that he explained that there was no real impropriety,” Fiona said.
Pippa certainly hoped he had, but until she could see him again, there was nothing she could do about it.
Chapter 16
George was relaxing lazily in his chair when Doyle entered the shop. Immediately, George sat up straight and gave him his attention.
“Ah, Mr. Brooks. Hello. I was not aware that you would be coming by today,” he said.
“I had not planned on it originally. However, I wanted to come and see how things are coming along for the launch of the book.”
“Oh, yes. In what way? What do you need from me now?” George asked, taking a sheet of paper and dipping his pen in the ink to take notes on anything Doyle may want from him.
“I wanted to know if there have been any who had responded that they shall attend the evening we release the book? When we do the reading. Has anyone said they would come?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Here is the list,” George said, handing it over.
Doyle was hoping to see three or four names, but he had never anticipated this. After sending just the first page to whet the appetites of the literary community, Doyle was holding a sheet of paper with at least thirty names on it.
“George, is this the list of people we have invited or those who have said they would attend?”
“That is the list of those who have promised to attend and have already purchased their tickets for the event. This is the list of those who have said they are not certain they can come but shall purchase their tickets within two days of the event if they are able,” George said, handing him a second sheet that had roughly half the number of names as the first.
Doyle was completely shocked. How had he managed to pull this off? The first page was a stunning work of prose, but the ticket sales alone would pay for at least three months of keeping the shop up and running. This was better than he could have hoped for.
